Page 5 of Just My Style
“Look at my hand!” she shouts, bordering on hysterics. “I can’t go to Mexico like this.”
“You can certainly still travel,” I tell her, my forehead crinkling in confusion.
She clutches her face in her hands and continues to blubber. “Ruined,” she whimpers again. “All ruined.”
I throw up my arms in exasperation. “My goodness! You’re acting like someone chopped off your arm with a machete. It’s a minor contusion.”
I instantly regret my words. I pride myself on my bedside manner. But really, this woman is too much.
She brushes tears from her eyes. “Just get away from me. You’ve done enough damage.”
“At least let me help you up find some ice,” I insist.
“I never want to see you again. Go away,” she says through gritted teeth. “Before I decide to sue you.”
Sue me?!
I stare at her beautiful face for a moment, trying to decide if she’s serious. Judging by her narrowed eyes and clenched jaw, she is. With a nod, I stand up. I hold out a hand to help her up, but she crosses her arms.
Shaking my head, I turn away and practically sprint out of the airport. There’s only so much battering a man’s soul can take. And with the way this day is going, it’ll be a miracle if I make it home alive.
Chapter 3
Cara
As I watch the hot doctor walk away, a little voice in my head tells me that I probably shouldn’t have been so mean to him. It’s quickly drowned out by a louder, more hysterical voice. There goes the gig, the job security, and the retirement plans. And say goodbye to campaigns for luxury items. You’re just an old, washed-up hand model who’ll be lucky to book a commercial scooping kitty litter.
I breathe deeply and flex my hand. It hurts. The woman’s heel came down right on the middle of the back of my hand. The red spot is already starting to darken around the edges, and I suspect the entire bruise will be a deep purple or black by tomorrow morning.
I shouldn’t have dodged the man’s duffel bag. Even if it had hit one of my hands, it probably would have been fine. But I’m so used to avoiding injury that I reflexively jumped out of the way. And disaster struck.
I sit on the floor for another minute, ignoring the throng of people weaving around me, before a security guard approaches me.
“Miss, are you okay?” he asks.
Am I okay? Not really. But I nod and accept his outstretched hand. He pulls me up, and I stuff my glove in the back pocket of my jeans. There’s no point in putting it back on now.
“I’ve hurt my hand,” I explain. “Can you help me find some ice?”
A few minutes later, I’m holding a Ziplock baggie stuffed with shaved ice from an airport restaurant on the bruise. Instead of boarding my plane to Mexico, I stalk out of the airport and stand in line for a taxi. In the bright light of day, I inspect my hand again. I agree with the clumsy but gorgeous doctor’s assessment. It’s not broken. But when your hands are insured for a million dollars each, following up with a hospital visit is nonnegotiable.
Not that the insurance company will give me any money for this injury. It’s technically not a catastrophic, career-ending wound. I’ll still be able to book jobs once it heals. I’ll just miss out on this job.
And while that is absolutely, one hundred percent a catastrophe for my career, and more importantly, for my retirement plans, the insurer won’t care about that.
Once in the cab, I tell the driver to take me to the nearest hospital. Then I call my agent to tell her what’s happened. Tears spring to my eyes as I say, “We’ll have to cancel the photoshoot. I’m sorry.”
“They won’t cancel the shoot,” she warns. “They’ll replace you. The contract is ironclad.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Is it really that bad? Maybe a good concealer and foundation would cover it up?” The hope in her voice is heartbreaking. I know she’s feeling the loss of this job almost as much as I am. Her fifteen percent would have been a substantial amount of money.
“Even if I could make the bruise match my skin tone, it’s going to be inflamed and puffy. Not only that, but it’s pretty sore, and I think it’ll just get worse. There’s no way I’d be able to hide the injury.”
“Okay,” she says, sighing. “In that case, I’d recommend a vacation. You’ve earned one. Besides that, you won’t be able to book any jobs until it’s healed anyway. You may as well soak up the sun on a beach somewhere.”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I think I will.”