“You’re a nobody,” Cara sneered. “No one here wants your opinions. Why don’t you stop breathing my air. Oh, and go get me a latte while you’re at it. Double shot espresso, skim milk, extra foam, no whip.”
Bitch.
I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment, and I could practically feel the sympathy radiating off the two Jennys, who had front-row seats to my humiliation. My gaze moved from Cara to Sebastian, who was staring at me with an unreadable look in his eyes. Obviously, I’d be getting no help fromthatfront. I turned to leave, but stopped when I heard Sebastian’s voice.
“Wait, Ms. Kincaid.”
Ms. Kincaid?There was that forced formality again. I pivoted in place, meeting his eyes, which were as inscrutable as ever. Sebastian sighed and raised one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Cara, Ms. Kincaid is not here to fetch your coffee. She is not an intern. She’s a consultant and will be treated with the respect normally afforded one. She also reports to me, not you.” He didn’t bother to look at her, but his tone was cold, nearly scolding, as he spoke.
My eyebrows lifted in surprise and I heard Cara’s displeased huff, but didn’t tear my gaze away from Sebastian’s face. It was still fixed in what seemed to be a permanent frown.
“Cara, don’t you have a fitting to get to?” He may’ve phrased it as a question, but it was clearly an order. She cast one last scathing look at me before stomping away to yell at whatever poor soul had been assigned to do her fittings.
“Everyone!” Sebastian yelled, causing the thirty or so people in the room to fall instantly silent. “Huddle in for a minute. Morning meeting.”
I watched, fascinated, as designers, artists, assistants, and consultants all dropped what they were doing and rushed to the center of the room where we’d gathered. Sebastian commanded a lot of respect around here, that much was apparent. And though this wasn’t what Jeanine would consider an official meeting, considering we weren’t jammed into a small conference room listening to her drone on needlessly for a half hour, Sebastian’s short and sweet, informal approach seemed equally, if not more, effective.
“We’ll be working chronologically through the decades: the 1910’s through the 2010’s,” Sebastian said, once everyone was close enough to hear him. “Each decade gets a unique set, costumes, everything. Brainstorm new ideas, seek out fresh angles,” he said, locking eyes with me for a brief moment.
I felt my breath catch in my throat, but his eyes were fleeting, moving away to scan the rest of the crowd.
“Use the old shoots for inspiration.” He gestured toward the room perimeter, where a series of easels displayed a multitude of shots fromLusterhistory. “We’ll get this done as quickly as we can, shooting two or three sets each week, if possible. Angela, my production manager, has split you into teams for this week — see her for your assignments. Use today and tomorrow to develop ideas. Wednesday, we’ll meet as a large group to finalize the plans for the first few shoots. Thursday and Friday we’ll do sets and trial runs. Next week we’ll begin shooting for real,” he explained, his tone brisk and to-the-point.
“Any questions?”
The pervasive silence in the room gave him his answer.
“This is a unique project. Try to have fun with it, guys,” he said, nearly — but not quite — smiling with tight-pressed lips. “Thanks.”
At his dismissal, everyone except the two Jennys and me hurried over to a beautiful petite Asian woman in her mid-forties — Angela, I presumed — who was handing out color-coded badges and assignments. I was about to follow suit when Sebastian spoke again.
“Jenny S. — you’ll be working with Philippe on the 20’s set design concept. Jenny P. — you’ll be with Sam over in costumes. Ms. Kincaid — you’ll be with me.”
With that, he stormed away toward the large conference room table on the opposite side of the room. People scurried out of his way and trailed in his wake — he was the epicenter of activity and attention for every worker in the room. I stood in a daze, my eyes trained on his back, until I realized that everyone else had scattered as soon as he’d doled out their duties and I was now alone in the middle of the room. Hoping no one had seen my momentary Sebastian-stupor, I hurried after him.
I came to an abrupt halt when I reached him on the far side of the room by the windows. He stood with his hands planted against the conference room table, looking over a wide array of photographs from previousLustershoots. It felt foolish to interrupt him by announcing my presence, so I simply hovered by his elbow unsurely, staring out the glass panes at the skyline below. I wasn’t even sure he knew I was there, until he spoke.
“It’s funny,” he muttered in a serious tone that undermined his words. “I thought I knew exactly what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, after all these years.”
He pushed up from the table, turning to face me. His hazel gaze immediately captured my own, and in a fraction of a second the air between us became tense, growing thick with seven years of unspoken words and unkept promises. I fought the urge to move a step back from him, wary of whatever he was about to say.
“But now, with you standing here in front of me, all my words seem to have fled.” He laughed, but it was mirthless, bitter. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He might’ve been looking at me, but I’d swear he was talking to himself. When his words trailed off, we simply stared at each other until the silence became unbearable. I had to say something — anything — to smooth things over between us, even if it was only on a superficial level. Otherwise, we were both in for several weeks of torture while the Decades project came together.
“Maybe we can just start fresh?” I asked naively, holding out my hand for him to shake. “Clean slate?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
He flinched back from me, staring at my hand where it hung in the space between us with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. I’d been wrong — very, very wrong — to assume things with us could ever be wiped away with a few pleasantries and some misguided wishful thinking.
“Why don’t you go get that latte for Cara after all,” he bit out in a cold tone. “After that, report to Angela. I’m sure she’ll find some use for you.”
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me staring after him in near tears. I’d been dismissed. Snatching my hand back from where it was still suspended in midair, I headed for the elevators. In the future, I’d have to tread more carefully. With Sebastian, each conversation would be like walking through a field of liveland mines without a guide — make one wrong move, and things would explode.
Cara grinned and waggled her fingers at me as I passed by the costume fitting area, no doubt having witnessed my arctic encounter with Sebastian. If I were a lesser woman, I’d have contemplated spitting in her latte. As it was, I’d just order one with whole milk instead of nonfat — that would be enough to set her off in a caloric panic of epic proportions.