Page 1 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

T hey’re running again. God, I love it when they run.

Tanned, oiled muscles flex as their arms pump; big, manly bare feet sink into the sand. Those red lifeguard swim shorts cling to their strong thighs, and they all run with such ease, you’d think they were jogging along a park path, not sprinting across a sandy beach.

This is a new summer hobby of mine. Watching these beautiful men work up a sweat.

It’s a great summer so far.

“Cut!”

The director’s voice echoes from his spot by his folding chair.

Franklin always insists that the crew set up his little station—the chair with his name sewn on the back; his rickety side table; his jug of lemon water; his giant umbrella—but he never actually sits down.

He paces back and forth in front of it, digging his own private trench.

“Again.” Franklin twirls a finger in the air, sending the universal signal for one more time. And the pack of sweaty lifeguards all nod, their bare chests heaving and slick, then tramp back along the beach to their starting markers.

Not a single word of complaint. These guys are mostly up-and-coming, working their first named roles, and not one of them will risk their good luck to moan about running up and down in the heat.

The one guy who could complain, the one who’s a big enough star, wanders back along the beach too, relaxed and grinning.

Jesse Hendry could probably sprint the whole length of this beach without getting flustered. He’s used to it.

And so freaking fit.

“Darla.” Everyone stiffens at Franklin’s voice, though he’s clearly talking to me. Well… more like barking.

I hop out of my plastic chair. “What’s up, uncle Franklin?”

Yeah, yeah, I bothered my uncle for a summer job. Begged and begged him to let me on set for a few months, so I could get some experience to apply to film studios.

That’s where the special treatment ends, though. It got me through the metaphorical door, and now Franklin’s working me like a dog, the same as everyone else.

Do I mind?

Listen to me: woof .

“Go and take them some water bottles. And,” a towel smacks against my front, “wipe down their chests. They’re too sweaty.”

I squeeze the edge of the towel tight, nodding quickly.

Best. Summer. Ever.

Franklin’s already ignoring me again as I hurry past, his sun-burned face ducked toward his assistant’s clipboard. A black baseball cap squashes down my uncle’s wild brown hair, his bushy mustache twitching as they confer in low tones.

What is it with men in their forties and mustaches? Or is it a TV set thing? There are definitely different rules here—it’s a whole separate fashion ecosystem. Almost every single member of the crew is covered in tattoos and wearing some kind of retro bandana.

I didn’t get it, but by my second week, I had my own white daisy-printed bandana holding back my blonde hair. This is gonna be my career, right? Better learn to fit in.

My feet sink into the warm, shifting sand as I hurry across the beach to the actors, my arms filled with water bottles and the towel slung over one shoulder. My first day working on this show, I made the mistake of wearing sneakers to set.

So much sand in my socks. So many blisters.

Now I’m flip flops all the way, baby. They smack against my heels as I go, my steps clumsy and uneven, and I’m red-faced and puffed when I reach the lifeguards, shoving the water bottles at them each in turn.

“Whew! I don’t know how you guys do it. I’m out of breath, and all I did was walk over here.”

A couple of them laugh along gamely, taking their waters and cracking the bottle caps open. Others glance pointedly down the length of my body, as if to say, well, duh. Of course you’re out of breath. Bet you never ran in your life.

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 remembers everyone’s name, 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’re insane, 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 of him.

“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 of Riptide a 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 just kept 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—or they were 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.

Those dimples. 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 even good , 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.