I brushed my teeth and avoided looking at myself in the dingy mirror as I did. This would be the first day in three years I might actually be late for work, and although I couldn't blame my usually unflappable mother for her meltdown, it was inconvenient.

This movie might be the biggest production our company ever worked on with two big-name actors in the lead roles, but stuff went wrong from the word go, and three days in, we've not shot any footage—a first.

Why was that a problem for me when I couldn't tell you my current job description? Porter Harris, and yes, the famous producer.

Most days, he couldn't keep my name straight, but I did everything from fetching his laundry to correcting his emails to buying his girlfriends' gifts, yet he had a PA and a secretary.

Life was fine as long as he paid my salary and I didn't have to ask my mom for money. But... he could be a bit of an asshole if things consistently went wrong, especially if it happened because people were not doing the work he paid them to do.

If I had to describe him? Simon Cowell. Perfectionist. He knows what he wants and how to get it out of people. He has an eye for talent and a nose for what works, and his colleagues call him "King Midas" behind his back.

He's also quite enamored of himself and yet capable of extraordinary acts of kindness, but he even scared me the last few days.

Arriving late would not go down well.

The studio car honked outside.

"Shit!" I spat out the toothpaste.

There was no time for concealer or gloss as I ran to my room, jumped into my pants, and grabbed my purse.

I clenched the strap between my teeth on the way to the door and wiggled them over my thunder thighs before grabbing my phone and keys as I finally got the zip up while halfway through the door, pausing only long enough to get the button through.

The car honked again, and I ran halfway down the tiled corridor before realizing I had socks on with no shoes.

"Dammit," I grouched as I ran back, unlocked everything again, and grabbed the nearest pair of shoes before running back out again.

Midway into the car, the driver took off, nearly dumping me sideways.

I hadn't brushed my hair.

The thought iced the adrenaline rushing through my veins as I tried to catch my breath, and glancing in the rearview mirror, I groaned.

I looked like that ad where the gorilla dragged the guy around by his hair in his sleep.

We were almost at the studio and weaving through traffic like we were in a chase scene as I dug through my purse, nearly crying with relief when I discovered my spare hairbrush and a rather dirty hair tie.

It would have to do.

I grabbed the shoes and just stared at them.

Slippers.

How the actual...

At least these were sensible and not my hot pink bunny ones.

I glanced down at myself and just stared. How did I still have my flannel pajama top on that looked like one of those red and black checkered lumberjack shirts?

"No one will notice," the driver said.

It was the first sentence he had spoken to me in over six months of picking me up as I tried to adjust the slightly snug top that clung to my ample curves.

He was right, though; no one would notice.

Most days, I was invisible among all those high-octane artistic personalities, and I liked it that way.

Digging through my purse like a raccoon through trash, I retrieved my glasses and slapped them on my nose. Not that I needed them, but they were part of my "disguise" of invisibility.

"Thanks," I said, as I did every morning, and slid out the door.

***

I didn't stroll over to the coffee machine but ran straight for the studio, knowing I'd be sweaty and out of breath.

My tight undershirt couldn't quite handle my bouncing, unfettered assets as I ran, and I held my purse against my chest like a shield.

If anyone saw me, I'd die of shame, but everyone was already inside the studio, and this part of the lot was off-limits for those not associated with this movie.

I opened the side flap of my purse, grabbed my card to open the side door, and only after the third failed attempt did I realize it was my credit card, not the keycard.

Rummaging again didn't bring forth the flat white card, and taking a moment, I calmed down before checking again.

"You've got this, Mercedes. Just breathe." I encouraged myself and found the damned thing almost immediately.

A glance at my phone revealed I was officially twenty minutes late, and filming had started.

I snuck inside and carefully made my way to the studio, hoping no one would notice me as I eased my way over to the producer's chair and slipped a copy of his afternoon schedule into his binder.

Still old-school, Porter Harris hated a phone telling him what to do and where to go.

No one noticed me—big shocker.

***

I watched everyone going about their business for a bit, and since the boss didn't need me, I snuck off to see if I had any clean clothes in my locker.

"You're late," someone said close to my shoulder just as I opened the door to the staff building, nearly scaring me senseless.

"Sherise, you'll give me a heart attack one of these days."

The tiny, freckled, red-head laughed at me, her green eyes dancing with mirth. She had the looks for acting, but she never spoke about having such aspirations.

"Harris looked for you earlier, and it seems he had a fight with Bonita and wants to send her flowers," she gossiped shamelessly.

The studio's grapevine endlessly fascinated her, while I couldn't care less.

"Mirelly said you called and said you were running late due to a family emergency."

I just stared blankly at her for a few seconds before remembering to open the door.

"Wonders never cease."

Although I hadn't called, there had been a family emergency.

My mother was having wedding jitters, and the steadfast woman had almost tucked tail and canceled everything. It was a day for uncharacteristic behavior.

"Are you kidding me? She can't have you fired; who would do her work?" Sherise followed me. "What the hell are you wearing?"

"Don't ask."

"Are your boobs without a net?" the English woman asked, and I turned on her.

"Yes, Sherise, I'm obviously late and not wearing a bloody bra."

I glanced up and right into the eyes of the sexiest man I'd ever seen in my life.

Laughter danced in those endless blue depths as my mouth snapped shut, and I prayed the ground would tear open and swallow me whole as those sinfully delicious lips pulled into a smile that melted my insides and my brain.

"Are you alright?" Sherise asked, and I watched Dean Crowther stalk off, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter as the light glinted on that thick, dark head of hair that made me want to run my hands through it.

What the heck? Since when do I think shit like that? Pardon my French.

Would that hair be as soft and luxurious as it looked?

Stop.

Get a grip, woman!

"Mercedes?!" I stared at her, feeling like I had just returned from another planet.

"Dean Crowther heard me say I have no bra on."

Heat seared my cheeks, ears, and neck.

"Well, these are very nice," Sherise said, reaching out and patting them as there was nothing wrong with touching another woman's assets in public, and scandalized, I caught her hands.

"Some days, you worry me. What would a man like him see in a woman like me?"

"Perhaps he likes chubby ladies: some guys do," she suggested naughtily.

Most days, she was a hopeless romantic and a human being with no filter installed, which is why I liked her. She said what she thought and didn't bother to hide anything. Although sometimes she'd shut off, become almost aloof, and turn into a stranger. Today wasn't one of those days.

"Oh, Sherise, only in your flights of fancy," I sighed, back to thoughts of my predicament as I opened my locker to find nothing inside.

I'd taken my clothes to the dry cleaner and hadn't fetched them.

Dammit.

I would have probably banged my fist against the locker if I were alone.

"What made you so bitter?" Sherise's moments of perception were rare but accurate.

"Years of being bullied by skinny rich kids whose daddy's indulged their every whim while I had to keep my head down and pray my way through each day. When Mother started her business back in those days, things were tight."

I closed my locker and stared at it blindly for a full second.

What now?

"Why did they bully you?" she asked, and I stared incredulously at her.

"Because I'm fat, and I had a scholarship." The bitterness in those words caught me as unawares as it did her. "It was a long time ago."

I shrugged, only half distracted from finding something to wear, and thinking about those days stirred many dark emotions in my blood.

"Honey, they bullied you because you're smart and didn't bow at their feet."

Arguing with her was pointless, and I walked right into that one.

"Get this through your head, please: you are curvy, not fat—"

***

"Miss Benson? Mr. Porter wants you to get these lunch takeout orders and buy Bonita a dozen red roses. Write her a nice card that says he's sorry about calling her fat," Mirelly said, clipboard in hand, headphones half off, looking like she just stepped off Vogue magazine.

An arched brow and a look of distaste left me with no illusions about her opinion of my current attire, and I folded my arms over my breasts.

"Go to the wardrobe and get decent clothes if you don't want Harris to have a fit. We have special guests today, and let Sherise do your makeup—you look like a bum."

The infuriating woman stalked off without bothering to wait for a response.

"Ouch," Sherise said, her lips set in a thin line and her dark orange-red brows furrowed in a mutinous frown.

Sometimes, she kind of reminded me of Hermione.

"She's not wrong," I admitted as humiliation scorched through me, and I sighed.

"Although I'm not even going to answer that, I've been itching to do your makeup for years."

©2022-2023 All rights reserved Cristal Sieberhagen and TypewriterPub. This is the unedited version.