Heather slammed the car door harder than she meant to. Every muscle in her body felt tight—trapped.
She didn't want Marcus to drive her today, so she forced herself behind the wheel and headed straight for the company.
At a red light, she noticed coffee spilled onto the white linen of her dress. The jolt of the car door threw a small splash of dark roast down her front.
She reached for a napkin, but her hands were full of the coffee, her bag, an extra tote filled with scripts and makeup.
She wanted to throw the coffee at the wall. The coffee machine on set never tasted right—always seemed underbrewed and bitter, like someone left the grounds in too long, or forgot to fluff the foam.
This coffee was better, but it was ruined now.
Heather pressed her palm to the fabric, trying to blot the stain.
"Hello, Mrs. Heather," a voice called.
Heather turned, startled. Who had called her "Mrs."?
Nevertheless, she waved at the person—a makeup assistant she barely knew.
