Chapter 3
Hannah
Channing is waiting out front, leaning against the black sedan with his arms crossed. I called him last night to arrange a ride to the site.
I grab my green blazer from the back of the sofa and throw it over my high-neck cotton shirt, checking my reflection in the bedroom mirror one last time. I’ll get my hair and makeup done on set, so I snatch my purse and head out.
“Good morning, Miss Morgan.” Channing smiles, a hint of warmth in his brown eyes.
“Morning, Channing.” I flash him a grateful smile as he opens the sedan door, and I slide into the back seat.
The drive takes maybe three minutes.
“Am I picking you up later?” Channing asks, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.
“I don’t know the finishing time yet. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“Of course. You’ve got my number.”
I smile as he navigates through the quiet morning streets toward the row of Victorian homes under renovation. Maple trees line the road, their leaves just starting to turn orange and gold. It’s picturesque in a way LA never is—too perfect, like a movie set. Which, I suppose, it is now.
“Where did you want me to pull up?”
I point across the road. “The white trailer there.”
He parks beside it. Through the tinted windows, I can already see a handful of people wandering around the construction site.
Crew members in their familiar black t-shirts and baseball caps, contractors with tool belts, and unfortunately, a photographer with a long-lens camera pointed directly at the car.
My stomach bottoms out. Of course, they followed me here. I knew it was inevitable, but I’d hoped for at least a few days before the tabloids found me.
I slip out of the car, keeping my head down. “Thanks, Channing.”
I wave goodbye while avoiding the camera lense that follows my every move. As I hurry up the metal stairs, the steps clang under my feet before I push open the trailer door.
Inside, three women turn to look at me. The space is narrow but efficient. Bright lights frame a large mirror, and a makeup station is covered with brushes and products neatly organized.
I extend a hand as I approach, trying to project confidence I don’t entirely feel. First impressions matter, and I need these women on my side. “Hi, I’m Hannah.”
“I’m Mia.” One woman smiles warmly and clasps my hand with both of hers.
She’s in her early thirties, with shoulder-length brown hair and laugh lines around her brown eyes.
Recognition sparkles there, but it’s genuine warmth, not the starstruck gawking I sometimes get, or worse, barely concealed judgement. “I’m your hairdresser.”
“Nice to meet you, Mia.” Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention.
“I’m Jaina. Your makeup artist.” She steps forward and shakes my hand with a firm grip. She’s younger, maybe late twenties, hair pulled into a low bun, and her French nails are clearly professionally done. Her face is beautifully made up with pink cheeks, subtle liner, and flawless skin.
The third woman steps forward, her brown ponytail swishing with every step. “I’m Karyn, your assistant.”
“Oh, Karyn. I was emailing you?”
She nods enthusiastically, and I’m immediately struck by how genuine she seems. No pretense or fakeness. Just a woman in her early thirties, wearing a crew t-shirt and sneakers, excited to be here.
“Yes, that’s me. Your green tea and honey will be here any minute. I wanted it hot for you.”
“Thanks, Karyn. That would be perfect.” Relief washes over me. These women seem kind, not the type to sell stories to tabloids or post behind-the-scenes photos for likes or money—like has happened to me in the past.
I sink into the chair facing the mirror and let them take over.
Mia moves around me, running her fingers through my hair. “God, your hair is so soft.”
“Thanks. It’s thin, though.”
Jaina stands in front of me and begins rubbing cool lotion into my face with gentle, circular motions.
The early morning catches up with me and my eyelids grow heavy since I was up early going over lines.
I force them open and decide to get to know these women who’ll be seeing me at my worst for the next eight weeks.
“Are you all local?” I ask.
“Yes, I own the salon in town,” Mia says, sectioning my hair with practiced ease. “M1 Hair Salon on Stanton Street.”
“Do you have staff to cover the salon while you help me every day on set?”
“Yes, I’ve got two stylists and a junior who can handle things. I didn’t want to lose the chance.” She works her hands through my hair as if she’s assessing it. “It’s not like a lot happens here.”
“Why not?” I frown. This seems like a lovely mid-size town, with tree-lined streets, charming storefronts, and friendly people.
Not somewhere I could live permanently because I like my lifestyle and work in LA.
My career momentum is there. But I can appreciate this place without being able to actually live here.
“Usually, production companies look for bigger, more popular towns with more dramatic transformations. You know, the whole dying downtown revitalization angle.”
“It makes sense from a ratings perspective, but it’s nice to bring some exposure to our town and our businesses,” Jaina says as she runs her foundation brush over my forehead with featherlight precision.
“Jeff from the motel already told me they’ve had people calling from out of state asking about availability. ”
“That’s amazing.” I smile, pleased to hear that. “I was actually wondering if there are stores with everyday clothes around here. Do you have any suggestions? Everything I packed is a little too…” I gesture at my outfit.
Jaina pauses the brush and pulls back, meeting my eyes in the mirror, hers widening slightly. “You brought clothes with you, though, right?”
I laugh. “I did, but everything I packed screams ‘I don’t live here’, and I’d like to fit in while I’m on set, you know? Plus, I want to buy some things for my friends and family back home. Stuff they can’t get in LA.”
“Yeah, Pulse Boutique is great. Eloise, the owner, can order things in, too, if you want something specific,” Mia says as she starts to work some kind of serum through my hair. It smells like coconut.
“What’s it like living in LA?” Jaina asks, dotting cream under my eyes with a small brush. Her voice drops slightly, becoming wistful. “Is it really like everyone says?”
I consider the question carefully. These women have been nothing but kind, and I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging.
“It’s great. Fast-paced, expensive, competitive.
I don’t get to enjoy my apartment as much as I’d like because I’m always working or looking for the next job.
But the opportunities are incredible if you’re willing to fight for them. ”
Jaina’s brush moves more slowly. “That sounds amazing. I’d love to experience that energy someday. Maybe build a career there, you know? Instead of just here.”
Her shoulders sag slightly.
I catch her gaze. “I could make some calls and see if any of my friends are looking for someone.” The offer comes out before I’ve fully thought it through, but I mean it. I remember how impossible it felt breaking into the industry, how many doors slammed in my face.
Her eyes widen, hope flickering across her features. “Really? You’d do that?”
“There may be a lot of artists, but most of them are super busy. Would you be open to weddings?” I think about my event planner friend, Nikkita, who’s always complaining about flaky contractors. “High-end ones, celebrities, that kind of thing?”
“I’d take anything that’s regular,” she says, sounding excited.
“Let me make some calls, and I’ll let you know. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”
Jaina’s whole face transforms as she beams. She blinks rapidly, and I realize she’s fighting back tears. “Thank you. Seriously, that would be… God, thank you.”
She pats something cool under my eyes. “You guys are making me too relaxed. I might fall asleep in this chair.”
“Well, your tea is here, so maybe drink that first,” Karyn says, appearing at my elbow with a steaming paper cup. The scent of honey and green tea wafts toward me.
“Good idea, then I need to read over my lines one more time.” I’ve already memorized them, but I want to be perfect today. So flawless that this isn’t the last time I work with this producer. I want them to enjoy working with me, to make this permanent.
This hosting gig is my shot at proving I’m more than just another reality contestant and influencer cashing in on fifteen minutes of fame.
The network is watching, and the producer is notoriously hard to please, so if I nail this contract, I could land the permanent hosting spot for the next season.
I sip my tea and read my lines, while the girls chat about their lives, and before I know it, an hour has passed.
My hair is styled in loose waves that look effortless but probably took Mia thirty minutes to get just right, and my makeup is full glam, with glowing skin, defined eyes, and a nude-pink lip.
“You look amazing,” Karyn says, grinning at me in the mirror.
“You guys are miracle workers.” Stepping out of the trailer, I head over to the homes that are in various states of renovations.
The director, Dain, is a man in his fifties, and when he spots me, he gives me a curt nod.
“Hannah. Let’s walk through the opening shot first. I want you to feel out the space before we roll.”
Anxiety spikes immediately. This is the moment that determines whether I belong here or not.
We walk the path together, and Dain explains his vision. The camera will follow me as I approach the first house, gesturing to the architectural details, setting the tone for the entire season. It’s straightforward and exactly what I’ve trained for.
But when the cameras roll, my mind blanks. Just a rush of panic. What if I can’t do this?