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Thosedimples.Yowza.
Younger and leaner, with no beard yet, Jesse Hendry was still like something out of a dream. To my hormone-soaked teenage brain, he was downright dangerous. Like a drug.
After that night, I watched that surf movie thirty three times.
Not in a row, granted, but still. Thirty three times. The movie wasn’t evengood, and by fourteen, I had his poster on my bedroom wall. I kissed it goodnight before going to sleep every night. So embarrassing.
The thought of Jesse finding that humiliating fact out now—the thought of him realizing how obsessed I once was—makes sweat prickle down my spine.
Because I’m not a creeper, okay? I really am here to work. And believe me, I’ve learned a lot about the world since I was thirteen, and lesson number one?
Guys like that don’t go for girls like me.
You know: awkward girls. Silly girls. Girls carrying extra weight, with curves and stretch marks and cellulite on their thighs.
Guys like Jesse Hendry go for the svelte lead actresses and supermodels; pop stars and dancers; or maybe a make-up artist if she’s drop dead gorgeous.
It’s fine. I’m here to kick start my resume and to save some cash. And if I’m lucky, maybe to spend some extra time with my uncle Franklin.
Every stolen glance at the show’s star is an added bonus. That’s all.
