Page 23 of Hate To Be Mine

“Sebastian! Sebastian, we have a crisis!”

I turned to find a gaggle of models approaching, their faces etched with what they probably thought was distress but looked more like mild inconvenience. Their crisis could be anything from a missing makeup case to somebody gaining a few pounds.

Clarissa was in the lead, followed by Tempest and Portia, along with two newer girls whose names I hadn’t learned yet.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, mentally preparing for something dramatic.

“We can’t find our rooms!” Clarissa wailed. “They gave us numbers but all the bungalows look the same and there’s no signs and we’ve been walking around for twenty minutes. I’m starving!”

I should have hired a handler to herd the models. They weren’t dumb but they were used to people handling things for them. As a model myself, I knew what they were used to. They were the talent. They were told where to be, how to stand, and what to wear.

I looked at these beautiful, talented women and realized I couldn’t just point them in the right direction and hope for the best. They’d wander off into the jungle. They’d get lost. They’d probably get carried off by birds of prey or adopted by a troop of monkeys.

Models were like cats—simultaneously graceful and completely helpless in unfamiliar environments.

“Hold on,” I said, scanning the area for someone who could help. “Let me find—ah, perfect. Mary Jo!”

The lead makeup artist was walking past with her rolling case of supplies. She could wrangle even the most difficult talent.

“Mary Jo, these ladies need help finding their bungalows.”

She took one look at the lost models and smiled. “Come on, my little lambs. Let’s get you settled before you faint from hunger.”

“Thank you,” Clarissa breathed, like Mary Jo had just saved her from a burning building.

“There’s fruit and snacks in the main building dining area,” Mary Jo called back as she led them away. “We’ll stop there first.”

I watched them disappear down one of the winding paths, the models clustering around Mary Jo like ducklings following their mother.

One crisis averted, I thought, mentally patting myself on the back. This whole being-in-charge thing wasn’t so bad. Delegate, solve problems, keep everyone happy and productive. Easy.

Now if I could just stop being distracted by the hot insurance lady, I might actually pull this off.

My bungalow was larger than most of the others, another perk of being in charge. Two bedrooms, a decent sitting area, and a patio that looked out onto the beach. Under normal circumstances, this would be where I’d be hosting company, entertaining ladies, and making the most of the paradise location.

But these weren’t normal circumstances.

I dropped my bag on the floor and immediately pulled out my work materials. Shot schedules. Diagrams of the different locations we’d scouted. Storyboards I’d sketched out for each major setup along with weather contingency plans. Backup location options. Contact numbers for local services.

I was really hoping the weather didn’t screw me. I knew Mother Nature was unpredictable. I had checked the weather nonstop all week. Things looked fine, but even a rogue storm could screw things up.

Within twenty minutes, my pristine bungalow looked like a command center. Papers were spread across the coffee table. Storyboards were taped to the walls. I could picture the shots in my mind. I knew what I wanted. Now, I just had to find a way to bring that vision to life.

This was me being serious. This was me proving that I could handle responsibility without getting distracted by my usual vices.

Normally, on a location shoot like this, I’d be out with the crew by now. There was always a summer camp vibe to these productions. A sexy camp. Everyone was always excited to be somewhere beautiful.

Also, people didn’t realize how hard modeling could be. A lot of stuff happened behind the scenes, and when there was a beach location, everyone was ready to blow off steam after a long travel day. Someone would find a bar. Someone else would organize a bonfire on the beach. Hookups would happen. Gossip would start.

And usually I would be right in the middle of it. On any other shoot, I’d be in someone’s bungalow when the party wound down.

But not tonight.

I stared at the schedule and all the moving pieces I needed to keep track of. Fifteen models with different call times. Three photographers with different styles and varying sizes of egos. Lighting setups that would need to be moved and adjusted throughout the day. Wardrobe changes. Makeup touch-ups. Keeping everyone fed and hydrated and not murdering each other.

I hoped like hell no one decided to party too hard tonight. I did not want to deal with bloated bellies and puffy eyes.

The usual chaos was only half my concern. I had to be conscious of my babysitter.