“Well, the chef is serving a big breakfast at seven thirty,” I say. “I bet there’ll be some fruit.”
“Alice can run and get it. She’s my assistant.” She looks between me and JP. “Do you guys want water?”
Like hell is anyone bringing me a bottle of water instead of me walking into the house to get one myself. JP looks equally uncomfortable about it.
“I think I’m gonna go shower,” I say. “See you guys at breakfast.”
Alice had a long day yesterday, and her knee is hurt. But Farrah thought nothing of making her get up at dawn for yoga even though she didn’t want to do it, and now she’s making her wait on her.
I follow Alice to the kitchen.
“Hey,” I say as I walk into the room. “You want me to bring her the water?”
She gives me a confused look. “No, I’ve got it.”
I nod, still unsettled. “Is your knee okay? Is there anything I can do for you?”
She knits her brows together, a wrinkle forming between them. “No, I’m fine.”
I want to say something else, but I’m starting to feel like a creep who won’t leave her alone. So I shrug and leave the kitchen, going to my room for my shower.
five
Alice
Why dothey call it fair skin? Being so pale and prone to burn within minutes of sun exposure is actually prettyunfair.
I’m wearing one of Farrah’s wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, a lightweight long-sleeved shirt and crop pants, but I still applied sunscreen. All my skin that was exposed yesterday is pink today, and I was hardly even outside.
Farrah, on the other hand, is golden, her skin glowing as she stands thigh-deep in the ocean. She’s wearing the hell out of a black bikini, her blond hair blowing gently behind her in the breeze.
The producers are filming beach scenes today. They’re pairing up contestants to take walks together, sit down in the sand and cool off in the water.
“I loved you in that space station movie,” an up-and-coming politician, Josh Sellers, tells Farrah. “When you floated out of the air lock, I was like--is she done for?”
Farrah smiles. “That movie was so much fun to film. We got training from real astronauts.”
Josh arches his brows, impressed. “No way. Did they give you any of their freeze-dried ice cream?”
“We did try some freeze-dried foods, but no ice cream.”
She puts her feet on the ocean floor, standing up straight. She’s just below knee-deep in the water. When she looks over at the director, Alan, he scrunches his face in aggravation.
“Cut!” he calls out.
“Alice, blot me,” Farrah says.
I’m standing about ten feet behind the cameraman to be out of his way. I set down my bag and walk toward Farrah with one of the thin, paperlike sheets that absorb sweat, sliding out of my sandals before I enter the water.
“We have makeup people for that, and we don’t break anytime you feel like it,” Alan says.
Farrah gives him her trademark smile. “Alice knows how I want it done.”
I blot her face and chest as quickly as I can, waves lapping against the bottom of my pants.
“This isn’t a swimsuit cover shoot,” Alan says. “I need continuous footage, and I have a full schedule today. No more stopping.”
“I don’t want to be dripping sweat on camera.”
