by Ember Casey
Instead, I glance around at the rest of the production. Part of me wishes I had the guts to pull out my phone and sneak a few photos—I’ve spent the last year scrolling through my friends’ social media accounts, drooling over photos of their fabulous lives, and I’m finally doing something cool enough to share—but I suspect that would be frowned upon. Instead, I obediently follow Karen and try not to glance back at my beautiful bathroom guy.
“Where are we going?” I ask her.
“To the makeup tent,” Karen tells me. “We need to get some of that shine off your forehead.”
I frown, touching my face, but considering how much sweat was pouring off me only a short while ago, I suppose a little extra makeup couldn’t hurt.
“We’ll need to clean up that hair, too, at the very least,” she goes on. “And I’ll see if Orlando has anything else in mind. He’s a very hands-on director.”
Orlando…why does that name sound familiar? She can’t be talking about my handsome bathroom guy, can she? In spite of myself, I glance back at him again. He looks way too young to be a director—aren’t most directors old men? This guy appears to be only a few years older than me, but he carries himself with a steady confidence. He’s the sort of man who exudes intelligence, who commands respect.
I’m still staring at him when Karen grabs my arm, giving it an impatient tug.
“Scoot, now,” she says. “Orlando wants this scene done before lunch. And he can’t have you looking like someone who stumbled in off the street.” She doesn’t seem to recognize the irony in that.
The makeup tent is just outside the eastern entrance to the building. Half a dozen area fans keep it at least a few degrees cooler than the asphalt beyond the tent poles. Karen shoves me beneath the awning and begins barking orders in her flat but commanding tone, and I find myself pulled into a chair with a small army of people around me.
Meanwhile, I’m still thinking about my gorgeous bathroom man.
Orlando. There can’t be that many Orlandos in modern America, let alone ones who look like that. And who are talented and trusted enough to find themselves helming an entire movie.
All at once, it clicks into place. And I wonder how I didn’t see it sooner.
There’s only one man it could be. One man who has that name, charisma, and title, all three.
Orlando Fontaine.
It’s obvious, now. Anyone who’s subject to the endless stream of celebrity news on social media or in line at the grocery store knows about the Fontaines. They’re probably the most famous family in Hollywood, and every single one of them is involved in the movie industry somehow. Luca Fontaine is arguably the biggest star—and the only one who pursues acting full time—but all of his brothers are famous in their own ways. Dante, the oldest, is renowned as a screenwriter. Rafe has done everything from modeling to voiceover work to motocross racing. Orlando is the youngest—and arguably the one who’s spent the least amount of time in the spotlight, which is why I didn’t recognize him on sight—but most people still know his name. He’s been focusing on directing, much like his father, the legendary Charles Fontaine.
I blush as the hair and makeup team begins their work. When you’ve been unemployed for as long as I have, you somehow end up reading a lot of clickbait articles about famous people, just to take a break from sending out resumes. Most of the focus is on Orlando’s brothers, but there have been a handful of rumors about him, too. Some of which are…interesting, to say the least. Like the one that he turns into a complete sex fiend whenever he’s working on a movie. They say that the stress gets to his head, and that he eases it by having torrid affairs with supermodels. I wonder how much of that is actually true. It’s only too easy to imagine him as some sort of sexual god, turning that powerful fervor I saw in his eyes toward a night of passion and pleasure…
It’s not until someone bends over me with a makeup brush in hand that I recognize where my thoughts have strayed. I clear my head and try to focus on the here and now. On the fact that I’ve blown off my interview for the opportunity to be in a movie.
The makeup artist working on me is named Penny, and she has bright red hair extensions and eyelashes to die for. She gives me some fake lashes of my own before applying a crap-ton of concealer and powder.
“You actually have great skin,” she tells me. “This is just so all the lights don’t bounce off your face.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I know I sweat like a swamp beast.”
She laughs as she continues her work. Meanwhile a skinny man with a faux hawk puts something in my hair to smooth down all the frizz and then redoes my ponytail. I’m sad that they aren’t doing anything too dramatic to my appearance, but I guess if I’m going to be playing someone’s assistant, I don’t need purple lipstick or big, glamorous waves in my hair. Still, I steal peeks at myself in the mirror beyond Penny’s shoulder, and I’m pleased by how huge my blue-gray eyes look beneath my new false lashes. At some point a frazzled-looking assistant pops by with some form for me to sign, and I scribble down my signature as Penny spreads a pale pink gloss on my lips.
When they’re finally done, I look polished and pretty. Definitely nothing like the hot mess who stumbled into the lobby this morning, the girl who had an unevenly cooked frozen dinner for breakfast and only shaved her legs up to the knee so she didn’t look like Sasquatch in her pencil skirt. Now, from certain angles, I almost look hot.
Karen must have a sixth sense for these things, because she appears in the tent only a moment after the makeup team announces they’re finished with me. With her is a woman with a handful of shirts hung over her arm.
“Take off your top,” Karen tells me. “We’re putting you in a different blouse. One that doesn’t have pit stains.”
My face turns a dozen shades of red. I’d hoped that I was just being paranoid about how bad my armpits were. But there’s no denying it now. I quickly shrug out of my blazer.
No one moves away as I begin unbuttoning my shirt, and I tell myself that people are used to seeing each other in various states of undress on a movie set. Everyone’s a professional here. Still, it’s hard not to feel embarrassed as I slide my top off my shoulders. Especially considering the state of my bra. New bras aren’t exactly a top priority when you’re unemployed and on a limited budget. I’m currently wearing the only one of my bras that still fits me properly, but it’s barely holding together. The underwire has popped out on one side, and the once peach-colored fabric has faded to an old, musty taupe color, with darker patches near my armpits where the sweat has soaked through. Yeah, I know everyone has at least one crappy old bra that still finds its way into their rotation, but it’s not exactly the sort of thing you want strangers seeing.
Karen grabs a shirt from the woman at her side and shoves it in my direction. “Try this one first. And while you’re at it, I need you to take off your underwear. Unless you want a visible panty line in your big film debut.”
She says it without a hint of emotion, as if talking about a stranger’s underwear is just another ordinary, boring part of her job. Maybe it is. But I’m pretty sure I blush even harder. I had no idea my panty line was that obvious. And I thought showing these people my bra was bad, but showing them my panties is even worse. My bra looks pristine next to the five-year-old period panties.
But I’m not about to miss out on the chance to be in this movie—and Karen is right, I don’t want a panty line on camera—so I decide to suck it up and do as I’m told.
I slide my arms into the sleeves of the new blouse, just to cover myself for the moment, then try to figure out how to sidle out of my panties without pulling up my skirt. Maybe I can get them off without anyone getting a good look at them.
As I pinch at the fabric around my hips and try to wiggle my panties down my thighs, I’m aware that I’ve started sweating again. I pray that it doesn’t soak through my new blouse. It takes a few tries, but I finally manage to push my underwear down my legs, and once they get past my rath
er curvy thighs, they fall into a sad little pile around my high heels.
“Okay, Karen, where is she?”
The sound of that deep voice makes me freeze with my hand halfway down to my ankles. I know who it belongs to even before I find the courage to glance up.
Orlando Fontaine stands just inside the tent, his sharp eyes on his assistant director. After a moment, his gaze shifts to me.
Just like before, I find myself frozen beneath those eyes. Now that I know who he is, I can really see the family resemblance. He’s easily as good-looking as his brother Luca, but there’s something a little more rugged about his features. Instead of the fairy tale prince, he’s more like the handsome woodcutter who saves you from the witch. With eyes that seem to gaze into your very soul.
And I’m standing here with a pair of granny panties around my ankles.
I panic. I try to smile at him, and at the same time I try to reach down and grab my underwear before he can see it. But the panties get caught on one of my heels. I give them a desperate tug, still smiling as if I’m completely at ease, trying to keep from looking down and drawing any extra attention to what are by far the most embarrassing piece of clothing I own.
It almost works. With one more sharp tug, I get the panties free of my shoe, but I use a little too much force. And while this particular pair of underwear is old, the elastic waistband still has plenty of spring to it, because before I even realize what’s happening, it sling-shots its way from my grip and flies across the room.
Hitting Orlando Fontaine right in the chest.
Everyone in the tent is dead silent as my sad, stained period panties fall to the ground. Orlando stares down at them with a slight frown.
And I want to die. Or at least run far, far away from this tent. And maybe hide in a bunker for a few years.
Slowly, Orlando’s eyes come up again. I straighten my shoulders, trying to pretend that I’m not the least bit embarrassed by what just happened, but that’s when I remember that my new blouse is still open.
So this is it, I think. This is when I learn that people can actually spontaneously combust from embarrassment. I’m standing half naked in front of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in real life—a man who reportedly has raging hot sex with supermodels every night—in a sweat-soaked bra. While my dingy panties sit like a limp, stained rag at his feet.
And while all of this is going on, there’s still enough blood flowing through my veins to remind me that it’s been a little while since I’ve had sex, and that my body, at least, would have no complaints about fixing that with this man in front of me.
The way those golden eyes of his bore into me, I’d swear he can read every one of those thoughts. Before I can apologize, though, his lips curl into a charming smile.
“I knew she’d be perfect,” he says without taking his gaze off me.
I try to ignore the tiny flutter in my chest at being called perfect. That’s not a word that’s used to describe me…well, ever. Except he’s used it twice now.
I don’t get to respond before Karen breaks in.
“Good,” she says. “We’ll have her out on set in a few minutes, just as soon as she’s done getting dressed.” She gives me a meaningful look, and I quickly begin doing up the buttons on the blouse.
“Great,” Orlando says. He starts to step toward me, then stops, bending over and picking up my panties instead.
“You don’t have to—” I begin, but he’s already moving toward me, my underwear in his grip. Anything I could say would just make this worse.
“I believe these are yours, Miss...?”
“Blankenship,” I say, and after a quick and only mildly awkward hesitation, I drop my still partially unbuttoned shirt to reach out for my panties. “Maggie.”
“Orlando Fontaine,” he says. “But everyone just calls me Orlando around here. I prefer that we all use first names—it makes us feel more like a family.” His gaze falls to my underwear still in his hand. “Very close family.” When his eyes meet mine again, those golden depths are bright with humor.
Oh, God. He’s laughing at me. But there’s something else in his eyes, too—a simmering heat that sends shivers all the way down to my toes. Any doubts I had about those “sex fiend” rumors fly right out the window. This man radiates passion and intensity from his every pore.
Karen clears her throat, and I remember my chest is still half bare. I quickly snatch my panties from his hand and resume buttoning my shirt. I’ve started sweating again—attractive men always do it to me, and Orlando is turning me into Niagara Falls—but I can’t do anything but pray it doesn’t soak through this new blouse before my scene is done.
“We’ll have her out to you in a minute,” Karen tells Orlando again, and he nods and turns away. My heart nearly stops when he pauses right outside the tent and glances toward Penny, the makeup artist.
“A touch of red lipstick on her, I think,” he tells her. “Not too dark, though. I like her innocence.” He twists his head further, his eyes finding mine again, still shining with silent laughter and pulsing heat. I must look worried, because he winks at me.
“Don’t worry—we’ll take care of you, Maggie,” he says, and his gaze suggests that that’s a personal promise. “Welcome to the set of Death and Deadly Night.”
CHAPTER TWO
There’s no time for any of this to sink in. One minute I’m buttoning up my shirt while Penny slaps some cranberry-red lipstick on me, and the next I’m being ushered unceremoniously back inside by Karen, my granny panties abandoned in the tent. I’m still sweating profusely, but the minute we step into the lobby, a cold blast of air conditioning slaps me in the face. Hopefully that will nip the problem in the bud for now.
I glance around. Orlando is standing near the windows, talking to Omar Walson and a second man who’s too handsome to be anything but another actor. Both Omar and his costar are wearing pristine, well-tailored suits, and both appear to be listening intently to their director. Orlando emanates a powerful energy that I can feel even from here, and even some members of the crew seem to be under his spell, trying to watch and listen to him instead of going about their work. I’ve only been here a moment and I can already see that Orlando has this entire production tied up in his web.
As if my thoughts trigger a vibration in that web, Orlando turns his head and looks at me. A jolt shoots down my spine as our eyes meet, and that look flashes in his expression again—heat and amusement, tangled as one. I realize I’m licking my newly reddened lips and quickly stop.
He wouldn’t tell the others about the whole panty thing, would he? I wonder in horror as Karen leads me toward them. Fuck, everyone’s going to know me as the “Panty Girl” by lunch.
Omar and his costar notice Orlando looking my way, and they turn to follow his gaze.
“Here,” Karen tells me, shoving an electronic tablet into my hands. “In this scene, all you need to do is walk along behind Mr. Walson and pretend to be taking notes. Use the stylus there.”
The easiest thing to do is to pretend the whole panty thing never happened. I slide the stylus from its elastic loop, aware that all three men are still watching me. “Pretend to take notes. Got it.”
“Walk when he walks, stop when he stops,” she continues. “Don’t look at the cameras for any reason, but pay attention to where they are. You never want to get between the camera and Mr. Walson. Or Mr. Grand, for that matter.”
Mr. Grand must be the other suited man. I can’t place the name, but now that I’m closer, I think I recognize him from something. Maybe a commercial? Or a TV movie?
Orlando is still watching me. I let my gaze meet his again, bracing myself for the sudden rush of blood, and the corner of his mouth twitches as he abruptly turns away.
“Okay, guys,” he says to the room, clapping his hands once. “Let’s take this from the top.”
The already-bustling crew members seem to speed up, leaping into their positions and quickly making their final adjustments. A makeup a
rtist runs in to dust a little extra powder on Omar’s nose while another young woman grabs the coffee cup out of Mr. Grand’s hand and carries it away.
Karen gestures me toward the men, and I scurry over, taking my place behind Omar.
“A little to the left, Maggie,” Orlando calls as he slides into a canvas chair next to one of the big cameras.
Hearing him say my name sends a happy little shiver through me, but I manage to regain my composure quickly. I slide to the left, trying to look like the serious assistant they hired me to be. Neither Omar nor his costar even glance back at me.
“And…action!”
And that’s it—no other instructions, no guidance. Not even half an hour ago, I was just a girl in a bathroom. Now, because some late-night motivational speaker on TV told me to say “Yes!” to things, I’m about to be in an Orlando Fontaine movie. I might have no idea what I’m doing—I feel like they’ve thrown me into the deep end of the pool without stopping to ask if I knew how to swim—but I’m not about to blow this awesome opportunity. The two actors in front of me begin walking, and I diligently follow behind, praying I don’t trip over my own feet. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. This past year, I’ve been enviously lusting after my friends’ lives—it seems like every day one of them is getting promoted, or getting married, or traveling to some exotic place, or something equally amazing and exciting—all while feeling trapped in an endless cycle, just waiting for my life to begin. Finally I’m doing something exciting, too.
I keep my gaze focused on the tablet in my hands, but out of the corner of my eye I watch both the camera and the two actors in front of me. Absently, I move the stylus across the tablet screen, writing nonsense scribbles. And, since I’m supposed to be the alert assistant, I occasionally give a nod as if I’m listening intently, even though I’m so focused on what I’ve been told to do that I don’t even hear half the lines the actors say.