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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, forcing myself 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.
“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. Her round 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.
