Page 44 of Have To Be Mine

“I got coffee,” he said again, like that somehow made up for everything.

I took a breath, trying to channel some of that calm I’d felt last night on the balcony. It didn’t work. The calm was gone, replaced by the frustration that seemed to follow Dash Blackwell around like a cloud.

We’d had a nice evening. I’d let my guard down, told him about my mother, laughed at his jokes. And I’d gone to bed thinking maybe we could actually work together without me wanting to strangle him every five minutes. But nothing had changed. He was still the same irresponsible, charming, infuriating man I’d been hired to wrangle.

The drive took about forty minutes, winding along the coast until we reached a stretch of beach that had been transformed into a production zone. Tents, equipment, and people. It looked like a small city had sprouted from the sand. Crew members were everywhere, all wearing badges and carrying equipment. Several had vlogging cameras, filming themselves as they walked around. Influencers. Of course. If something wasn’t documented on social media, it might as well not even happen.

I spotted the management tent and headed toward it. Dash trailed behind me like we were on a casual Sunday stroll instead of arriving at work. His long legs kept up with me easily.

Before we even reached the tent, I could hear raised voices. I inwardly groaned. More problems. I glanced over my shoulder and glared at Dash.

“What?” he asked. “I just got here. I know as much as you do.”

At least fifteen people were crowded into the space. Models, photographers, production assistants, all talking over each other. The energy was hostile. A tall blonde model I recognized from yesterday’s shoot was standing with her arms crossed, her face flushed with anger.

“I’m not putting on a single piece until I see money in my account,” she said loudly.

“Same,” another model chimed in. “We were supposed to be paid yesterday.”

A photographer stepped forward. “My crew hasn’t been paid either. We’ve been working on promises for two days now.”

This couldn’t be happening. Not on top of everything else. The one thing guaranteed to upset everyone across the board was to mess with their money.

The production coordinator was trying to calm everyone down. “I understand your frustration, but I don’t have access to the payment system. I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Blackwell. He’ll be here soon.”

“We don’t care who you’ve been trying to reach,” a makeup artist interrupted. “We care about getting paid. Some of us have bills. Some of us turned down other jobs to be here.”

I turned slowly to look at Dash, who had gone very still beside me. He looked guilty. And embarrassed.

“Dash,” I said quietly, my voice deadly calm. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

He didn’t answer immediately, which told me everything I needed to know.

“The payments,” I continued, each word precisely enunciated. “You were supposed to process them two days ago.”

“I’ll handle it,” he said, already pulling out his phone.

“You’ll handle it?” I repeated. “You’ll handle it now? After an entire crew has staged a revolt?”

He ignored me and raised his voice to address the room. “Everyone, listen up. I apologize for the delay. There was a processing issue on our end, but I’m going to take care of it right now. If you have Venmo, pull up your barcodes.”

I watched in disbelief as people started fumbling for their phones. Was he serious? Was he actually planning to Venmo an entire production crew? Who had that kind of money?

Dash did. He was a billionaire. Only he would ignore things like accounting and payroll and pay people from what I assumed was his private account. Thank God I wasn’t his financial advisor.

“Actually,” Dash said, flashing that charming smile to the gathered crowd. “I’m going to add a bonus for the inconvenience. Twenty percent on top of your contracted rate.”

That got their attention. The angry murmurs shifted to surprised whispers.

Dash started moving through the crowd, scanning QR codes with his phone. I saw the notifications lighting up screens around the tent. People were checking their accounts, their expressions shifting from anger to shock to excitement.

“There you go,” Dash said to the blonde model, showing her his screen. “Paid in full, plus twenty percent.”

She blinked at her phone, then looked up at him. “Well, okay. Thank you.”

“No, thank you for your patience.” He moved to the next person. Scan. Send. Move on.

It took him maybe ten minutes to work through everyone in the tent. By the time he was done, the mood had completely shifted. People were smiling, thanking him, some even apologizing for getting upset.