The early morning light was just beginning to spill into the quiet neighborhood as my phone lit up on the coffee table. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and squinted at the screen, seeing a new message from Daniel.

"Leave your car at home. I'll pick you up sharp at 7:30."

OKAY...

My thumbs moved across the screen faster than you can say "covfefe": "Noted Mr. Hunter. Wouldn't miss out on a ride in your fancy set of wheels."

Hit send and stretched my aching muscles. The couch really wasn't meant for sleeping. I turned to check on Sarah passed out next to me, mascara tracks dried on her pale face. Whatever demons haunted her dreams, we'd face them together.

Time for a new day.

At 7:29 I crept outside and sure enough, there sat Daniel's shiny silver Aston Martin, engine purring like a well-fed house cat. He smiled through the open window eyeing my clothes. "Good morning, Ms. Watson. Fashionably late as always, I see." Always one with the wit, that Daniel.

Daniel chuckled as we pulled away. My eyes were drawn to the two other vehicles trailing us - an SUV van bearing the logo of some ritzy cosmetics brand that probably charges $85 for a jar of talcum powder, and a dark sedan with Daniel's stoic bodyguard Ben( I recognized from yesterday) at the wheel, eyes scanning for threats like a TSA agent on the prowl for contraband underpants. Quite the procession! If they were in a parade, they'd win first prize for the most pretentious float.

"Protecting Hollywood royalty, I see. Is there an actual danger or do you just want to feel important... Mr. Hunter?" I smirked.

"All part of the show. Can't have fans mobbing poor defenseless me and giving the paparazzi something scandalous to snap, now can we? Then I wouldn't be worth my exorbitant per diem rates."

The drive passed quickly with Daniel regaling me with set stories, each funnier than the last. By the time we arrived amidst the bustling studio lot, I'd forgotten all about my tired limbs. Except now I had a sore stomach from laughing.

~

We wound our way through the chaotic dressing room, dodging rolling clothing racks and scurrying stylists like squirrels in traffic. Their arms were piled high with garments bearing labels more exotic than ingredients in a five-dollar smoothie - Koché, Raf Simons, Schiaparelli. It seemed a tornado had ripped through Paris, Milan, and New York Fashion Weeks, depositing their finest frocks in this cramped midtown space.

At the center of the mayhem stood Susan, our no-nonsense head stylist. She eyed Daniel's measurements with the precision of a master butcher appraising a side of beef. "Only the choicest cuts for our leading man," she said, licking her lips aggressively enough to make a nearby intern faint.

I shot Daniel a sideways glance, my lips twitching with the effort to maintain a straight face. He replied with a polite smile and nod, but his eyes shone with barely concealed panic. The poor man - thrust into a whirlwind of silk, chiffon, and opinions stronger than Merlot. We'd be peeling him off the plastered walls by day's end if someone didn't throw him a rope.

"Let's start with the event details," I suggested, steering us to safer waters. "It's a black tie gala to benefit charities for children in need, correct?"

Daniel nodded gratefully. I pulled up reference photos and notes on my tablet, suddenly grateful for the mountains of research assigned by Stevo yesterday according to the Notes app. While he drove me to drink more coffee than is strictly healthy, it did come in handy at this moment.

"Given it benefits children, we'll want something eye-catching but tasteful," I said, parroting one of Daniel's favorite phrases I heard in an online press video. Well, I looked it up before coming up here- well prepared!

"Perhaps a tailored two-piece in a rich jewel tone to draw attention gracefully?"

Two stylists named Bianca and Antonio - who introduced themselves with airs that suggested European roots but names that hinted at less genteel parentage - began to pull options. Each creation was a masterpiece but seemed better suited to the runway than a charity do.

First out was Daniel in a cerulean blue suit embroidered with tiny freshwater pearls. It swept the floor dramatically like a couture gown and rustled with the gentle whoosh of breaking waves whenever he took a step. While breathtaking, the ensemble appeared better suited to modeling beachwear in Sorrento than mingling at a fundraiser.

Next came an emerald green two-piece featuring intricate lacework picked out in metallic threads resembling spiderwebs shimmering with dew. Daniel looked like he belonged in a BBC nature documentary about woodland fairies rather than making polite small talk over crab puffs.

He emerged, relief written plainly across his handsome face. "You're quite right, it is a bit much. I want to support the causes, not upstage them in a getup befitting the fair folk."

We nodded understandingly while Bianca and Antonio pretended not to look stung, like wasps whose nests had just been disturbed. They began whisking the more dramatic options away, pulling simpler yet striking looks from the racks.

Soon Daniel re-emerged in a tailored navy suit with touches of silver thread forming elegant paisley motifs along the lapels and cuffs. It was handsome without shouting, bringing out the warmth of his olive skin and dark features. "Thank goodness, something respectable at last. I was afraid I'd spend the night glued inside Oscar de la Renta's eccentric yet wonderful imagination," he joked.

Susan and I exchanged approving glances. Bianca and Antonio beamed, clearly proud parents showing off their most promising child. Our work here was done, and just in time – I could hear Daniel's stomach rumbling from clear across the room. It seemed even handsome movie stars got hangry if kept from lunch too long.

Daniel grinned, clearly more at ease. "I defer to your expertise, ladies. This will do nicely." He thanked the stylist team for their diligence.

While Daniel changed back into his regular clothes, I pulled out the iPad. I tapped into the digital schedule and organization system that Stevo had set up. Scrolling through the meticulous notes and color-coded calendar, I was impressed by how smoothly run everything was.

Stevo had truly thought of every last detail, from call times to catering riders to backup ticket holders for plus ones. I made a mental note to thank him profusely for the thorough onboarding - it was making this transition period much smoother. Where I might have floundered figuring things out on the fly, I now had an entire roadmap at my fingertips.

Tapping into the payment portal, I reviewed the billing for today's outfitting session. Brand X's selections had all been pre-approved based on Stevo's relationships with the house. I swiftly authorized the charges, ensuring our account was in good standing.

This assistant thing might work out just fine after all.

~

I stepped out of the car and, I was greeted by a whirlwind of energy named Olivia, the makeup artist Daniel had raved about during our car ride to Glendale. With perfectly neon-manicured nails that could render a grown man mute with a single disapproving cluck, she ushered us toward a private elevator, chatting all the while. I swore her colorful descriptions of Keratin treatments and new lines of lip plumpers moved even faster than her lips. This, I gathered, would be a full-service experience.

I'd just begun fantasizing about the post-fitting buffet when, right on cue, Olivia declared it was high time for "nourishment." Leading the way with the urgency of a woman who hadn't eaten since the Clinton Administration, we found ourselves back in the parking lot lined with gourmet food trucks that surely charged prices to match.

Opting for the least pretentious option titled "Gourmet Burgers and Fries" in looping neon script, we sat down to eat. Daniel surprised me by devouring two cheeseburgers with the gusto of any red-blooded American, belying his so-called "Celebrity diet." Meanwhile, Olivia's quinoa salad looked like a piece of modern art too beautiful to consume, though she nibbled daintily. And true to character, Ben stuck to a protein bar and his strong, silent routine- though his fellow security guys did devour the burgers as well.

Arriving at the talk show studio back in LA, I was immediately reminded of what it must feel like to enter an android factory. All shiny surfaces and rigid edges, not a stray wire or dust bunny in sight. Olivia, Daniel's /makeup artist/friend/possible girlfriend, was doing last-minute touch-ups on his perfect coif like a mother bird fluffing her babies before their first flight lesson. Ben, the hulking bodyguard, stood sentry on either side of Daniel looking somber and serious like one of those gigantic stone heads on Easter Island.

My job, as I quickly picked up, was facilitator—wrangling paperwork, fetching water or coffee like a Starbucks-aproned peasant, making sure Daniel stuck to schedule. Most importantly, keeping the teen girls and cougars that had gathered, frothing at the mouth, at a safe distance from their prey.

The first interviews went smoothly—light exchange about Daniel's new movie, his various charities like saving Maltese puppies or dugong sea cows or some such cause. And his opinions on the current state of things in Hollywood—which films are good, which big-name stars need to be put out to pasture. But then came Sheila/Sylvia/Sabrina, the ball-busting woman reporter.

She launched straight into Daniel about some supposed "incident" at a local drinking hole involving ambiguous hand-holding with an attractive drunk woman whose face was not caught on camera. I swear I saw a bead of sweat form on Olivia's perfectly sculpted brow.

But Daniel, cool and collected as a frozen vodka martini, deflected with his usual charm. "Why, it was merely a friendly gesture to a lady in need of support. You know how it is after a few too many margaritas. A helping hand, a shoulder to lean on - just being neighborly!"

The crowed tittered, the tension releasing like air from a balloon. Sheila/Sylvia/Sabrina was left sputtering like a wet firecracker. Another crisis averted through the magic of words and a disarming wink. I took a breath, my job here was done. For now.

~

As we exited the studio, I was wiped. Three hours answering the same five questions "What's it like working with Daniel?", "Who's your celebrity crush?", "Who are you wearing?" and "What's Daniel really like?" over and over will do that to me( if I were Daniel). But Daniel kept it together like the old pro he is. You'd never guess just watching him that his feet were aching just as much as mine in these stiletto heels.

Anyway, we trudged out to the parking lot, which looked basically like any other - just fancier cars. There was Daniel's sexy Rolls Royce, Olivia's hot pink makeup van that was definitely an eyesore, and Ben's boring old Sedan.

The second I grabbed the door handle of the car, here comes Olivia giving me the stink eye. Now, I know she's supposed to be all-important as Daniel's makeup artist, but girl needs to calm down on the bronzer if you know what I mean. Usually, I try to stay out of bitchfits but...

"Em-i-ly," she snapped in that rude voice. "Where is it?"

Like I had any clue what 'it' is! I told her so and she started hyperventilating about some silk scarf for Daniel's sewing kit. Since when does an actor even need a sewing kit? What was he gonna do, sew himself a new outfit on the side of the road?

"Don't play dumb with me," Olivia hissed, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "We don't have time for your... incompetence."

She was all in a huff blaming me for losing this non-existent scarf.

"Look, maybe the stylist lost it or something.  How should I know? Why don't you find it yourself if you're so concerned?" I snapped.

"I have better things to do anyway than sit around waiting to hear you tell me my work is shit. I'm getting tired, Olivia. Go find your freaking scarf."

Olivia looked ready to kill me. "You're such a piece of work!"  She spat out.

My temper flared, but I forced it back. "And you're such a diva bitch. " 

The last part wasn't intended, but she deserved it anyway.

"Oh yeah? Well, maybe you should stop being such a slut!" she screamed at me. A few people turned to look at us from inside their parked cars.

I could feel the blood rising to my face. Damn! What did I just started? I never had someone come close to hitting me before (even if they were friends), let alone a colleague. My aunt would have been appalled!

My cheeks were burning but I refused to show fear and cower. Instead, I took a deep breath, pulled myself up to my full height, and stared down at Olivia as defiantly as I could while my heart pounded wildly in my chest.

"Excuse me?"  I asked with icy politeness.  

"If you think I'm a slutt-" Oh god, I didn't say that right. I must have forgotten how I worded my sentence. Great. Just great. 

Before I could retort, Daniel stepped in, his voice smooth and calming. "Olivia, what's going on?" He gave me a look that said "sorry about her" without saying a word.

"Daniel, I simply cannot work under these conditions!" She declared, voice rising to an operatic pitch that made the studio assistants turn heads even though we were in the parking lot.

Daniel plastered on a soothing smile. "Olivia, what's the problem now?"

"Your new assistant is clearly incompetent and I refuse to collaborate further if she's going to keep disrupting our process." She jabbed a manicured finger in my direction, cheeks flushing an angry fuchsia.

I opened my mouth to defend myself but Daniel cut me off smoothly. "Now now, I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding. Ms Watson is doing a wonderful job and I have complete faith in her abilities. Why don't we all take a breather and get something to eat? I'm famished after that press junket."

Olivia kept flapping her gums though, going on and on about competence - as if she was one to talk! I was about to open my mouth when Daniel's phone got a text. Big crisis, I was sure. Probably an outfit malfunction or broken nail.

He told Olivia that they were riding together, which I was sure she loved because the anger on her face just disappeared. Then he whisked me away to the Aston with Ben to drive, smoothing things over with his charming smile. I relaxed into the buttery leather seats and thought, 'WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL WAS THAT?!'

~