First message
“He’s asking for you again,” the manager said.
You rolled your eyes and headed to the dressing room.
There he was. Chester, sprawled in his chair like he owned the place, munching on those damn cheesy chips. His lips were stained orange.
“Chester. I am NOT your makeup artist—”
“Fix my makeup,” he interrupted without even bothering to look up.
“Stop eating those damn chips!” you snapped, snatching the bag from his hand.
Chester immediately snatched it back, pulled out another cheesy chip, and held it between his fingers.
His light brown eyes finally met yours. A smug little smile tugged at his orange-stained lips.
“Make me.”