6. Heidi #2
He looks at me, his eyes narrowing. He knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Molly,” he mutters, his jaw tight. “Fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat.
I give Max an full hour of peak Molly. I force him through endless reshoots of her pageant scandal story, the one involving singed hair extensions, until even I can’t follow the narrative.
I keep him trapped under the hot studio lights, demanding he show more warmth, then less of that arrogant smirk, then more focused, active listening.
I make her repeat her lines until Max’s eyes finally glaze over.
By the time I finally swap her out for Colette, Max looks visibly relieved.
I find Molly a few minutes later, collapsed on a sun lounge like a Victorian lady with a terminal case. She doesn’t look up as I approach; she just sighs, one hand flung dramatically over her forehead.
“Molly? You okay?”
“I’m being erased, Heidi,” she whispers, her voice thick with practiced tragedy. “By a woman who wears beige on purpose.”
“You mean Grace?” I scan the garden. Grace is sitting alone across the lawn, arms crossed. “Did something happen?”
“Did something happen?” Molly bolts upright, her eyes wide and manic. “She pity-smiled at me. I thought my time with Max went well, but then she had to go and undermine it with that tight little oh, you poor thing look. It was a micro-aggression.”
Only Molly could interpret a smile as a targeted strike. The producer in me knows I should lean in and poke the bruise. Stir the pot until I have enough footage for a three-episode arc about a facial expression.
But the human in me is tired.
“I’m sure she didn’t mean it like that, Mol,” I say.
Molly looks at me like I’ve just personally betrayed the sisterhood. “It’s the subtext! And did you see what she did earlier? She adjusted her earring while I was speaking. She was literally trying to pull the focus. She’s a lens-hog.”
“Max seemed to enjoy your conversation, though,” I offer, trying to steer her back to the actual point of the show.
Molly waves a dismissive hand, as if Max is a mere background character in her feud with Grace. “I just want to know how I’m supposed to build a connection when Grace is constantly standing in the light. Why isn’t the lighting ever adjusted perfectly for me?”
“Grace hasn’t even had any time with Max tonight—” I start.
“Only because she gets all the one-on-one dates,” Molly snaps. She turns her head to the side, a single, solitary tear rolls down her cheek.
“I’ll…I’m sure your one-on-one is coming up next,” I say.
“Great.” Molly says. The tear forgotten and a bright, terrifying smile back on her face. “Can’t wait.”
When we wrap, I head toward the control room with a small spark of satisfaction in my chest. I’m not usually vindictive, but watching Max suffer through sixty minutes of forced attention on Molly was worth every second of the overtime.
I’m halfway across the lawn when Max steps into my path, making me stop short.
“God, you’re a piece of work,” he says.
“Sorry about the retakes. Sometimes the chemistry just doesn’t land right.”
“Right. The chemistry.” He’s watching me closely, his eyes tracking the way I’m standing. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I left you a little light reading on your desk.”
He takes a half-step closer, his expression shifting into that maddeningly playful smirk.
“Figured you needed something to help you relax. I thought maybe a little...self-care would stop you from being so remarkably unpleasant.”
“I got it, Max. Go fuck myself. You’re a comedic genius. How’d you get in here anyway?”
“It wasn’t a joke,” he says, ignoring my question. He takes a step closer, dropping his voice until it’s just for me. “You’re wound so tight I’m genuinely worried you’re going to snap.”
The sheer nerve of being lectured on my mental health by the very person who’s spent the last two days trying to sabotage it finally breaks me.
I laugh. I can’t help it. The sound breaks out of me. It’s either that or a total meltdown. My head drops back, and for a second, the tension in my shoulders actually gives way.
But when I look at Max again, his face has shifted into something I don’t recognize. His smirk is gone, his gaze fixed on my mouth. I probably have something in my teeth.
I kill the smile, but it’s too late. The mood has shifted.
We just stare at each other. The silence lasts long enough to feel heavy.
“Let me know if you need a hand with that stress relief,” he says.
And then he’s gone. He brushes past me toward the house before I can take a breath, let alone form a retort.
I know his game. The shameless flirting and the lingering looks are just tools he uses on everyone. He’s poking the bear, waiting for a reaction. But his offer didn’t feel like a joke. Suddenly, my mind isn’t looking for a comeback; it’s looking for trouble.
I picture it. Just for a second. I imagine his hands performing the specific techniques from that manual. The thought is clinical, detached from any idea of romance, yet it still triggers a sharp pull in my belly. My thighs tingle, and I instinctively press them together.
I roll my eyes at myself. What is wrong with me?
I try to shake the vision, but my heart is already hammering. The air feels thin.
I’m not attracted to him. I refuse to be.
I keep walking toward the control room with my head down. I am not letting that man get inside my head.