Page 3 of One Filthy Kiss

Arthur moves closer to Nikki. He’s so tall that she has to literally tilt her head back and peer up at him, and I can feel everything that she’s feeling. My lips part in anticipation. Arthur has come to the diner to tell Nikki’s onscreen character that he is going to call off his wedding.

“Can we go somewhere private to talk?” His voice is husky with emotion.

Nikki glances around the diner-set at the other customers and pulls him into the narrow hallway between the eating area and the kitchen. I follow their characters on the screens on the wall as if I’m at the cinema and am amazed at how real it is when there are no cameras in my peripheral vision. I feel like avoyeur watching something I shouldn’t, a private moment between two people who believe that they are alone.

“I’m going to tell Evelyn about us, ” Arthur says.

Nikki’s shoulders slump and her expression crumples as if all the fight has been sucked out of her. “Joseph, I don’t think you should?—”

“I can’t lie to her anymore. She deserves better than that.”

Nikki turns away from him, a mixture of emotions playing out behind her eyes, and I hold my breath, wondering what she’s going to say next.

When she looks at him again, there are tears in her eyes. “I don’t want you to leave her for me, JoJo.”

The shortened version of Joseph is so charming it makes my heart flutter.

“I already have. Up here.” Arthur taps his temple. “I found myself checking out the moment I laid eyes on you.”

This is the moment where Nikki’s character should smile and tell Arthur that she loves him, but instead, she says dully, “I’m sorry, JoJo, but I can’t do this. I don’t?—”

Before she can finish, Arthur pulls Nikki into his arms and smothers her words with his lips.

My hand instinctively hovers in front of my mouth as I watch the kiss onscreen.

“Cut!” The director’s voice makes me jump.

A man with dark unruly curls jumps up from the chair with the word DIRECTOR printed across the back and enters the set. He speaks with the actors, but I can’t hear what he’s saying; someone must cut the sound between takes.

“What’s that man doing?” Amber asks.

I crouch next to her and keep my voice low so that it doesn’t carry anywhere. “He’s telling Auntie Nikki what he wants her to do next.” I hope.

The scene was perfect to me as it was, but what do I know?

The director returns to his seat and the clapperboard comes out again.

Take two.

The actors repeat their lines. It takes me a couple of beats to get back into the mood of the scene as I’ve already watched it once, but when it comes to the kiss, the director yells, “Cut!” again.

I don’t understand what they’re doing wrong, but it clearly isn’t meeting the director’s expectations.

Take three.

This time, I find myself leaning closer to the screen, lips parted in anticipation.

I want them to kiss, isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? The audience is supposed to be rooting for them. We’re supposed to believe that JoJo is in love with Jessie, and this kiss should be the knee-trembling, foot-jerking moment that cements their future. Together.

It’s working for me. My heart is still fluttering, and I feel cheated each time the director’s voice snaps everyone back to reality.

Not that I’m an experienced kisser. I mean, the last man I kissed was a customer at the bakery where I work. A good-looking customer, to be fair, late-twenties, smoky-gray eyes,designer stubble and thick sandy hair that I could imagine running my hands through. But even so, the guy was a stranger, and I don’t make a habit of kissing strangers.

It was Christmas Eve. I’d served the guy a couple of times, blondie-brownies, because yep, I’m the saddo who remembers our customers’ favorites. I remembered him, of course, because the guy was cute, and because we don’t serve many hot guys in financial-district suits, so how could I possibly forget him? But when he pulled a sprig of mistletoe from his pocket, held it above my head, and leaned over the counter, I pulled away.

My cheeks were on fire.

Then I heard my boss chuckling from behind the last few frosted mince pies in the glass cabinet. I knew exactly what she was going to say when I saw the mischievous glint in her eye. “You’re not going home until you kiss him, Meg.”