Page 13 of Take 2
Chapter Eleven
T he sun is low behind the hotel. Yachts pepper the darkening Mediterranean. The stainless-steel edge of the glass balcony rail is cool under my hands.
How am I here?
“Is that Oscar-nominated screenwriter Mirabelle Sheridan?”
I sigh dramatically. “The paparazzi can really find me anywhere.”
“What do you think?” Preston asks from the other side of a concrete wall.
“That I’m glad the balconies are properly divided.”
“Really? That’s it?”
“Also, that your true genius lies in writing a movie in a stunning location so you can visit it.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Preston?”
A knock sounds from inside the room. I go in and unlock the connecting door to Preston’s room.
“Hi.” He squeezes past me, which is more contact than we really need to have. He smells like soap and citrus, and his hair is darker since it’s a little damp. “This looks familiar.”
“Like the identical room you just came from?”
“Yes! That’s it.” He leans back against the dresser, but his smile is forced. “Ready to get dinner?”
“I guess so. My body doesn’t really know what meal it’s supposed to be time for or if it’s time for bed.”
“Yeah, I’m feeling that.”
“You look tired.”
“I am.” He straightens up and takes a deep breath as if to rally himself. “Shall we?”
“Are you sure?” It may not just be tiredness I’m seeing on him. He looks a little green.
“Absolutely.”
I insist on the hotel restaurant tonight, given he’s obviously not feeling one hundred percent. The Lobby Lounge Restaurant and Bar boasts sea views too, and we order a few appetizers, but Preston barely touches them.
“Are you okay?” I eyeball him as he takes the tiniest sip of water possible.
“Mhmm.”
Liar.
When we’re done, he takes a deep breath before slowly standing up.
“The bathroom is this way.” I reach up to his shoulder to direct him, and he hurries ahead of me. Stubborn pain in the ass. I go to the concierge to get the French version of Dramamine and wait outside the restrooms.
When Preston comes out, his skin is ashen. “I’m sorry.”
“For lying to me about being fine?” I rub his back as we walk to the elevators.
“For screwing up the beginning of the trip.”
“Let’s just get you into bed. This doesn’t ruin anything, but I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunity for that.”
He shoots me some side eye and leans back against the elevator wall. I keep a hand on his muscled arm as we go down the hall. We both go into his room, and I pull the blankets back and close the curtains while he’s in the bathroom. The door opens behind me.
“Here’s some water and—” I turn around to find him dragging his feet toward the bed with no shirt on.
It’s May in Monaco, so I assumed I would see his bare chest at some point, but I wasn’t prepared.
Someone didn’t get the memo that writers are supposed to be hermits who only get exercise when we walk from our computers to the kitchen and back.
“Thanks.” He takes the pills from me and drops onto the bed.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?”
He shakes his head, but I go into the bathroom to dampen a washcloth with cold water. When I come out, he’s still sitting up with his face in his hands. “Hey, let me see.” I pull his hands down and press the inside of my wrist to his forehead.
“You’re freezing,” he says.
“No, you’re hot—feverish.” Ugh. “Lie down.” I lay a hand on his bare shoulder to guide him down to the pillow and place the cloth on his forehead. “Are you going to make it weird if I help you take your pants off?”
“Mira, you are always allowed to take my pants off.”
I laugh as I unbutton his jeans. “You’ll regret that at the next Oscars.
” The jeans try to take his boxers with them, showing off his Adonis belt.
Which I can proudly think of as such after Googling it when a novel had the audacity to refer to the V-shaped ridges on a man’s lower abdomen that way.
I remind myself of these things to distract from the fact that I am taking the pants off this man who is too hot for words.
“This was not part of the plan,” he mumbles.
“Me taking your pants off?”
“Oh, that was definitely the plan.” Apparently, he threw up his inhibitions along with the contents of his stomach. Full honesty it is.
I toss the jeans on the floor. “What else did the plan entail?”
“Make you fall in love with me, obviously.”
My lips press together as I pull in a deep breath. “Oh, you are in bad shape. I promise I won’t hold you to any ridiculous things you say while you’re sick.”
“It’s not ridiculous.”
“Of course it is, Preston. I can’t fall in love with you.” Nope. Even on my current track of making incredibly stupid decisions, that would take the cake.
He scoots to the middle of the king-sized bed and grabs my hand. I let him pull me closer. It takes a bit of a jump, but I sit by the pillows.
“This whole episode wouldn’t be the hindrance anyway.
” I comb my fingers through his hair, and— What the hell?
It is so soft I am about to have a Despicable Me , “it’s so fluffy,” moment.
Except it isn’t fluffy, it’s silky. My fingers are ruined now.
Next time I go shopping with James, I’m going to say that every fabric feels rough because it’s not as fine as Preston Greene’s hair.
“This is actually a romance trope, except it’s usually him taking care of her when she’s sick.
It doesn’t really work as well this way. ”
“Why doesn’t the gender-swap work?”
“Because women are expected to be nurturing.”
“Says you.” Preston keeps his eyes closed as we talk.
“I am literally nurturing you right now, so shut up.”
“That sentiment was very nurturing.”
I pinch his neck, then return to stroking his hair.
“Also, women can be on the brink of death and still claim to be fine and that we don’t need anything, so accepting care is a bigger deal.
The whole man-flu thing of, ‘I have the sniffles, so I’m bedridden and need you to take care of me,’ is considerably less romantic. ”
“I tried to claim I was fine.”
“I know, just telling you why the trope doesn’t go that way. Furthermore, it’s used to show that the stoic, emotionally unavailable man can, in fact, be tender when it comes to her, hence cracking his grump character type.”
“In this case, you’re the grump, so it works.”
A squeak-gasp escapes me. “I am not a grump. And you are certainly no sunshine.”
“You’re emotionally unavailable.”
“Oh, Preston, that’s not true. I have so many emotions when it comes to you: irritation, hostility, resentment.”
“Jealousy.”
“Only of your hair.”
He reaches up and rakes his hand through it until he reaches my hand, and his fingers weave between mine.
I go rigid, but then he squeezes lightly and pulls my hand to his chest. Somehow, this feels more dangerous than taking his pants off.
Being attracted to him, I can blame on him.
I mean, really, his physique is just rude.
I’m only human. This feeling nice is inexcusable, though.
If James thought the dressed-up, award-show version of him distracted from our (okay, my) vendetta, he’d never believe how disarming, sleepy, sick Preston is.
Two acclaimed screenwriters sit together in Monaco for a film shoot, but I’m thinking about college kids in Wisconsin thinking they knew which dreams they could achieve.