Chapter 1
Reese
June 15th
Are They More Than Co-Stars? Sparks Fly Between Reese Sinclair & Jaxon Elio AfterLove and LoathingFilming Wraps!
“Smooth and thick,one little lick will do the trick!” I recite the nonsensical campaign slogan. My advertising smile is pristine as I balance on the unsteady edge of a diving board. It’s only a few feet above a vat of yogurt—a vat that is making the entire set of the ’Gurt commercial smell like a tangy nightmare.
“That’s the one, Reese! Let’s prepare for the jump!” the director, Roland, hollers from his fortress of lights and equipment. The crew scurries around me, their walkie-talkies crackling with urgency as they reposition lights and adjust markers.
I glance below one more time at the creamy substance swirling lazily. It could so easily suck me in, envelop me, suffocate…
Maybe this is a bad idea. There’s still time to revise the script. I’m sure the director would make an exception.
No—I can’t be difficult.
“Ready, sir,” I announce, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin.
“Excellent! Let’s see some Reese Sinclair magic, darling!”
I force myself to take three deep breaths. Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight.
You are Reese Sinclair. You can dive into anything and emerge looking like you’ve been kissed by a rainbow.
Be radiant. Be flawless. Be yogurt-proof.
Be perfect, Reese.
Perfect.
Bending at the knees, I leap feet-first off the diving board in five-inch heels. My ’50s-style skirt billows around me like a pastel parachute. With a disturbingly wet splat, I land in the thick liquid, maintaining absolute control over my skirt like I’m Marilyn Monroe atop a subway grate.
“Your creamiest desires come alive with every bite,” I purr, with a hint of my southern charm. I maintain perfect posture in the lukewarm yogurt bath, mentally cataloging every detail that went wrong—the way my left foot landed first, sending an awkward ripple through the surface, and the tiny splash of yogurt that hit my cheek, probably messing up my makeup.
“That’s it! You’re sailing through this!” Roland’s enthusiasm bounces off the studio walls.
“Roland, I know we’re on a schedule, but”—I make eye contact with each crew member, acknowledging their exhaustion—“I’d really appreciate one more take. That one wasn’t quite there.” I gesture at my yogurt-drenched outfit with a self-deprecating laugh. “Promise it’s the last time you’ll have to dunk me today.”
He considers it. “Alright, people! Final take! Let’s make it count!”
Under the hot studio lights, a wardrobe assistant efficiently swaps out my soaked skirt and shoes for fresh ones, dabbing at my blouse. The props team levels out the pool of goop. We roll again. This time, everything clicks—the timing, the product placement, the unnecessarily sexual tagline.
“Good girl, Reese! Exactly what we needed!”
The praise lands wrong, making me bristle. Nearly twenty years in this industry, and I’m still fighting the same battles—being the perpetual good girl, America’s golden sweetheart.
“Thank you all so much for your patience today.” I smile and gesture at the yogurt soaking me. “Who needs a spa day when you’ve got probiotics by the gallon?”
The crew laughs politely. A production assistant steadies my arm as I carefully step out of the slippery bath.
“Thank you, hun,” I say to the PA just as Heather, my agent, materializes beside me, neat as a pin in her silver bob and signature tailored suit.
“Take this and let’s move,” she says, handing me a mint, already striding toward my trailer. I follow her, ignoring the squelch of yogurt between my toes.
Heather’s an industry titan. She’s managed some of the biggest stars through the years and has been shepherding me through the industry since I was a spunky, pigtailed eleven-year-old onClubhouse. These days, she’s narrowed down her client base to work with only her favorite people.
Translation: her real moneymakers.
