Page 2 of Beach Reads
I squeeze the edge of the towel tight, nodding quickly.
Best. Summer. Ever.
Franklin’s already ignoring me again as I hurry past, his sun-burned face ducked toward his assistant’s clipboard. A black baseball cap squashes down my uncle’s wild brown hair, his bushy mustache twitching as they confer in low tones.
What is it with men in their forties and mustaches? Or is it a TV set thing? There are definitely different rules here—it’s a whole separate fashion ecosystem. Almost every single member of the crew is covered in tattoos and wearing some kind of retro bandana.
I didn’t get it, but by my second week, I had my own white daisy-printed bandana holding back my blonde hair. This is gonna be my career, right? Better learn to fit in.
My feet sink into the warm, shifting sand as I hurry across the beach to the actors, my arms filled with water bottles and the towel slung over one shoulder. My first day working on this show, I made the mistake of wearing sneakers to set.
So much sand in my socks. So manyblisters.
Now I’m flip flops all the way, baby. They smack against my heels as I go, my steps clumsy and uneven, and I’m red-faced and puffed when I reach the lifeguards, shoving the water bottles at them each in turn.
“Whew! I don’t know how you guys do it. I’m out of breath, and all I did was walk over here.”
A couple of them laugh along gamely, taking their waters and cracking the bottle caps open. Others glance pointedly down the length of my body, as if to say,well, duh. Of course you’re out of breath. Bet you never ran in your life.
I ignore those looks, but my stomach secretly twists. My grip on the last few water bottles is steady. There are eight of these guys altogether.
“Franklin says to towel down. You can’t look like you’ve been running at the beginning of the shot.”
The nearest actor plucks the towel off my shoulder and starts wiping down his chest. Muscles ripple beneath golden skin, but I’m not looking at him. I’m handing over the last water bottle, my mouth dry.
“Thanks, Darla.”
Jesse Hendry always remembers my name. He rememberseveryone’sname, even though he’s this huge star. Blue eyes twinkle at me as he cracks the water open; he holds my stare as he takes a long drink.
The tanned column of his throat shifts as he swallows. A bead of water escapes from the corner of his mouth, trickling over his bristly chin before he swipes it away.
Lordy.
What I wouldn’t give to be that tiny water droplet.
By rights, I probably should have given Jesse his water first—you know, to respect the actor pecking order, or whatever. But he never minds these little slips; never throws any tantrums.
And when he lowers the bottle and smiles at me, I’m hit with two killer dimples. They’reinsane,visible even beneath his dark beard.
“How’s it looking so far?”
He means the footage. Not his dimples.
“Looks good.” I grin, acting like I don’t have a thousand butterflies rioting inside me right now. Like he’s not looming above me like a tanned, muscled god, his dark hair shifting in the breeze. Like I don’t spend every night in my bed tossing and turning and thinking ofhim.“You think you’ll save the little kid from drowning?”
Jesse snorts.
His character always saves the day. I should know: I’ve watched every single episode ofRiptidea thousand times.
Those scenes where he carries a woman from the water; where he lays her out on the sand and gives her the kiss of life?
Those scenes were my sexual awakening. I’m deadly serious.
A radio crackles nearby on a crew member’s hip. They’re getting ready to go again. I wait for the last actor to wipe down his chest, then catch the now stinky towel as it’s thrown back to me.
“Stay hydrated,” I say to Jesse as I walk past, and if there’s an extra sway to my hips… sue me.
“Thanks, Darla.” His low voice follows me back across the sand.
