Page 6 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

T hree days later, I’m leaning against the scratched surface of a bar, watching Darla from across the room as I swig from a bottle of bubbly water. It’s fizzy and cool, refreshing and a little bitter. If I spooned in a big heaping of sugar, it’d be just like her.

Squeezed into a booth with her uncle and some of the crew, Darla tosses her head back and laughs.

It’s booming and confident, the best sound I’ve ever heard, rising above the wailing of a young local guy into a microphone.

A few patrons glance over at her, eyebrows raised, and I wish I could knock their heads together.

I don’t care whether they’re judging her or wanting her.

Either way, I wish they were all gone. Wish it was just the two of us in this bar, and that she’d look at me with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes again.

That she’d let me lift her onto the wooden booth table, push her legs apart, and bury my face against the seam of her purple leggings.

Damn. When did I turn into such a caveman?

It’s a Thursday, a.k.a Riptide ’s weekly karaoke night. Normally, I’m happy enough to come along and blow off steam, to chat with the crew and wince dramatically when Franklin takes to the stage. Maybe to go all-out on a packet of roasted peanuts so long as I schedule extra time at the gym.

I never sing, because I suck at it. And for a normal person, that would mean mild embarrassment, but for me? A few cell phone recordings could damage my whole career.

Especially if I want to move along from Riptide anytime soon.

I shift against the bar, my phone a lead weight in my jeans pocket. I got the email late this afternoon. A hotshot director in L.A wants to set up a meeting—wants to hear me read for a major role in a new pilot he’s filming. He came to me , reaching out via my wheezy agent.

This could be big. Really big.

If I land this part, it could make Riptide look like the kiddie pool.

“So serious these days.”

I know I’ve been in my head when Darla’s husky voice makes me jolt.

She’s standing right next to me, her elbows propped on the bar while she waits to be served, and fuck, for the last three days, I’ve been hyper-aware of this girl.

Tuned into every half smile and each turn of her head; noting her habit of absent-mindedly patting her pockets; wanting to smooth down the curling collar of her black polo shirt.

Wanting to tug her against my chest, and feel all her softness against my hard frame.

I’ve memorized Darla. I know every dip and swell and surface of her body; I know exactly how she’d fit to my hands, if I ever got to touch her. How her silky blonde hair would feel, sliding through my fingers. How she’d sigh.

I’m obsessed. So deep under her spell. Then she sneaks up on me?

“Jesse Hendry is a very serious guy.” God, I sound bitter. That’s not good, so I force a blinding smile. “Haven’t you heard?”

But Darla’s not buying it. She hums, hazel eyes tracing over my features like a caress, lingering on my dimples, before she turns to the bartender and orders a soda.

“I’m driving,” she tells me casually. She changed out of her Riptide polo before coming here, and the way her blue wrap dress hugs her curves makes my throat ache. “Ferrying Franklin around like the queen.”

I raise my own bubbly water. “Welcome to the clear heads club.”

Me, I’m not driving, but I want to look over that email again later. Research the project, and see what I can dig up about the director. I need all my brain cells accounted for.

Would Darla think it’s dumb—my going out for another role? Shit, would she tell her uncle?

“You want to get out of here?”

It takes a few seconds to realize I asked the question. Darla blinks at me, a full bottle of soda in her hand. Beads of condensation cling to the glass, trickling over her soft-looking fingers, and she literally just told me she’s driving Franklin tonight. Dumbass.

“Oh.” Darla tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I—um—”

“Forget it. Sorry. Finish your drink.” I push away from the bar, my uncharacteristic dour mood following me like my own personal rain cloud. “I need to get home anyway. Big rescue scene tomorrow. You know how it is.”

“Jesse—”

I hit her with my most dazzling, most practiced smile as I step past, and Darla scowls like I stomped on her foot. My steps falter for half a breath, but I push forward, nudging my way through the loosely-packed crowd.

It’s so hot in here. Muggy and humid, with a sticky wooden floor.

No one stares at me in this bar anymore; the cast and crew of Riptide are old news in this joint, thank god. The door to the street creaks open, and I step out into the fading light and cool spots of rain.

The singing and chatter of the bar fade away as the door swings shut behind me. Further along down the street, a truck rumbles around a corner, and if you peer through the gaps in the buildings, you can see the ocean from here.

“Shit,” I say with feeling, shoving my hands in my pockets. The cool air makes my cheeks feel even hotter. “ Shit .”

I really need to get my head on straight. Need to land that pilot.

And I need to give poor Darla some damn space, because she’s made it pretty clear how she feels over the last few days with her careful distance, keeping me at arm’s length with her polite smiles.

Darla’s not interested in a washed-up star.

Honestly. Who can blame her?

* * *

“We need to talk.” Darla pushes the bottle of water into my hand the next morning, gripping my elbow and dragging me a short distance away from the other lifeguards.

A couple of them watch us go, openly curious, but mostly they’re gulping down their drinks and swabbing towels over their chests, lost to everything outside the take we just did and the next one coming.

I remember that focus. That immersion.

Maybe I’d get that feeling again on this pilot.

I raise my palms as Darla rounds on me, embarrassment stiffening my spine. “We don’t need to do this. I got the message, okay? Loud and clear.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, the valley of her cleavage suddenly even deeper through her polo shirt collar, and fuck. I want to lick it. I want to slide my fingers down there. I want her topless and flushed, bending over my lap, squeezing my cock between her magnificent tits.

And that’s why I’m getting this lecture. Fucking hell.

“I don’t think you did get the message, actually.

” Darla’s annoyed, her shoulders tense and her lips pressing together between sentences.

Hazel eyes scowl up at me. “Because I don’t want you to leave me alone, Jesse.

I want you to stop hovering on the sidelines, acting like you don’t trust yourself with me. ”

Hovering on the sidelines? I haven’t been holding back to be weird. I’ve been giving her space; respecting her boundaries.

She’s over a decade younger than me, and just starting out in her career. I’d be the worst kind of asshole if I misjudged this.

I snort. “Maybe I don’t trust myself with you.”

Because I want to be a better man than this. More controlled. I want to stop looking at her fucking cleavage like it’s the promised land, and I want my mouth to stop going dry every time I catch a glimpse of her.

I want to focus on my work, and I want to stop the vivid slideshow playing on a loop in my head: the one where I push her up against the side of my trailer, or lay her down in the sand, or coax her into my private shower.

But: “Good,” Darla snaps, “I don’t want you to be noble about this.” And beneath the haze of her anger, there’s something else. Something flushed and breathless about her.

Her throat works as she swallows, tearing her eyes away from mine, and they roam over my chest instead. My arms. My abs. Watching the way goosebumps prickle over my bare skin in the breeze; the way my nipples harden under her gaze.

Heat coils low in my gut, vicious and sudden. With a huff, I tug the towel from around my neck and hold it in front of the hardening length pressing against my swim shorts.

Darla’s mouth twitches. Spreads into a wide smile.

And I grin too, my irritation melting away like a dropped ice cream cone. This is ridiculous.

“If you ever do want me to leave you alone…”

“I’ll say so. I promise.” She’s waiting, so sweet and expectant for something else, and even though I need every spare minute over the next few days to prep for this audition, even though there’s a serious risk I’m about to quit on her beloved uncle…

I can’t disappoint her again. Can’t let this chance slip through my fingers.

“I, uh.” This might sound like a horrible line, but here goes. “I prefer to stay out of the public eye when I can help it. But would you like to come over to my place tonight? I’ll cook you dinner.”

The pleased flush that creeps over her cheeks—that’s it. My new favorite color.

“Are you sure?” Darla whispers, throwing a nervous glance at the other actors.

I nod. “I’m sure.”

She plucks at her polo shirt, eyeing my bare chest again. “And you won’t be too tired from the week’s heroics?”

My grin widens. “Why, Darla? You gonna put me through my paces?”

And it’s worth the crossed wires and awkward silences we’ve had; the stilted conversations and tense shoulders. All of it is worth it, because when Darla throws her head back and laughs…

I feel like one of the kites the locals fly along the beach, soaring in giddy circles high above the sand.