Page 8 of Beach Reads
“One of the crew’s filling in for your scene.”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug. That’s fine—makes no odds to me who I pull out of the surf. Until Haley snickers, and mutters something about me needing a crane to lift the extra out of the water.
I stiffen on the warm metal steps.
My heart’s thumping so hard.
“What’d you say?”
Haley grins and skips over to stand right in front of me. Mistakes my question as an invitation. “Yeah, it’s crazy. Darla’s in makeup right now.”
“No, what’d you say about a crane?”
She has the grace to blush, at least. Haley knows she’s been a dick, and even if she didn’t, my clipped tone would clue her in. I won’t stand foranyof that talk. Not about anyone, and definitely not about Darla.
“I just…” Haley’s wearing high-waisted shorts and an oversize pink t-shirt, but she’s knotted it above her belly button. She’s comfortable in her own skin. She waves a hand at where my ridged abs are hidden by my hoodie, as though that means something. “…You know?”
Nope. I do not know. I don’twantto know. And the metal stairs screech as I push to my feet, jumping down onto the beach parking lot in my flip flops. A fine layer of sand coats the concrete and makes it gritty.
“Don’t talk about her like that again,” I warn, brushing past Haley on my way to the set.
Her sullen voice floats after me. “No kidding.”
* * *
“Action!”
It’s a solo sprint today, without the other actors nipping at my heels. And it’s just as well, because as my feet pound along the hard, damp sand beside the surf, I’m having some kind of heart attack.
It’s not the cardio. It’s Darla.
I only caught glimpses of her getting into position, wrapped in a big blue towel until the last possible second, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. Then Imogen, the makeup artist, whipped the fabric away like a waiter pulling a trick with a tablecloth.
Jesus Christ.
Even halfway across the beach, my stomach swooped. In that green halterneck swimsuit, Darla’s a goddamn wet dream.
A bead of sweat trickles into my eye, and I blink it away, fighting to keep my focus. This is a scene, not a blissed-out run through the park. I’m supposed to be acting, not replaying that first glimpse of her over and over in my brain.
I grit my teeth like Franklin likes. Scowl at the water and put on a burst of speed.
She’s floating on her back, her soaked hair fanning across the surface, the prop fishing net tangled around her limbs.
Again, I get that weird lurch. That eerie feeling that this is real somehow, and Darla is truly counting on me to save her, and by the time I dive into the water, my heart’s ready to explode out of my chest.
I really need to find a new role. At this rate, I’ll go senile before I’m forty, convincing myself that I really am the hero lifeguard of a small town. When in reality, I’ve done this dramatic swim a thousand times before, and Darla’s body is warm and healthy when I gather her into my arms.
She tenses against my chest, her breath hitching, but I lift her easily out of the waves. Carry her up onto the sand, forcingmyself to focus on my body positioning and the cameras rather than the perfect weight of her in my arms.
The heft of her. The way she anchors me. Steadies me.
“I’ve got you.” Golden sand coats her bare limbs as I lay her down, her eyes closed and lips parted. Even though Darla’s crew, not an actor, she’s good at this. A natural.
Hey, it’s harder to play dead than you’d think.
“Stay with me.” My words are low and rough. Salt water stings my eyes as I knot my fingers together and place my joined hands on the center of her chest.
Oh, sweet Jesus. So squishy.
