Page 30 of Hate To Be Mine

“Sorry, I was just⁠—”

“Out of my fucking way.” She shouldered past me hard enough that I stumbled slightly. Behind her, another model laughed.

The sun beat down mercilessly. I’d worn one of the outfits Annika had picked out for me. Linen pants with a long-sleeved button-up shirt that was a gauzy material. It was professional but appropriate for the heat. Now I felt exposed in it. I wished I was wearing my armor. My pantsuit. My severe bun. My professional distance. I had put my hair up in a messy bun on top of my head. I didn’t want to wear a bunch of hairspray out of fear it would melt down my face and neck. And that would lead to me becoming one of those sticky bug traps. I wasn’t about to make the day worse with dead bug carcasses stuck to my face and neck.

Sebastian had been right about the pantsuits being inappropriate for the climate. But at least in them, I felt like I knew who I was. Today, out here, I felt adrift.

I kept trying to stay out of everyone’s way, now moving to a spot near some equipment cases where I could observe without being a physical obstacle. But even there, I wasn’t safe from the hostility.

“Can you move?” A lighting technician stood over me, his arms crossed. “You’re blocking my gear, dude.”

I looked around. I was nowhere near his gear. The nearest case was at least six feet away. “I don’t think I am.”

“Just move.”

I relocated again, this time to a spot even further from the action. I pulled out my phone and started documenting the shoot in my notes app. Little things I’d like to try and talk to Sebastian about. It was busywork, really, but it made me feel like I was doing something productive rather than just standing here being hated.

“Is she seriously taking notes on us?” I heard one of the models say, not even bothering to lower her voice. “Like we’re lab rats or something?”

“She’s probably writing down everything we do wrong so she can report it to her bosses.”

The first girl flipped me the bird. “Note that down, bitch.”

I keep my eyes on my phone, pretending I couldn’t hear them or see them. My face felt hot, and it wasn’t from the sun. A makeup artist walked past carrying a kit. As she passed, she “accidentally” knocked into my shoulder hard enough that I dropped my phone. It landed facedown in the sand.

“Oops,” she said without stopping.

I bent down to retrieve it and pretended it didn’t happen.

I tried to stand in the shade of the equipment tent, but one of the lighting guys told me I was in the way. I moved to the wardrobe area, but the assistants glared at me until I left. The makeup tent was full of models getting touch-ups, and the second I stepped near it, Mary Jo looked up and made it very clear I was not wanted.

“It’s hot,” I said in the hopes she might take pity on me.

“Crew only.”

“I’m part of the production,” I said.

“No, honey. You’re not.”

It was like showing up to a new school where everyone already hated you. Where there was no place to sit at lunch, nowhere to put your stuff, no corner where you belonged. Except I was twenty-seven years old and this was my job, and I was supposed to be professional enough to handle it.

But I felt like a lost little girl with no friends. No one at all.

It hurt. But I refused to show any weakness.

I wandered back toward the main shooting area, trying to find somewhere to stand that wouldn’t bother anyone. Every look I got was unkind. Every glance felt like an accusation. Even the people who weren’t actively being rude simply pretended I didn’t exist.

The heat was getting to me. I’d been out in the sun for hours now, and I was starting to get a headache. I needed water.

I made my way to the craft services tent. At least there I wouldn’t be kicked out—I hoped. If they tried to kick me out, they were going to have to drag me out. I had been very specific about the need for everyone to stay hydrated to avoid any medical emergencies and I wasn’t following my own rules.

The second I stepped into the tent, I felt relief. I was sticky and sweaty and so damn thirsty. I spotted bottles of water in a cooler and practically sprinted for them. I grabbed one, twisted off the cap, and was about to take a sip when a sharp voice stopped me.

“Put that down.”

I turned to a woman staring at me with the kind of expression usually reserved for shoplifters—or murderers.

“I just need some water,” I said. “It’s hot out there.”