Page 9 of Beach Reads
“Stay with me,” I repeat, pressing down on her chest, desperately trying to remember my lines. My brain hasn’t gone blank like this in the middle of a scene for years. She’s just soclose, so soft and warm. That heart attack sensation hasn’t gone away, a thick band squeezing tight around my ribs.
Goosebumps prickle over Darla’s bare arms and thighs. Patches of color glow on her cheeks.
“Don’t you give up on me,” I growl, tilting her chin up. Hanson is kind of a drama queen, even when he’s the only conscious character in a scene.
Darla’s pulse flutters madly in the hollow beneath her jaw. I lean down, my pulse thudding in my ears.
Thumbs.
I remember at the last second, blocking my lips from meeting hers. Franklin knows I pull this trick, and he always warns me if he’s going for a close up. If we need full mouth-to-mouth contact.
Is he planning a close up for this scene? Will we film one later? I hope so.
God. Why don’t I pay more attention?
We’re close but not close enough. Darla’s breath is warm on my cheeks; a flyaway strand of her hair tickles my forehead. Herround cheeks are so smooth under my fingertips, and her lips are pillowy beneath my thumbs.
She swallows, the movement so slight that no one but me would notice. As she does it, the tip of her tongue brushes ever-so-lightly against my thumb.
Fuck.My fingers twitch where they cradle her face.
This is it. Cardiac arrest.
Does anyone on this beach know CPR?RealCPR?
Tearing my mouth away from hers is a monstrous effort. I sit back on my heels, dazed, and I can’t remember a single line in this whole show, but luckily Darla’s paying more attention than I am because she jerks up, coughing and spluttering.
“You…” She’s breathless, a palm spread over her heaving chest. Yeah, she’s a cute little actress. “Yousavedme, Hanson.”
I drag a hand through my damp hair, scowling off into the distance. “That’s what I do.”
By the time Franklin yells, “Cut!”, radios crackling all around, I’m ready to slam my head against the sand.
Darla
If you asked me a few days ago what my personal version of hell is, I’d have said something like: a gridlocked traffic jam in a heatwave with no water in the car. Snaking the shower drain after putting it off for a week. Airplane food.
I wouldnothave guessed that hell is spending the whole morning with Jesse Hendry’s lips against mine… but that’s on me. That’s a lack of imagination on my part.
“Take five, everybody, then we’ll go again.” It’s midday, but the stubble on my uncle’s jaw makes it seem closer to midnight. He scrubs a hand over his sandpapery chin, squinting at the playback on the camera screen. His baseball cap has slipped to a rakish tilt. “We’re all set with Jesse’s entrance to the water and the dialogue. Now I want the kiss of life shot from all angles.”
Oh, boy.
I steal a glance atRiptide’s star. Jesse Hendry almost always has a smile for me, but not today. Today, he won’t meet my eye. He’s standing beside Franklin with his arms folded over his bare chest, a towel slung around his broad shoulders, his expression stony.
Do I have bad breath? I’ve crunched so many breath mints on our short breaks already, I’m gonna need to visit the dentist.
My legs ache as I shift my weight from foot to foot. I’m swaddled in a thick, blue towel, but the salt water makes my skin feel greasy underneath. This whole ‘extra’ thing was fun forabout twenty seconds, but I’ve been seriously over it for hours now.
It’s not the waiting or the repetition. I’m used to that—it’s all part of being crew, too. It’s not even the constant dunking in the ocean, or the red marks where the fishing net has started to rub my calves, or the hot sun and my pounding headache.
It’s not even the anxiety of being bared to the cameras in a swimsuit anymore.
It’s Jesse.
He’s barely spoken to me all morning. Barely looked at me, except when we’re filming. And he’s so precise with where he puts his hands, so eager to lunge away from me every time Franklin yells ‘cut’, that… well.
They’re not paying him enough for this.That’swhat it feels like he’s saying.
