Since I didn’t sleep well the night before, I pass out quickly. I’m awoken hours later when the same attendant as before nudges my shoulder, and after blinking my eyes a few times, I notice we’re already on the ground. I peek out the window and spot my mom, standing beside a limo with her phone to her ear, pacing back and forth and looking utterly annoyed.
I thank the flight attendant and pilot, then take a deep breath before walking down the stairs. My mom is waiting at the bottom, and I haven’t even made it on solid ground when she says, “Taryn, change of plans. We’re leaving straight from here to film.” She rushes me over to the limo and climbs in.
“Ms. Starr, Ms. Starr.” I turn around to find the blonde flight attendant waving my letter in her hand. Oh shit—I do not need my mother to see this. As she approaches, she hands me the envelope and I quickly shove it into my purse. “You forgot it,” she says, smiling at me.
I thank her and she pats my arm before turning back and heading toward the plane.
When I slide into the limo, I only have to wait two seconds before my mother asks, “What was that?” She already has her hands in my purse, but I snatch the note away from her.
“It’s a fan letter,” I lie.
“It must be a good one, if you’re keeping it. Let me see it.” She attempts to grab the note again, but I move my purse out of her reach. “Taryn!”
“It’s my letter, Mom. Now please tell me about this change of plans,” I say, hoping the diversion is successful.
“Oh, what a mess,” she says dramatically, always eager to discuss my schedule. ”I just got the call that they’re thinking it will take a couple days to get it all done so they want to start immediately. Trace got in last night and now they’re just waiting on you.”
“So everyone’s already there?” I ask her.
“Yes, and I can’t tell you how important it is to get this right—we don’t have time to waste. Not to mention, if all goes well, you can count on a ton of collaborations in the near future,” she says, sitting back and getting comfortable, obviously pleased with this recent development in my career.
I can’t imagine singing with anyone else; it wouldn’t be the same. But I can’t tell her that.
When we arrive at the film location where the video will be shot, the guard at the gate passes us through and I’m relieved I won’t have to deal with any fans today. I don’t usually mind but I’m a bundle of nerves right now, wondering how Trace will act after weeks of texts and phone calls. Not to mention, I have absolutely no idea what the plans are for this music video. And considering the vast differences between Trace’s videos—or the one I saw anyway—and my own, I can’t help but feel nervous.
A beautiful, dark-skinned brunette greets us at the door, introducing herself as the production assistant, Caprice. She shuffles us through several hallways while giving instructions, which I immediately tune out because I’m too busy scanning every face I see. We enter a large room with numerous people milling about that I assume is the set where we’ll be filming. My throat goes dry and my heartbeat increases when I spot his bodyguard—Trace can’t be far behind. Despite stifling heat in the room, I feel goose bumps climb up my neck so I close my eyes, willing myself to chill out.
When I open them, a pair of stunning blue ones stare right back at me. Every bit of noise vanishes and all I feel and see is Trace, standing across the room, not moving toward me but not looking away either. “Ms. Starr,” Caprice’s voice interrupts this moment we’re having—if that’s what you can call it. “We need to get you changed.”
My mom tugs on my arm with Caprice leading the way. Before we exit the room, I look back and see that Trace is now having a heated conversation with another guy, one I recognize but haven’t been introduced to yet. I can’t hear what they’re saying but it’s obvious that Trace is upset. Before I can find out what the commotion is all about, the door closes behind me and we continue toward my dressing room.
Once there, Caprice opens a hanging bag from the clothes rack, pulling out a matching black bra and panties set, along with a black satin robe. “That’s what I’m wearing?” I gawk at the tiny bits of clothing.
“Yes, Ms. Starr,” she confirms. If I thought my breath escaped me when I saw Trace, I was dead wrong—there is literally no oxygen in my lungs now.
“What kind of video are we shooting?” I look to my mother for answers and the smirk on her face tells me she already knows. “Mom?”
Caprice passes both hangers to my mother and then quickly exits the room, closing the door behind her.
“Relax, Taryn. It’s a love song, for crying out loud. What did you expect?” she asks.
“I can’t believe you’re all for this. What the hell happened to the ‘America’s Sweetheart’ image you’ve always wanted?” I shake my head in disbelief.
“I spoke with the record label and they believe this is the next step, sweetheart,” she says, but there’s nothing ‘sweet’ about the way she says it. “Besides, you’ve been wanting the world to see that you’ve grown up so I thought you’d be happy with the change. And doing this video with Trace will bring you so much more exposure.”
“Oh, I’ll be exposed, alright,” I mutter under my breath.
“It’s like wearing a bikini,” she says, handing the pieces of material to me. I look at the lingerie and bite my lip. Maybe she’s right; I’ll just think of it as a bikini. How bad could this be?
After I change, I sit down at the makeup station to be reinvented into a sexy supermodel. As one woman curls my long hair into flowing waves, another begins gluing on fake eyelashes before applying several layers of “natural-looking” makeup. When they both agree that I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I stand up and knot the robe tightly. My mom doesn’t say a word before leading me out of the room.
As we enter the set, the first thing I spot is a king-sized, four poster bed with cream-colored satin sheets—how did I not notice that before? Oh yeah, I was too busy making googly eyes at the guy who is now standing near the catering table, wearing a robe similar to mine. If he’d been dressed like that before, I never would have been able to walk away.
“Hi, I’m Marcus.” The guy that Trace’s anger was directed at earlier walks up to me and reaches out to shake my hand. “I’ll be directing the video today. Did you want me to go over what’s going to happen?” His voice is so soothing and nice, I immediately calm—well, as much as I can while standing half-naked in a roomful of people.
“Sure,” I say quietly. He walks with me closer to the bed and I can’t help but feel Trace’s eyes on me. Marcus attempts to ease my anxiety, explaining that there will be a sheet covering the two of us. He also tells me that the cameras will be filming at different angles and that I should try to act as natural as possible. Easy for him to say. Although I’ve filmed videos before, this will be the first time that there’s been lingerie or a bed involved—not to mention, Trace.
“All done, Marcus?” His deep voice penetrates every fiber of my being, like the heat of the sun on a warm summer day. I turn around to find him looking at me cautiously, as if he thinks I might run out of here at any moment.
“Yeah man, we’re done.” Marcus looks at me for confirmation and I nod my head. He walks away after fist-bumping Trace, and I’m glad to see they worked out whatever the problem was between them.
“Are you okay with this?” Trace asks.
“I guess so,” I answer honestly. I don’t know if the butterflies in my stomach are because of what I’m about to film or who I’m going to film with.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone see anything you don’t want to be seen,” he assures me and one or two of the butterflies die down. Okay, so most of them are because of Trace.
“Thanks,” I say. I don’t know why it’s so awkward being around each other. We’ve had some form of contact practically every day for weeks on end, but now that we’re face to face, the conversation feels forced. Luckily, Marcus draws our attention back toward him and the set quiets down, just as the lights begin to dim.
Trace takes his off robe with confidence—and for good reason. The way he looks in those black boxer briefs puts every other man I’ve ever seen to shame, even the ones on TV and in the movies. Caprice clears her throat for my attention and I snap my mouth shut. I didn’t even know it had fallen open. Someone switches on the spotlights and the area where we’re standing is immediately flooded with light.
I squint into the darkness, where I assume everyone is waiting for me to reveal myself. I look back at Trace—it’s hard to not look at him—who says softly, “It’s okay, Peaches. Trust me.” I pull the end of the belt, letting the robe fall open. Then, I hand it over to Caprice and watch as she rushes off the set, while I fight the urge to throw my arms around myself to conceal my body.
When I turn back to Trace, it’s his mouth that’s hanging open this time and his eyes that are roaming up and down my body. “Damn, Taryn” is all he says, and every single one of the butterflies take flight at once. Meanwhile, I can feel myself getting uncomfortably wet—how on earth will I hide that?