After lunch, we all meet back in the staged hotel room. Liz has excused everyone besides me, Grayson, and Clare, so the room is quiet and still.
And heavy.
During the first part of the day, we had the luxury of having choreography to focus on—Clare directing our every move, Liz stopping her to adjust us as needed, lighting guys and sound techs chiming in whenever a problem arose.
But now Liz and Clare step to the back of the room, completely out of our line of vision. It’s just me and Grayson, standing in the middle of the set, getting ready to rehearse our blocking. Clothes on, but everything else full out.
In other words, I’m about two minutes away from my second kiss with Grayson West. And the first one didn’t really work out all that well. At least, not for me.
I wonder if he’s also thinking about that first time, way back when I was fifteen and he was seventeen. I wonder if he felt that spark when our lips brushed all those years ago. I wonder if he’s thinking about what came after. If he knows what a monumental effect his stupid, immature words had not just on teenage me but on my career.
I don’t have to wonder if he’s as anxious as I am right now, though, because I can tell he is. His eyes are tight and his lips are pressed together as we both take our places for the start of the scene.
The beginning part is easy, and we move through thelines quickly. Today isn’t about focusing on emotion, just about nailing the movements.
And then there we are. Right next to the only one damn bed.
“Yes,” I say, and the word comes out breathless.
I am Isobel. He is Josh. I am Isobel. He is Josh.
I keep the mantra running through my head as Grayson’s hands find their places on my cheek and my waist.
I am Isobel. He is Josh. I am Isobel. He is Josh.
My hands float up, seemingly of their own volition, landing on his hips.
I am Isobel. He is Josh. I am Isobel. He is Josh.
For a second, our eyes meet.
All I see before me is Grayson fucking West.
And then his lips are on mine and heat spreads through me like someone just poured warm maple syrup over my head, only slightly less sticky. Our mouths stay closed because that’s what we blocked, but that doesn’t stop his lips from moving softly against mine. It doesn’t stop my fingers from digging into his hips. It doesn’t stop his own from knotting themselves in my hair, pulling ever so slightly in a way that makes me have to press my thighs together.
I think there are steps we should be taking, blocking we should be following. I know there must be, because we ran through it a million times. But none of the other times involved Grayson’s lips on mine, and it doesn’t even matter that I wrote the whole damn thing, because I can’t for the life of me remember my next line.
Luckily, Grayson seems to have retained some amount of brain function, because he leads me closer to the bed,just like we practiced. He breaks the kiss because tomorrow we—and by that I mean Isobel and Josh—will be using this time to remove each other’s clothes.
When we part, our eyes lock. The blue of his has darkened, his pupils expanded. There’s a look of soft surprise on his face that I’m pretty sure is reflected on mine.
But we still go through the motions. I mime unbuttoning his shirt. He pretends to lift my sweater over my head before his fingers land back on my face, both of my cheeks cupped in his strong hands.
I choose a different mantra this time.
This is all pretend. None of this is real. This is all pretend. None of this is real.
And yet, when Grayson’s lips lightly graze my neck, I have to fight the instinct to yank them back to my own and thrust my tongue inside his mouth.
Because that’s not in the script. Or the blocking.
And this is all pretend. None of this is real.This is all pretend. None of this is real.
When his mouth does make its way back to mine, the kiss is still chaste, but it sure as fuck doesn’t feel innocent. This time my hands are the ones lacing into his hair, and I don’t recall Liz asking for the soft grunt he releases when I tangle my fingers in the longish waves at the nape of his neck.
And oh god. That tiny sound I’m only somewhat sure only I could hear does something to my insides. My lips become a little more enthusiastic, and when I feel the slightest brush of the tip of his tongue at the seam of my lips, they part involuntarily.
He pulls back, putting some much-needed space between us.
