When I first met Brett, he was fresh off the farm, and I was a neurotic, chain-smoking, diet-pill-infused mess with three years on a soap and a few minor films under my belt, plus one big tabloid scandal. I’d just been cast in my first major studio picture playing a prostitute opposite Alex Harvey, a mediocre but popular and bankable actor. The casting breakdown had described my character as a “young Debra Winger type.” Ironically, Debra Winger was at least ten years younger than Alex Harvey. Still, she was over thirty, and in this town, you have to look like a virgin to play a whore. Out of my six scenes, I was to be semi-naked in five of them, and I was terrified.

The film was titled Restless, and that was how I felt that day—restless, edgy and tense, sitting in the makeup trailer with rollers in my hair, naked under a loose, terry cloth robe.

I had barely slept the night before, panicked that Alex wouldn’t find my body sexy, or worse, that the studio wouldn’t find me sexy and I’d never work again.

I tried to calm my nerves as I sat in the makeup chair, a strategically placed fan gusting hot air between my spread legs to quick-dry the makeup on my lower regions. Katie, my makeup woman with whom I had worked since the soaps, was camouflaging my face with foundation and dotting concealer over the smattering of stress-induced acne on my forehead, after which she set about applying mascara.

Occupying the other three chairs were actresses in various stages of readiness. They had minor roles but I couldn’t help but compare myself, especially to the gorgeous, auburn-maned long-legged lioness to my right. She looked cool as cucumbers, joking around with the others, all of them relaxed and enjoying their coffee. None of them were worried about whether or not to ice their nipples to make their breasts appear firm on screen or had the studio insist they wax their “furry” lower back after seeing their screen test.

“Sweet Emotion” blared from a boombox as the makeup department raced to meet the 8:00 a.m. set call. We had just sent a production assistant off with our breakfast order when footsteps sounded on the aluminum stairs. The wagon lurched and Katie’s hand slipped, poking the mascara wand into my eye.

“Shit,” I spat. “Probably that stupid P.A.”

“Careful! We’re working here!” Katie called out as the door opened and the morning sun flooded the trailer.

Backlit in the doorway stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in a cowboy hat wearing Levi’s, a leather belt with a turquoise buckle, and a checkered flannel shirt. He closed the door and his features emerged. With blue eyes, a deep cleft in his chin, thick brows, and a Roman nose, he could have been Tom Selleck’s even handsomer younger brother. He removed his hat revealing clipped, dark hair.