Page 5 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

I f you asked me a few days ago what my personal version of hell is, I’d have said something like: a gridlocked traffic jam in a heatwave with no water in the car. Snaking the shower drain after putting it off for a week. Airplane food.

I would not have guessed that hell is spending the whole morning with Jesse Hendry’s lips against mine… but that’s on me. That’s a lack of imagination on my part.

“Take five, everybody, then we’ll go again.

” It’s midday, but the stubble on my uncle’s jaw makes it seem closer to midnight.

He scrubs a hand over his sandpapery chin, squinting at the playback on the camera screen.

His baseball cap has slipped to a rakish tilt.

“We’re all set with Jesse’s entrance to the water and the dialogue.

Now I want the kiss of life shot from all angles. ”

Oh, boy.

I steal a glance at Riptide ’s star. Jesse Hendry almost always has a smile for me, but not today. Today, he won’t meet my eye. He’s standing beside Franklin with his arms folded over his bare chest, a towel slung around his broad shoulders, his expression stony.

Do I have bad breath? I’ve crunched so many breath mints on our short breaks already, I’m gonna need to visit the dentist.

My legs ache as I shift my weight from foot to foot. I’m swaddled in a thick, blue towel, but the salt water makes my skin feel greasy underneath. This whole ‘extra’ thing was fun for about twenty seconds, but I’ve been seriously over it for hours now.

It’s not the waiting or the repetition. I’m used to that—it’s all part of being crew, too. It’s not even the constant dunking in the ocean, or the red marks where the fishing net has started to rub my calves, or the hot sun and my pounding headache.

It’s not even the anxiety of being bared to the cameras in a swimsuit anymore.

It’s Jesse.

He’s barely spoken to me all morning. Barely looked at me, except when we’re filming. And he’s so precise with where he puts his hands, so eager to lunge away from me every time Franklin yells ‘cut’, that… well.

They’re not paying him enough for this. That’s what it feels like he’s saying.

And I get that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, but if he snatches his hands off me like he’s touching a dead fish one more time, I’ll toss a clump of seaweed in his eye.

“Okay, reset,” Franklin calls from where he’s collapsed into his folding chair for once. His assistant waves her clipboard, fanning my uncle’s ruddy cheeks.

Jesse turns on his heel and marches across the beach without a word. I cap my water bottle and hurry to catch up, my stomach churning.

“You don’t have to be like this, you know.”

Jesse glances back at me, startled. His blue eyes narrow as he slows. “What?”

I nearly trip over a ditch in the sand, but I draw level with him. “You don’t have to be a huge, massive jerk .”

Jesse rears back, his shoulders bunched round his ears. There are muscles on this man that I’ve never seen before.

No wonder he lifts me so easily. No wonder he doesn’t even seem tired.

That was comforting, for exactly one take.

“I’m—what?”

I beat Jesse to the marked spot fueled entirely by my anger.

It means I’m red-faced and out of breath when I get there, but it still counts.

And I’m too mad at him to even care about peeling the towel off and tossing it to one side, his eyes bouncing down the length of my body then back up to my eyes.

His towel follows mine onto the ground. I drop to my knees, then lay in the sand.

“Ten inches to the left,” someone calls. We wriggle and huff, getting back into the right position.

“The sun will have moved anyway,” I grumble. “It’s not like we’re that accurate.”

Jesse’s mouth twitches, but then he’s stone-faced again. He kneels beside my body in his kiss-of-life pose, strong fingers already knotted together. “What did you mean back there?”

Imogen comes over. Brushes us both with powder, spritzes our hair with water, and gives me a hideously obvious wink. Jesse ignores it. “Darla?”

There’s a shell or a rock digging into my back. I wriggle, then gust out a long breath.

“I could just do without the blatant revulsion, that’s all. You’re never like this with the other extras, and you know what? It’s rude. You’re rude.”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight. Because I thought so much better of him—not that he’d throw a party or whatever because he’s doing a scene with me, but that he’d at least treat me the same as everyone else.

Jesse stares down at me, eyes wide with horror.

“Do you have heatstroke?” I snap.

And just like that, he’s back to life. He leans forward, one hand braced against the sand by my cheek, and ducks down to murmur where only I can hear.

Crew members mill all around us, speaking into headsets and swigging from water bottles. A couple even send us curious glances. It probably looks like we’re whispering together about the scene; like we’re in cahoots.

“I’m not repulsed,” Jesse says urgently, his lips close to my ear. “Darla, I swear.”

“Then why—”

“I’m trying to focus, okay?” He straightens back up, wincing. Those muscles, man. So many pretty muscles. “I’m trying not to get too into it.”

Oh.

Oh.

…No. No way.

I drag in a shaky breath. “I swear to god, if you’re making fun of me—”

“I’m not.” Jesse raises both palms, and he looks miserable. “Please, Darla. I’m not trying to be a jerk, I swear. I’m just trying to get through these takes without popping wood in front of the cameras.”

I snort, loud and shameless. Is he serious? And Jesse smiles, relieved, but there’s something lurking behind his baby blues. A wariness that I hate to see.

Does he think I’ll use this against him?

“I’m flattered.” I pat his swim short-clad thigh, and bite my lip when the muscle tenses.

Do I seriously affect him like this? Me ?

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like the way I look, but Jesse Hendry is a suntanned Greek god.

Forgive a girl for being suspicious. “Though I have to say, this is the worst possible job for a man with a CPR fetish.”

His turn to snort. “It’s not the CPR.” His eyes linger on the spot on my chest where he presses down on me during the scenes. “It’s the extra I’m giving it to.”

Aaah!

My lips are salty when I press them together. “Bad extra. You should get her fired.”

Franklin’s yell for us to get ready makes us both jump. And when Jesse clears his throat, tangling his fingers together again, and leans over me with the heels of his palms grazing my skin, I wink before settling back with my eyes closed.

“Oh, Hanson,” I whisper, only for Jesse’s ears. “Save me you big, strong man.”

The sound of his choked laugh sends sparks zipping through my insides, and oh god, I’m suddenly hot. Molten. Burning up. I squirm against the sand, chewing on my bottom lip.

Does he really mean it? I crack an eyelid, and the sight above me steals my breath.

Because Jesse Hendry stares down at me spread out below him on the sand, and his eyes are stark with hunger. His gaze drags along the dips and swells of my body, clad only in my green swimsuit, and he looks ready to tear it off with his teeth.

Hoo boy. I’m in trouble.

“Action!” Franklin calls.

* * *

“Tell me something.”

We’re walking slowly back across the beach to the parking lot trailers, our scene finally wrapped, each gripping our flip flops and water bottles. My towel is slung around my shoulders, just like Jesse’s, because what the hell. Who cares what people think?

And he sure appreciates the view.

“What’s with the thumbs?”

Jesse’s eyes crinkle as he grins. They’re so blue, dappled with vivid green, just like the ocean he dives in every episode. We’re walking slowly, dragging out the seconds before we reach the trailers. “Are you saying my kiss of life technique isn’t realistic, Darla?”

Ha. “I’m saying the only thing coming back to life is your own knuckles.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Jesse murmurs, and the sidelong glance he sends me makes my insides do the cha-cha.

It’s mid afternoon. It’s been a long day already, and Jesse will get called back for another scene soon. My acting career is over, thank god, so all I need to do is drag my salt-encrusted corpse into Franklin’s trailer and sneak a cool shower.

Then I’m back in the crew. Fading into the background.

“I started doing it in the first season.” Damn, I didn’t really expect an answer, and I almost trip over my own feet staring at Jesse as he talks.

He cups my elbow, steering me onto the path that leads off the beach.

His palm is warm and dry and so steadying.

“I wasn’t a big name back then, but even so, a few extras tried to slip me the tongue during takes. ”

Ew.

“That’s really gross.”

“Yeah. I still can’t help the close ups, but I have enough clout now that people don’t try it. So the thumbs are a habit. Personal preference.”

My shoulders have tensed, heat crawling up my neck, and I’m not sure whether it’s anger on Jesse’s behalf, or shame that I had the exact same urge.

To kiss him back, and kiss him properly.

To weave my fingers through his damp hair and tug his mouth more firmly against mine.

Slide my tongue past those perfect lips.

I didn’t do it, though. I lay on that sand practically vibrating with restraint. That’s got to count for something, right?

Jesse squeezes my elbow before he lets go. The parking lot concrete is burning hot, and we both drop our flip flops onto the gritty stone. We slide them on in silence, surrounded by the tiny ghost town of white trailers.

“I hope…”

A gentle breeze tugs at my hair while I wait. Jesse’s staring at me, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

And what a jaw it is. The jaw that graced my bedroom wall for so long; the jaw that probably has its own workout regime, so beautifully clad in a trimmed brown beard. I guarantee that someone has made a Twitter account for that jaw.

“You hope?”

A gust of breath. Jesse’s hands rise, then slap against his thighs. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable back there, Darla.”

Uncomfortable?

Right—with those heated stares. That tremble in his hands as he held me. The way he whipped his touch away whenever the take ended, like he didn’t trust himself for a single second more.

So maybe it’s not the same as with those other extras. Maybe I’m not like those creeps.

Maybe there’s something special between us. Something mutual.

And I’ve never been a coward—have never been burdened with impulse control, either—so I step close and pat Jesse Hendry right on his beautiful pec. It’s as hard as the sun-baked concrete beneath my flip flops.

Is it my imagination, or do I feel his heart leap beneath my fingertips?

“Oh, you did, Jesse. You definitely did.” His eyes shutter, but only until I add: “In the best way.”

He blazes back to life, gaze scorching, muscled chest heaving, and I turn on my heel with as much dignity as I can muster in a green one-piece swimsuit.

Badass. Walk like a badass. Keep him staring.

“They’ll call you back in a few minutes,” I say over my shoulder, sashaying away.

The star watches every single step I take to Franklin’s trailer. A slow smile curves his mouth when I turn back and meet his eye.

And when the metal door bangs shut behind me, shutting me in blissfully cool shadows, I collapse against it like I’ve just run twenty miles.