Page 3 of Beach Reads
There’s no way Jesse notices me. Not really.
But it’s fun to pretend.
* * *
I remember the first time I saw Jesse Hendry on screen. Like, down to the minute—what I was wearing, where I was sitting, everything. I was thirteen years old, even more gawky and awkward than I am at twenty two, and at a girl from school’s birthday sleepover.
I was feeling like a dumbass because the other girls all had super cute silk pajama sets, and I was wearing an old gas station t-shirt and a fraying pair of gym shorts. We’d been stuffing our faces with candy and popcorn for hours already, and my stomach hurt like crazy, but I justkept eating, even when some of the other girls started to whisper and giggle.
It was a nerves thing, you know? It gave me something to do with my hands.
And we were yelling back and forth in the girl’s living room—ortheywere yelling, I was chewing—trying to decide what to watch, when someone flicked through the TV channels and Jesse’s face filled the screen.
We stopped arguing. Stunned into silence.
He was in a straight-to-TV movie, playing a teen heartthrob in a surfing contest.
Those eyes.
Thosedimples.Yowza.
Younger and leaner, with no beard yet, Jesse Hendry was still like something out of a dream. To my hormone-soaked teenage brain, he was downright dangerous. Like a drug.
After that night, I watched that surf movie thirty three times.
Not in a row, granted, but still. Thirty three times. The movie wasn’t evengood, and by fourteen, I had his poster on my bedroom wall. I kissed it goodnight before going to sleep every night. So embarrassing.
The thought of Jesse finding that humiliating fact out now—the thought of him realizing how obsessed I once was—makes sweat prickle down my spine.
Because I’m not a creeper, okay? I really am here to work. And believe me, I’ve learned a lot about the world since I was thirteen, and lesson number one?
Guys like that don’t go for girls like me.
You know: awkward girls. Silly girls. Girls carrying extra weight, with curves and stretch marks and cellulite on their thighs.
Guys like Jesse Hendry go for the svelte lead actresses and supermodels; pop stars and dancers; or maybe a make-up artist if she’s drop dead gorgeous.
It’s fine. I’m here to kick start my resume and to save some cash. And if I’m lucky, maybe to spend some extra time with my uncle Franklin.
Every stolen glance at the show’s star is an added bonus. That’s all.
Jesse
Ichug the last gulps of water from the bottle Darla gave me, watching the new production assistant stride back across the beach, her wide hips swaying as she walks. Denim shorts hug her generous ass, and her blonde ponytail is a thick rope down her back.
Even after the long drink, my throat is still dry.
“Alright, places.” A crew member herds us into our starting positions, checking his clipboard to make sure we’re all clustered together in the right order. “You guys all set?”
He addresses everyone, but his eyes flick to me. I nod, lips pressed together.
I’m all set. I’ve done this literally thousands of times.
Everything we’ve done today, everything we still have left to do, is as familiar as my morning routine. Getting brushed and dabbed by the make up girls; listening to the buzz and crackle of crew radios. Feeling the sandy breeze whip against my shins, and smearing sun tan lotion on my face in the midday heat.
The choreographed sprints into the sea.
Carrying an extra onto the beach and laying them flat.
