All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

“This next run will be easy. Just you opening the box and giving a few seconds to each item. We’ll do a few shots later with you using a few of the featured items we mentioned in the email, and then we’ll splice them all together for the promo. Sound good?”

I nodded, and she pointed at me to begin. My finger was already hooked under the lid of the box, where a dozen individually wrapped items in pink-and-white polka-dotted pieces of tissue paper waited. I unwrapped them all, oohing and aahing over the summery nail polishes, sheer lip glosses, cooling after-sun gel, a hibiscus body spray, soothing eye cream, and the travel toiletry bags. And then in the back, along the flat edge of the cardboard treasure chest, lay a narrow piece of tissue. Smiling, I unrolled it, wondering what the slender piece of fabric could be used for.

I did a quick glance at the cheat sheet and tried to recover without having to stop rolling. “And this specialty item is the Tubee: a no-show tan line alternative created by Sophia Richards herself.”

The elastic-like stretch of it confirmed my first suspicions as truth. It was most definitely a headband, perfect for holding your hair off your face so no flyaways could block your face from the sun. I began to put it on, talking up its comfort and styleability, while inventing unique terminology to compliment a piece of fabric that somehow retailed for $49.99—given the notes attached to the table in front of me.

But when I glanced up at Truella, her shoulders were shaking while laugh tears coated her cheeks. She was trying to mouth something to me, but it wasn’t her words so much as her chest-pointing gestures that finally clued me in.

This was not a headband, but a . . . breast band?

I pulled it from the confines of my wild mane with a just-joking kind of laugh as the sensation of molten lava filled my belly. “Oh, I just love these multi-use products, don’t you? But of course the Tubee’s main objective is to be a”—I read the words straight from the laminated description sheet on the table—“‘perfectly sheer barrier to tanning a lady’s most delicate feminine parts this summer.’”

A barrier I hoped with every inch of my fake-tanned body I wouldn’t be expected to model for the promotional video montage Truella had mentioned only a few moments ago. But not even my most optimistic self could be fooled into thinking that Ethan had somehow protected me from such a fate. Not when this celebrity partnership represented an opportunity for greatness.

And it was right then, with the Tubee dangling from my fingertips like it carried a transmittable disease within its single sheer layer, that my boyfriend strolled up to the scene looking as if all was right in Malibu.

“Cut. Let’s take ten,” Truella called, wiping the smeared makeup under her eyes. “That was pure brilliance, Molly. Leave it to you to give the Tubee such a fun personality! That was the best laugh I’ve had in months.”

Only I wasn’t laughing. Not even close to laughing. Because this was exactly what I’d been afraid of. This was exactly what I’d asked my manager-boyfriend to shield me from. And from the expression on Ethan’s face, none of this was a surprise to him.

Truella continued on, unaware of the fire blazing from my retinas. “Go ahead and get changed in the dressing room, and Danny will touch up your makeup. We’ll regroup by the lawn chairs near the bar, where Travis is getting everything set up for your still shots now.”

While Truella and the camera crew talked strategy for the next sequence of shots, I excused myself and grabbed the sleeve of Ethan’s crisp linen shirt. Without a word, I hauled him to the closest closed-door location I could find to ensure privacy: the hut-like sauna near the bar. The instant I closed the door behind us, I recognized this was a mistake of epic proportions, as the tiny room had to be over a hundred degrees. But we were committed now; there was no going back.

“Molly, come on.” Ethan pulled away and brushed off his shirt. “What’s the issue?”

I anchored my hands on my hips as sweat prickled my chest and shoulders. “Please tell me you didn’t know about the Tubee? Tell me you didn’t alter the product email they copied me on so that I wouldn’t see it included in the lineup.”

“Molly, babe, just calm down a minute—”

But I was already shaking my head. “I’m not putting that thing on.” I couldn’t even imagine putting it on. How was I supposed to show my face at The Bridge ever again? To my girls, who already spent far too much time fantasizing about my on-camera life? This was not the influence I’d hoped to have on them: me, posing for as-close-to-topless-looking photos as could be allowed by the flaggers on every social platform.

“They only need a few shots of you in it. I made sure of that.”

“You . . . you made sure of that? Ethan, did you even see it? Maybe you missed it because it’s practically see-through. Not to mention, it has zero support for my . . .” I glanced down at my ample chest. “A flimsy piece of nylon will be way too exposing.”

“Babe, stop.” He set his hand on my bare shoulder. “Listen to yourself for a minute. Whatever this fear—about, I don’t know, about being seen as immodest or something equally as irrational—it’s ridiculous. You’re not some prudish virgin with a religious platform. You’re a gorgeous woman with a popular fashion platform who has a killer body and a paycheck to match. There’s a level of compromise in every deal we make. And this is the compromise for a six-figure check.” He wiped at his forehead. “Now, let’s get out of this hot box. You’re gonna ruin your makeup, and I’m gonna ruin this Italian shirt.”