After his possessive act, we finally reached the vanity van. The air inside was cooler, but my skin still carried the warmth from the awkward introductions outside.
I wanted to turn around, plant myself in front of him, and just ask what that was about his whole "don't do that" nonsense.
But before I could even open my mouth, the door swung open and the stylist and makeup artist breezed in like they owned the place.
Without wasting another second, they got to work.
While one unpacked an army of brushes, powders, and sprays, the other shuffling through a rack of costumes that looked far too uncomfortable to exist.
Dave sat down on the long couch like nothing happened, scrolling through his phone, probably texting whoever he texts when I'm not looking.
Or maybe pretending to text so he wouldn't have to talk to me.
Fine. Two can play at that game.
I slid into the seat near the small fold-out table, my laptop bag plopping down beside me.
