Page 4 of Tell Me Something

“Haylee, correct?” His voice was low and kind.

Piercing green eyes once again completely transfixed me and I could only nod.

“Well, Haylee, I’m Josh. I don’t think we formally met.”

I tried to smile as he took my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” Swallowing hard at his touch, I was a little unnerved that he was speaking to me as if we were the only two in the room.

“You, too.” There was that ghost of a smile again.

I admitted, “I’m nervous, and I really don’t want to blow this for you, but I’m not sure I’m equipped to pull this off.” I was being brutally honest even if it would cost me my job, this shoot, and whatever self-esteem I had left.

“Some girls would think this would be a fantasy come true: hair, makeup, playing dress up.”

“I’m so not that girl, Mr. Singer.”

He chuckled, seeming a lot less intimidating than I had originally thought. “You can do this. If you can work for Warren, I think you must have it in you.” He whispered the last part, causing me to smile wider.

“All right, I’ll try.” I took a deep breath and concentrated on the aloof, confident, sexy woman they wanted me to portray. It was satisfying to see Josh’s surprised look and his smile toward Warren.

Bart started snapping off some shots as he took me through the motions. A short time later, he called it a wrap on the first scene.

I WAS in curlers and wanted to kill someone. I’d never been more humiliated in my life as when I overheard Ramone speak to Josh and Bart outside the dressing room.

“We cannot do swimsuit; she’s not waxed.”

I didn’t dare look in their direction but could tell by their silence that neither man knew quite what to say about that information. It wasn’t every day that a woman’s bikini line was an open topic.

Finally, Josh spoke. “Um, well, don’t we have a suit that ah, well, that doesn’t show, you know?”

I’d been a pretty good sport thus far, but this was too much. “You make it sound as though it’s a jungle. I simply said I’m not bare and can’t believe we’re discussing this,” I mumbled. As Josh walked in behind me, I noticed he was trying to hide his laugh.

“Haylee, you will look great in the swimsuit,” Bart declared, coming in and taking my hand. “I’m the best in the business, and you have my promise.”

I sighed, losing some of my initial embarrassment.

“As for the other, can we get, uh, well, a wax job?” he asked Trisha, who evidently was the lucky one to be saddled with the task.

“Of course, but she’ll be red,” she responded, shrugging.

Josh hesitated. “That’s fine, we’ll deal with it. That is if you’re okay with it, Haylee?”

For a moment I was shocked that he was leaving it up to me. “Yes, I think so.” The decision made, I resigned myself to face my fate via hot wax.

After the impromptu waxing, I came out of the dressing room in a two-piece suit that was white, of all colors, and fought my anxiety. I worked out when I could and actually loved running, but I was highly aware of my shortcomings in that moment. I wasn’t fat, contrary to Ramone’s comment, nor did I feel like a size six was heavy by any stretch, but I also wasn’t completely toned. Hell, I would’ve at least skipped the damn bagel this morning had I a clue I’d be in a bikini later in front of a camera.

Dreading the fact that I was about to be in front of everyone and looking at the fake tan they had just applied, I wanted to run and hide, but instead I continued down the one flight of stairs from the bar to the hotel pool. I stole a glance at Josh, wishing he would find something else to do. Wasn’t he the owner? Did he have to be here the whole time, watching me with those intense green eyes?

Luckily, the pool scene was the shortest one. Bart moved me around, and I concentrated on doing exactly as I was told. I could only hope he would be true to his word and make me look good.

“Okay, that’s a wrap on this one,” Bart called out.

The stylists moved in quickly to scoop me up and get me back into the small dressing room. I visibly relaxed the moment the robe came on and was grateful that I was more than halfway done.

The last scene entailed smoke and a jazz performance up on stage—they’d made the bar look like a typical lounge.

They put me in a glamorous, dark burgundy dress that was red-carpet-worthy. My hair was in a messy up-do with my lips painted crimson. I was positioned at the lounge table and watched as they placed my drink and the bottle within view, reminding me this was an ad for the rum. One of the staging staff placed a cigarette in front of me in an ash tray. My nose wrinkled in response. “What’s this?”

The props coordinator explained. “In this scene you’re a smoker.”