Page 3 of Filthy Rich

Either way, she’s remarkably consistent. The very second we reach the viewing area behind the cameras, Bea waves, catching Jake’s eye immediately.

He was leaning against a boardroom table in a tux—the way they construct these sets is impressive to me. The furniture looks like it costs more than the set design. Jake in a tux is. . .distractingly handsome. I’m sure it was for the scene, but he was managing to look truly, genuinely bored, which was impressive, because not two feet away, Patrice Jouveau’s standing in a floor length evening gown, slit almost up to her hip bone. Her makeup’s pristine, her luminous face adorably vulnerable.

Her lips—it’s clear they knew this was the kiss scene. They’re full, pink, and glistening. I almost want to kiss them, and I have zero interest in women.

“You’ll have to go again,” someone’s saying.

But Jake shakes his head. “Let’s take five.” He’s smiling now, as he strides toward us. “My sister’s here.”

“Oh, your sister who’s doing sound, right?” Patrice smiles as she follows Jake our direction. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Not sound,” Jake says. “The soundtrack.”

Patrice’s face barely wrinkles as she frowns. “Sound. Soundtrack.” She shakes her head, like he’s being an idiot. “Right.”

“Sound is all the effects for the movie.” Jake glares. “The soundtrack is art.”

“No, I know, and you’re totally right. I said it wrong.” Patrice’s smile looks forced, but I can’t blame her. I’d be annoyed if someone corrected me so harshly for one little slip in front of people I’d never met.

“I hear today’s the first kiss,” Bea says. “Pretty exciting.”

“Not really,” Jake mutters. “Should be as awkward as ever.”

Patrice laughs. “As if.”

“As if what?” Bea’s frowning now, and her entire forehead wrinkles when she does.

“As if it could possibly be awkward with the two stars in Hollywood who are the most famous for their excellent kissing.” Patrice blinks and stares at Bea. “You know, you look nothing like Jake.” She blinks again. “Honestly, you look Asian.”

Jake laughs. “You have a keen eye.” He shakes his head. “Adopted sister.”

“Oh.” Patrice arches one carefully groomed eyebrow. “So you’re not really related at all. You could—” She cuts off and huffs.

It’s slight, but Jake’s nostrils flare. “That’s?—”

“You’re right,” Bea says. “We aren’t really related at all.” She steps closer to him. “In fact, now that you mention it, we could get married. I had never realized that.” Her eyes widen and her hands paw his chest. “Oh, my darling Jake.”

Jake starts laughing and shoves her off.

Patrice looks horrified.

I can’t help a small snort.

“Bea’s fiancé’s one of the film’s investors,” Eddy says from behind me. “I don’t think she has any plans to start dating her brother—genetically connected or not.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to imply that adopted siblings aren’t real siblings,” I say. “You probably just misunderstood.”

Patrice’s face swivels my direction. “And who are you?” She looks quite unhappy, though I’m not sure why. I was defending her.

“This is our main talent,” Bea says. “She’s my best friend, too, Octavia Rothschild.”

She’s never called me that—her best friend. My heart expands, like a very dry sponge drawing in water. I can’t help my smile.

“You’ve never heard anyone with a voice as beautiful as hers,” Jake says.

Patrice grimaces. “Or a face quite so ugly.”

Her words are like the hit of a habanero pepper, the sting from a slap, and the crack of a broken bone.