I concentrated on my breathing and balance, ignoring the burning in my leg muscles. It was all for a good cause. Soon enough the happy exercise hormones would kick in and I’d be glad for the effort. Hopefully. It was all part of the job, along with extensive waxing, facials, manicures, hair, lashes, massages, and a beauty routine to end all others. Just because I wasn’t size zero (or even close) didn’t mean I could get away with being unfit or lacking in the rest. Shoots could be grueling enough, let alone if your energy levels were low or you were behind on maintenance. Trust me, being yelled at by a stressed-out designer because you didn’t bring your best to the show was not fun. Also, word got around. For such a big industry, it could be amazingly small at times.

“You’re doing great. Keep going.” Kwana’s gaze jumped to the front wall of windows behind me. They faced the street. A frown crossed her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Paparazzi are outside.”

She was right. They were crowded up against the glass with their cameras. A whole feral pack of them. Shit. Meanwhile, Ziggy had his cell pressed against his ear. A faint frown crossed his face as he watched the mass of people gathering at the window.

My stomach sank. “Is there anyone else here?”

“No one they’d be interested in,” said Kwana.

“Guess we’re almost finished anyway. Sorry about this.”

Ziggy strode toward us, slipping his cell into his jacket pocket. “We should go before more arrive.”

“Someone leaked the story, didn’t they?” I asked.

“It looks that way.”

I hung my head and swore silently.

“You get the car, we’ll meet you at the back door,” said Kwana. “No one will get near her. You can trust me. This isn’t my first famous person rodeo.”

For a moment, Ziggy hesitated. Then he nodded and jogged toward the now crowded front door.

“All right, Mae, let’s get your bag.” Kwana ushered me into the women’s locker room. Only one woman was in there, patiently applying mascara at the mirror. She didn’t show any particular interest in us.

I grabbed my hoodie out of my bag and put it on. Sunglasses too. It probably wouldn’t help. But it couldn’t hurt. In all honesty, hoping my stalker situation wouldn’t get out had probably been a fantasy. I might not be as well-known as others, but give social media a slow news cycle and they’d be more than happy to pick my life apart for a moment’s entertainment. Nothing I could do about it.

Kwana led me through a back corridor to the rear exit.

“So who are your other famous clients?” I asked, trying to get my mind off the mess waiting outside.