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“That’s exactly what Dayton says.” I grin. “Enough about me and my selective g-spot. What’s new in your life?”
And we talk for the next three hours, refilling our glasses until we both fall backward in a fit of giggles and pass out where we’re lying.
“Crap,” I mutter, reaching for my shrilly ringing cell. “Hello?” I groan into the receiver without looking at the caller ID.
“Liv.” My agent’s voice filters down the speaker. “I have some bad news.”
I sit upright in bed and smack my hand over my eyes at the sudden thump there. “Oh no.”
“Your shoot has—”
“Oh. God. Have they canceled it?”
“No, hon. Calm down. They’ve just rescheduled it for four this afternoon and at 961 Grenetia Garden.”
“I have no idea where that is.”
“I emailed you directions. You’ll need to leave in around forty-five minutes to get there on time.”
I quickly look at the screen of my cell. Fuck. “Okay. Cool. I’m ready to go.”
After a glass of water and two Tylenol, yeah.
“Great. Clara will meet you there, but call me after and let me know how it goes.”
“I will. Bye, Sheila.” I hang up and flop back on the bed. “Fuck, shit, fuck, shit.”
How could I have forgotten that shoot this afternoon? The fucking shoot that has the potential to make me a Victoria’s Secret Angel. This is the shoot that could change my goddamn freaking life and I’m hungover. Fantastic.
This is why I resolved three months ago to never accept Sean’s offer of wine.
Ignore the fact I’ve failed on numerous occasions. Last night, I should have remembered this. This is important. World-tilting important. Fuck that. Universe-shaking important!
I swing my legs from the bed and eye them carefully for hairs. Upon seeing a few suspect spots, I run my fingertips up my shin. Shitballs. I’m gonna need to shave.
I hobble into the bathroom and slather hair removal cream up my legs and along my bikini line. Sometimes, I’m really thankful that I live on the third floor. This is one of those times—could you imagine walking past someone’s window and seeing their lower extremities covered in white cream?
Awkward.
I pad into the kitchen, covered in the cream, and dig two Tylenol out from my “drug drawer,” as Dayton calls it. So I’m stocked for every sickness. Shoot me. I like to be prepared.
I down the glass of water and pills, choking briefly in my rush to swallow. By the time my eyes have stopped watering, I’m in the bathroom and stepping under the shower. I wash off and remove all the cream from my body, checking my armpits as a last-minute thought.
God. Preparing for a lingerie shoot is so glamorous.
Satisfied that I’m hair-free in all the places I should be, I glance at my toes to verify that my pedicure is still perfect—like it’s not too late to get it done—and grab my favorite set of underwear from the drawer.
My best friend, the queen of all lingerie, once told me that the right set of underwear will set a woman up for anything. And if you ever need setting up for anything, it’s a lingerie shoot.
I blast my hair with the hairdryer and brush my teeth at the same time, stopping halfway through to spit out my toothpaste. My eyes flit to the clock over and over, watching those little hands ticking incessantly. Reminding me how late I’m running.
I look at my concealer longingly, but when I glance at the clock and realize that I should have left almost five minutes ago, I bolt. After all, I’ll get made up at the shoot, but still.
No one needs to see this face without makeup. It’s not pretty.
My car roars to life as I pull out onto the street. Directions. Crap. I pull over on the side of the road, check my email, and put the destination into my GPS. Thank fuck for GPS.
The traffic is slow-moving downtown, and I take my tapping foot off the brake. Why does everyone feel the need to be somewhere on a Wednesday afternoon? Don’t they have work to do? Don’t they realize the importance of this shoot?
