Page 111 of Hate To Be Mine

Afterward, we lay tangled together in my bed, both of us breathing hard, both of us grinning like idiots. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this good.

Maybe never.

“I don’t hear the wind and rain as bad,” she said.

I listened. “Me either. Maybe you scared it away with all that screaming.”

She slapped my chest. “Rude. And I was not screaming.”

“Oh baby, you were definitely screaming.”

“It’s not polite to critique.”

“If I was going to critique, I would say you were amazing. That was so fucking hot. And if you give me another five minutes, I’m going to make you scream again. I’ll record it this time as proof.”

“The hell you will.” She pushed away from me.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“I want to check the weather.”

“Wow. That’s not the compliment I was going for.”

She ignored me. She came back less than thirty seconds later with a huge smile.

“Are you smiling because of post-coital bliss or are you smiling because you’re ready to go again?”

She laughed. “The storm turned away from us. Sebastian, we’re clear. The show can go on.”

“Good. That’s awesome. That means we’re going to have to be up in a couple of hours to start working.”

She put her phone down and climbed back into bed. “We should probably get some sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead. I’m fucking you now.”

38

BERNADETTE

The runway was perfect.

I stood backstage, clipboard in hand, headset on, watching the organized chaos unfold around me. Every light was positioned exactly where it should be. Every extension cord was taped down. Every emergency exit was clearly marked and unobstructed. The fire extinguishers were in place, the first-aid station was staffed, and I’d personally walked the entire venue three times to make sure there wasn’t a single hazard that could turn this spectacular evening into a disaster.

It was, without question, the best work I’d ever done.

I had never seen a runway show up close and personal. I couldn’t wait to watch the models sashay down the runway. Annika was like a drill sergeant in her wardrobe area. Models went in wearing robes or sometimes just their underwear and emerged looking like queens. Annika didn’t have a single hair out of place. She looked like she’d done this whole song and dance a million times.

I supposed she probably had. It was just another Tuesday for her.

“Bernadette, we need you at station three,” a voice crackled through my headset. “Model tripped on her hem.”

“On my way.” I was already moving, weaving through the backstage maze of racks and makeup stations and half-dressed models. I found Portia sitting on a stool, Annika kneeling beside her, examining her ankle.

“I’m fine,” Portia insisted, but I could see the wince when Annika touched the joint.

“Let me see.” I crouched down, gently probing. Not swollen yet, good range of motion. “Can you put weight on it?”

She stood carefully, testing. “Yeah, it’s okay. Just tweaked it.”