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I ignore those looks, but my stomach secretly twists. My grip on the last few water bottles is steady. There are eight of these guys altogether.
“Franklin says to towel down. You can’t look like you’ve been running at the beginning of the shot.”
The nearest actor plucks the towel off my shoulder and starts wiping down his chest. Muscles ripple beneath golden skin, but I’m not looking at him. I’m handing over the last water bottle, my mouth dry.
“Thanks, Darla.”
Jesse Hendry always remembers my name. He rememberseveryone’sname, even though he’s this huge star. Blue eyes twinkle at me as he cracks the water open; he holds my stare as he takes a long drink.
The tanned column of his throat shifts as he swallows. A bead of water escapes from the corner of his mouth, trickling over his bristly chin before he swipes it away.
Lordy.
What I wouldn’t give to be that tiny water droplet.
By rights, I probably should have given Jesse his water first—you know, to respect the actor pecking order, or whatever. But he never minds these little slips; never throws any tantrums.
And when he lowers the bottle and smiles at me, I’m hit with two killer dimples. They’reinsane,visible even beneath his dark beard.
“How’s it looking so far?”
He means the footage. Not his dimples.
“Looks good.” I grin, acting like I don’t have a thousand butterflies rioting inside me right now. Like he’s not looming above me like a tanned, muscled god, his dark hair shifting in the breeze. Like I don’t spend every night in my bed tossing and turning and thinking ofhim.“You think you’ll save the little kid from drowning?”
Jesse snorts.
His character always saves the day. I should know: I’ve watched every single episode ofRiptidea thousand times.
Those scenes where he carries a woman from the water; where he lays her out on the sand and gives her the kiss of life?
Those scenes were my sexual awakening. I’m deadly serious.
A radio crackles nearby on a crew member’s hip. They’re getting ready to go again. I wait for the last actor to wipe down his chest, then catch the now stinky towel as it’s thrown back to me.
“Stay hydrated,” I say to Jesse as I walk past, and if there’s an extra sway to my hips… sue me.
“Thanks, Darla.” His low voice follows me back across the sand.
There’s no way Jesse notices me. Not really.
But it’s fun to pretend.
* * *
I remember the first time I saw Jesse Hendry on screen. Like, down to the minute—what I was wearing, where I was sitting, everything. I was thirteen years old, even more gawky and awkward than I am at twenty two, and at a girl from school’s birthday sleepover.
I was feeling like a dumbass because the other girls all had super cute silk pajama sets, and I was wearing an old gas station t-shirt and a fraying pair of gym shorts. We’d been stuffing our faces with candy and popcorn for hours already, and my stomach hurt like crazy, but I justkept eating, even when some of the other girls started to whisper and giggle.
It was a nerves thing, you know? It gave me something to do with my hands.
And we were yelling back and forth in the girl’s living room—ortheywere yelling, I was chewing—trying to decide what to watch, when someone flicked through the TV channels and Jesse’s face filled the screen.
We stopped arguing. Stunned into silence.
He was in a straight-to-TV movie, playing a teen heartthrob in a surfing contest.
Those eyes.
