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Okay. Breathe, Liv. Turning up there a hot mess won’t help matters, late or not. No traffic is moving, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Or two. Or three.
Fuck.
A horn beeps behind me and I open my eyes to the line in front of me rapidly disappearing…and the one behind me growing.
Still, there’s no need for the beep. I flip him the bird out my back window and put my foot down, taking a side street to get away from the main road. GPS redirects me and takes five minutes off my journey time.
How about that?
The house is on the outskirts of Seattle, a couple of neighborhoods over from Dayton’s place. But this has a certain charm about it—it’s closer to a cottage than a house. I glance at the back garden and the plants growing upward, obscuring my view.
It’s not really the typical lingerie shoot location, but I’ll take it.
Hell, I’d take a public restroom if it got me this Victoria’s Secret contract.
Clara, Sheila’s assistant, is standing on the doorstep. She’s fresh out of college, but that doesn’t mean she’s soft and quiet. She’s taken to the ruthlessness of this business all too quickly and it shows.
“You’re late.”
“Tell that to the traffic.”
She purses her pink lips. “Hair and makeup are waiting for you in the main room while the photographer sets up upstairs.” Her eyes scan my face. “Thankfully.”
Oh, bite me, bitch.
I smile at her sweetly. Or try. A bit of bitch might have crept in.
I pass her and push open the door. I’m immediately swept into the front room and deposited on a seat by a familiar body.
“Sit,” Nina says. “Dean, get to work on that mop she’s calling hair. Sara, get that rack of underwear over here.”
I open my mouth to speak but she snatches my purse and hits me with her gaze.
“Liv, shut up. We’re behind schedule.”
I close my mouth again and take my subtle telling-off.
“Sara. Underwear. What’s my color scheme?”
I sigh. Boy. Note to self: don’t ever be late when Nina is doing your makeup. She goes all stylist-zilla.
“Color scheme is sexy,” Clara announces, walking into the room.
“Sexy isn’t a color scheme, it’s a state of mind. You’re here to observe, not dictate, so sit over there on that sofa and keep quiet,” Nina snaps, nodding at Sara.
A laugh bubbles in my chest, but I swallow it down. Since I signed with Sheila at the Stone Agency a few months ago, I’ve been thrust deeper into the modeling world. I’m quickly learning that modeling is much like being at high school: judgment, whispers, and bitchiness are the things you encounter most.
I sit silently and let Nina and Dean turn me from a hungover flop to a walking wet dream. It takes them twenty minutes, and I breathe a small sigh of relief when they step back from me.
“Change,” Nina orders, shoving a black set of underwear and matching stockings my way.
“Where?”
“Change in the middle of the room if you want, honey. I don’t care.” She rolls her eyes. “Bathroom—through there.”
I follow the direction her finger is pointing and strip off. “Robe!” I yell.
A floating hand passes one through the crack in the door.
