Page 17 of Beach Reads
During those takes, I was stiff and awkward, with a sharp knife of need in my belly.
Now I’m relaxed and melting, sighing into his mouth.
Oh, the need’s still there. Believe me, it’s still there. But it’s like he’s coaxing a slow burn out of me, starting a fire that will smolder for the next few hours until he’s ready to bank it into an inferno.
“You’re a hell of a woman, Darla.” Jesse presses the words against my lips. Says them like a confession.
“You—” I break off.You too, I nearly said. Brain cells: overloaded. “I can’t wait for tonight,” I settle on instead.
Jesse’s palm spreads over my lower back, firm and possessive. Every nerve in my body crackles in response. “Me neither.”
Jesse
What to cook for the woman of your dreams? It’s a question I’ve never been faced with before. And I didn’t even consider this struggle when I offered Darla dinner, but on the drive home after the day’s filming, it suddenly feels like an advanced algebra problem, and I always sucked at math.
Here goes: I could show off and make the most difficult meal I know how. The most technically advanced: elaborate sushi plates or pan-seared sea bass, and maybe a souffle for dessert.
I reject that idea as soon as I have it. Darla’s down-to-earth and casual. She won’t be impressed by antics like that.
Okay, so nothing too fancy. Maybe I could recreate her favorite burrito from the food truck near set? The one she always bounces on her heels when she orders, excited to sink her pearly white teeth in?
Except no, she ate one of those two days ago. Shit. I flick on my turn signal, scowling through my windshield as I turn onto my street.
We could order takeout? No. That’d look like I didn’t care enough to try.
Fuck.Fuck.
I pull onto my driveway and yank on the handbrake. The key twists easily; the engine hums softly as it cools. It’s too hot in this car. It smells like suntan lotion and cracked leather.
Even the sight of my beach house makes my chest pinch with anxiety, my teeth gritting as I stare up at it through the glass.
Am I a cliche? A tired, aging actor playing a role in his own life?
Am I going insane?
This woman will be the death of me. I want her so fucking badly.
Darla.
* * *
“Nice place.” Her opening words are a balm for my raw chest, and the sight of Darla’s clinging purple dress makes my stomach swoop. I lead her inside, through the open plan living space.
Hazel eyes track the huge, squashy sofas gathered around the TV screen on the wall; the gleaming white kitchen cabinets and matching island; the fireplace that won’t be lit again now until winter. The lights dangling from the high ceilings, encased in bronze wire sculptures, and the framed movie posters on the walls.
Darla even examines the large woven rug on the floorboards.
“Does it pass inspection?” DoI?
My words were teasing, but Darla’s smirk is knowing. Gentle beneath the humor. “Oh, yeah. Every bit of you, Jesse Hendry.” Ah, hell. My fucking heart. “So what’s for dinner?”
Yeah. The million dollar question. I lead her to the kitchen, trying to force my shoulders to relax.
“I got ingredients to make fresh pumpkin tortellini with a garlic butter sauce.” I know she’s vegetarian—and hopefully the garlic won’t put her off kissing me again. “Uh. And I was gonna do a chocolate lava cake for dessert with ice cream on the side. Some of it’s prepped already, like the lava cake is basically ready for the oven, but if you’d rather something else—”
Darla tackles me against the fridge. “Oh my god. You’re the perfect man.”
Seriously? She thinks so?
