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right?”
    “No.”
    “They told me you were a size two.” He turned to his assistant. “Garvin, get the lycra from the third drawer.” He assessed me from beneath lowered brows. “Get the full body suit. And a push-up bra.” To me, he said, “You’d better pee now—it’s going to be a long, eight-hour shoot.”
    My desire to reject lycra warred with my need for a paycheck—a battle that had probably been fought by others before me, a battle they too had lost. I squared my shoulders, shoved my pride low. So low that if my pride were a state, it would be Florida. With that thought, I turned away to find the toilet.
     
    ***
     
    I wore a lace tunic over the shiny, sky-blue cat suit—a most unfortunate look. Cutter slapped my hands as I picked at the plastic icicles attached to the lace. He guided me to the set for the morning shoot.
    I tried to stir up some excitement about the acting gig, but the lycra restrained more than my figure. The elasticized fabric stifled my mood, curbed my ability to breathe, and jeopardized my dignity. Add to that, a thousand twinkle lights lit the set to show me off.
    Lorene stood by the AD on the edge of the set wearing street clothes, which consisted of a stretchy knit jumper in pine green. The color set off her hair and made her presence inescapable.
    It took all my professionalism to keep my feet moving forward. I faked a smile. “Hi.”
    Lorene smirked her greeting while the AD nodded his and checked an item off on his computer tablet. A staged set stood behind them. The set held a double bed, dressed with a white satin comforter, ice-blue throw pillows and Max Stone. Max was in costume: black pants and a loose white shirt. On a random guy, the shirt would appear sloppy, but on him, with his shoulders—it looked perfect.
    I found my excitement.
    The AD motioned for me to join Max. “Up there, Hannah.”
    Lorene grabbed my arm. Her cold fingers stopped me from reaching my destiny. “Be careful not to snag the satin sheets with my , I mean your icicle dress. By the fourth take, those icicles will tear up those satin sheets. I should know. Max and I really went at it.”
    B-yotch. Fourth take? My energy levels ramped higher. This was Day One of my six days scheduled to be on set. “Isn’t today for test shots?”
    The AD shook his head. “The crew got some shots of Max carrying you off that first day. Russ viewed the footage. He knows what he wants.”
    So we were filming then. I wrapped my arms around my waist, ignoring the pokes of the hard plastic icicles, and wondered how to confess the next bit. “To be honest, I didn’t receive a Time Kick script.” Heat entered my face. “I mean, maybe, I was supposed to pick it up or something, but no one told me about it.” I should have asked, but I’d kind of thought that was what today was for.
    “Script?” The AD frowned. “You have three lines.”
    My palms grew sweaty. “I’d still like a script.”
    “Yeah. We’ll get you a script, but I’m not holding up shooting so you can memorize a few words.”
    “How many words?”
    Lorene wore a superior expression. She obviously knew the script. She wiggled her index and her middle finger, making a rabid peace sign. “Maybe two.”
    Oh. “Two words?”
    “And it’s the same word.” Lorene clasped her hands to her chest and said Max’s character’s name, “Rogue.” Her voice came out husky and sexy and she said it again, “Rogue.”
    I could never make that sound. I could remember my lines, but I couldn’t make that sound, not unless my voice deepened an octave and I took up smoking.
    Lorene misread my expression as discontent. She hooked her fingers into double air quotes. “‘There are no small parts, only small actors.’” She made air quotes a second time. “Constantin Stanislavski.”
    The AD clapped, and his hands crushed the imaginary air quotes. “Russ usually directs first scenes, to make sure we’re on track with his vision, but he’s letting