Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
But my personal life needs to slide to the backseat for the moment.
I make a beeline for makeup, where I’ll be prettied up, and then sent to wardrobe. I’m still amazed by the studio’s desire to dress me in ridiculously expensive brands and then gift the outfits to me. Of course, I have to claim the items on my taxes, but it’s a small price to pay for the best wardrobe of my life. It’s something for me, I think, something my parents can’t take from me, as they do every extra dime I earn. I can’t go on like this, especially under Damion’s looking glass.
I’ve become an enabler, I acknowledge once again, but I’ve done it so long that I probably need therapy to figure out why and how to stop. Or I need Damion to talk sense into me, not become my father’s bank account, which is my biggest fear. I won’t let that happen, I vow.
I enter the makeup studio to find Cheryl, my stylist, waiting on me with a Starbucks cup as an offering. “I know how to start your day right,” she says, a smile on her lips, her brunette hair pinned atop her head with a few wayward strands poking out here and there. She’s pretty and sweet, and everything I could wish for in someone who I work with almost daily.
“You’re a goddess,” I say, indicating my bag in hand. “Let me go put this away and I’ll be right back.”
“Hurry,” she says, pointing to the clock on the wall. “We’re late.”
I’m late, she means, but she’s too sweet to say as much, while my producer will not be so kind. The idea hurries my pace down a long hallway, the memory of Damion kissing me at the apartment door humming through me in all the right ways. He’d winked at me and exited the apartment, leaving me with hope in my heart that we’re going to make this work.
Entering my dressing room, I’m greeted by a deliciously floral scent, shutting the door behind me and searching for the source of the sweet smell, only to light up at the sight of a giant double bouquet of roses sitting on my dressing table. My heart squeezes at the sweet act, and I’m even a little teary-eyed. Really, truly, having this man back in my life, and as my partner for the first time ever, is everything I ever wanted. He did this despite how stressed he is about the board meeting, which makes the gift unexpected and, oh, so sweet. I reach for my phone to call him, but I really am late, and on a film set, your time is not your own. Every second you’re not where you’re supposed to be costs the studio money.
I cross the room, toss my purse onto the chair, and then lean over the bouquet to inhale a single rose blossom, savoring the gift for just a moment. My gaze drops to the ring on my finger and as much as I don’t want to take it off, the many ways it will get attention on set that I do not want to answer, are far too many. I seal it inside my purse while the note attached to the flowers goes inside my pants pocket where I ensure no one else reads it.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting in front of the mirror as Cheryl works her magic while I sip my coffee, dying to know what is in the message.
I’m about to sneak a peek when I hear, “What the holy heck is going on?”
At the sound of my producer’s voice, the idea that I’m later than I think I am sets my heart racing. Cheryl’s eyes meet mine in the mirror, hers wide with worry, which only makes me worry all the more. As if burned, her hands fall from my hair, and she backs away. That’s my cue to twist my chair around, only to find Shauna standing right in front of me and shoving her phone in my direction. “What is this?”
I’d be happy to make a go at an answer if her phone wasn’t literally, at this point, right in my face. She pulls it back and repeats, “What is this, Alana?”
Now I spy the screen, and considering it holds a picture of Damion kissing me outside the restaurant last night, his possessive hand resting on my lower back, I’d prefer to go back home and start the day over. If given the chance for that do-over, Damion and I could actually talk about the “what ifs” of what’s happening right now.
“Are you sleeping with the boss?” she demands.
Yes, I think, and loving every minute of it, but I’m also aware that admitting any such thing creates the impression that I’ve spread my legs for my show. Which bites, and bites hard. I settle on a benign truth. “Damion and I grew up together.”