I’m a lingerie whore. Pretty bras and panties get me excited, and I want this lingerie set I’m wearing. And if you really must know, I'm considering stealing it once today’s job is over. Just kidding, I would never.

If my ‘man’ were looking at this magazine, he better buy this for me. It’s black and lacy—feminine—and the bra makes my breasts look astonishing, if I do say so myself. The panties have these thin, delicate strings on the back, fanning out from the lace band which isn't quite a thong, but almost, and I'll be honest, I feel very sexy right now. Even if half my ass is showing. And I think it’s important to feel good about myself since the other three models are wearing what amounts to nothing.

I peek over my shoulder when I hear a thud. Jonah, wearing a dazed expression, closes the space between us.

“Is there an apron?” He runs a hand through his dark hair, looking around the faux kitchen. “I think Chelsea needs an apron.”

Lyla sidles over and props a sheer, red pantied hip against the island. “Why would you cover the goods?”

Great question. Why would he cover the goods? Am I that repulsive to him? “Can we just get this over with, please?” I ask.

He looks between Lyla and I, raking his teeth across his bottom lip. “Ok,” he calls out, turning around, “let's do this.”

The next thirty minutes are a blur of what I hope looks like me making love to the camera while cooking a gourmet pretend meal for my pretend ‘man.’ I've got imaginary steaks sizzling in this pan. Thick and juicy. See? My acting skills are being put to good use. All those years of expensive drama prep have led me to this defining moment in a cardboard kitchen.

Jonah steps in a little closer, and I bend to open my imaginary oven. His shutter snaps furiously, and I focus on the crotch of his well worn jeans, pretending it's my ‘man’ in front of me, and I'm hungry for his cock. Honestly, I would totally do this for the right person. Unfortunately, I haven't met him yet. The most I've done is order pizza in a cute sundress. Having my parents go through a bitter divorce doesn't exactly make me eager to find a permanent ‘man.’ But it’s ok. I’m not out of love with the idea of love, I’m just not in love with it.

I arch my back a little, pushing out my bottom, so the tiny black bow accentuates what Garcia spanked and called my money maker, and lick my lips while my ‘man’ takes my picture. I mean, Jonah. Actually, what's wrong with pretending he's the one who is going to eat this meal I clearly put a lot of thought into? I need inspiration. I'm only projecting, doing what any good actress would.

His handsome face is partially blocked by the camera, but it only makes him sexier. He's so intense. I don't even know what the other girls are doing, I'm in the zone—playing a part. I'm going to feed my man, and then he’s going to lift me onto the countertop, spread my legs and eat…

“Ok, that's a fucking wrap,” Jonah shouts. He slides a finger in the collar of his They Call Me A Player t-shirt with a game controller picture underneath the words, pulling it out and then letting it go.

“Too hot in the kitchen for you?” Lyla teases him.

“All this made me hungry,” Zanna says, running a hand over her white corseted stomach. “Wanna grab some lunch, Jonah?”

“Sorry,” his husky voice answers, “I have a date later.”

She shrugs off his dismissal. “You always have a date.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge her comment, just turns and leaves.

“Hey,” Lyla says quietly, giving me a little hip bump, “don’t fall under the Jonah spell.”

“What do you mean?” I pick up my robe and slip it on as the set clears.

“Don’t be one of a million.” Her brown eyes search mine as if she knows exactly what I was conjuring up in my mind. “Be the only one. I don’t think he’s that guy.”

“It’s not like that.”

She nods and gives me a little grin. For some reason, I feel she doesn’t believe me. Which is fine, I don’t believe me either.

* * *

“Yes Mom,” I say into the phone.

I inwardly cringe when I tell my mother about moving in with Jonah. She loves Jonah, but she always stands firm to her affirmation—don’t give up your dreams for a man. Because when it ends, you’re left with nothing.

Mom knows all about my teenage crush. She listened to me cry on the long drive about leaving everyone behind. “Friend him on Facebook,” she said. Obviously, I didn't. Mainly because he wasn't on Facebook. I get her motherly concern, though. My mom was on her way to Television stardom. Fame and celebrity status was at her fingertips, until she met my father. She gave it all up and claimed to not regret any of it.

“What are you doing today?” she asks.

I’m on my way to meet my father for lunch, and I try not to bring him up to her.

“Not much,” I hedge, “lunch and then heading into work for a few hours.”

She fills me in on the small-town Texas gossip, and before we hang up she says, “Think with your head, not your heart. I love you.”

Sage advice. Easier said than done.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, kissing his cheek as I enter the restaurant.

“Hey, sweetpea.” He kisses my cheek.

We are seated promptly, and I grin as he orders a double Bourbon neat.

“How are the auditions going?”

I roll my eyes. “Not so great. But, I’m sure it’ll pick up.”

“Don’t lose faith. Declan says you’re working as a model?” His forehead crinkles, slightly.

“Yeah, and I think my luck is already changing. I have it all pictured in my head. My big discovery.”

“You’ve always been a dreamer.” He chuckles. “It’s good to have you back.”

“I planned on coming back to LA right after high school, but with Grandma getting sick, I just couldn’t leave.”

My father reaches his hand across the table. “Don’t feel bad for that. Your mother appreciated you being there and helping.”

“I know. And it gave me time to really understand the art of acting.”

He nods. “Chelsea, I have every confidence in the world you’re going to make it. You want to know why?”

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“Because you don’t give up. And you have the talent. You were born with it.” He smiles, and the crow’s feet surrounding his eyes deepen.

“I just imagined it would be different.” I can't count how many times the rejection has made me question my dream. But, it's something that won't release its hold on me. Actually, I have Jonah to thank for that, somewhat. During my first school production in Texas, Romeo and Juliet, something unleashed inside of me and all of the feelings that would never be returned rose up and poured out through my role in an emotional explosion. It made my heart sing.

“Don’t give up, dear. It’ll happen,” he reassures me.

“How are things with you?” I ask, changing the subject. Nothing worse than a whiner, and that's how I feel discussing my lack of success.

I fork through my salad as my father tells me about his new girlfriend, Isabel.

My dad dates more than me. Everyone dates more than me. Maybe I need to find a balance and stop focusing on ’making it.’

Maybe dating is just what I need to keep these crushy feelings I have for Jonah at bay.

Stan at work has been flirty. He's actually cute with his dirty-blond hair and dimples.

Maybe I’ll take the plunge.

After I leave lunch with my dad, I head into work to autograph a few photos. Stan smiles at me when we pass in the hallway.

I smile back. Bigger than is really necessary. Thank god no one’s around to hear what I'm about to do. I stop and call after him.

“Yeah?” He smiles, a brilliant white toothy smile. It’s a little too perfect. Like Ken. You know, Barbie and Ken? Yes, Stan is the equivalent to Ken. Hm. Maybe I don't want to date. I'm more into the tall, dark, sexy, glasses wearing type. But not Jonah.

Speaking of, I glance over to the cubicles in the main area just as Jonah leans over to whisper in a blonde-bombshell’s ear. Ok, maybe I should date.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask.

His eyes shine. “Uh, nothing. Want to go out?”

I love a man who jumps on the opportunity, because I'm not sure the words would've actually come out. “Sure,” I agree.

We exchange details, and I breeze past Jonah.

“What were you two talking about?” he asks as I pass.

I keep walking.