When it was complete, Natalie gave herself a once-over and saw the makeup woman had outdone herself. She’d walked in looking like Humpty Dumpty after the eggpocalypse, but now you could hardly tell she was just off of a week of epic travel, word of a possible assault, and a one-night stand with a golden retriever.

Also a make-out session. She allowed herself one moment to think about James, then, feeling guilty, forced her mind from the past to the future. She needed all the confidence five pounds of makeup, three inches of heel, and a little cleavage could give her to get Savage with McChesty.

The blast of air-conditioning that hit her when she opened the studio door sent a shiver down her spine. She wished she was wearing something more than a thin skirt and silk chiffon blouse. She wished she’d eaten breakfast. She wished she was still in bed with James or at least his dog.

“On this set, they see your whole body. Legs ’n’ all, so don’t do anything dirty below the waist,” the stage manager said as he led her to a high stool with no back. Even with Natalie’s heels, the chair was way too high for her, so the stage manager had to heave her up onto the seat.

“These things aren’t made for smaller women,” he said.

Yeah, she’d gotten that. Between the temperature and the fact that any guest wearing a skirt could accidentally “do something dirty” by shifting in her seat, it was clear the whole set wasn’t designed for any women, small or large.

He thrust an earpiece at her and efficiently strung the chord down her back, plugging it into a box affixed to her chair, indicating the volume knob for her to adjust, then repeated the procedure with the microphone and her chest before he headed off backstage.

Natalie was thinking about Sonia Barbaro’s comments on the red carpet when she became aware that the studio was rotating around her. Or rather that her seat was turning in a slow circle toward the back of the room. She shifted her weight, trying to make the seat stop rotating and felt around for a footrest for leverage—no luck. When the chair stopped moving, she was facing the back of the room.

And stuck.

She evaluated her options: unhook her earpiece, mic, and the cords going up her back, jump off the stool, and then attempt a remount on her own. Or wait helplessly like a baby in a high chair for someone to push her back into place.

She heard the studio door open.

Please let that be a tech guy, she prayed.

“Nat, is that you?” Ryan’s voice asked her.

Not the tech guy.

He stepped into view. “Why are you facing the corner? Have you been naughty?” he said with a smirk.