Page 9 of Take 2
Chapter Seven
W aves look like fins. Laguna Beach is known for dolphin sightings, but I really don’t know if I’ve seen a bunch of them or none. Why don’t they jump out of the water and do flips like in the movies? That would be easier.
I look back down at my book and kick my feet behind me.
Any onlooker would assume I’m in full relaxation mode, lying here on my stomach, reading, and occasionally gazing at the Pacific from my beach towel.
Except there’s a notebook underneath my novel.
Consuming stories is always fodder for my own.
Dialogue lines, characters, and plot points come from books, movies, TV, and even songs all the time.
My paperweight rings, and I ignore the call. Even if I’m not fully relaxing, I don’t need to seek out ways to raise my blood pressure.
A text message follows up the call.
Fucking Preston Greene: If I make my number show up as car warranty would you answer?
I slide a bookmark in and let the wind blow the pages when I pick up my phone.
Me: Only if I’m asleep. But calling at any time of day is now considered a hostile act.
Fucking Preston Greene: Just for me or does this apply to everyone?
Me: Everyone, but worse when it’s you.
I roll onto my back to give my elbows a break. When Preston’s response comes through, I drop my phone onto my chest. I jolt up and fumble for it to read the message again.
Fucking Preston Greene: Okay, I’ll just book our flights and send you the confirmations.
My finger jabs at the screen like this is all my phone’s fault.
Preston answers after one ring. “You know, calling is now considered a hostile act.”
“I am hostile,” I snap. “What are you talking about flights for?”
“I’m going to spend a few weeks on a shoot, and you’re coming with me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To meet Rafi.” He says this like I have a fucking clue who he’s talking about.
“Rafi?”
“Rafael Medina.”
There are not enough dolphins in all the oceans. Preston refers to Director Rafael Medina as Rafi.
“I really think he would be a great fit for you. I’d love to introduce you.”
The rainbow wheel spins in my brain as it buffers. I would love to meet Rafael Medina. He’s absolutely a dream director of mine.
“What’s the catch?” I close the book. My mind isn’t going back there anytime soon.
“The catch would be the flying part.”
“Where are you shooting?”
“Monaco.”
My jaw drops. “Like French Riviera Monaco?”
“That’s the one. We can fly out tomorrow evening and get there Saturday evening.”
“We … what? Tomorrow? ”
“I’m trying to minimize the time for you to change your mind and say no.”
“I haven’t said yes!” And I should not. Right?
“Well, hurry up and do that. I don’t know how long the website will let me hold the seats.”
I fold myself over to lean my forehead on the towel. It hurts more than the stretch should, so there’s another reason to do freaking Pilates. “What’s in it for you?”
“I don’t have to travel alone. Maybe you can stop hating me. And there’s the shit about rising tides lift everyone and stuff, so your success is important to me.”
So full of shit. We’ve done an excellent job of avoiding each other for the past five years, aside from the first awards season when we were both nominated. Why is he ruining the beautiful thing we have going: the thing where we each pretend the other doesn’t exist? It’s my favorite.
My mind reels, and my heart races, and it’s Rafael Medina , and Monaco must be beautiful, and— “Okay.” Did I actually agree?
“Great. Booking now.”
“First class. We’re not playing the falling asleep on each other’s shoulders shit.”
“Done.”
“I … um. Okay?” I scrape my fingers through my hair and pull the green scrunchie out.
“I’ll pick you up at noon.”
“Tomorrow?” I confirm.
“Yes.”
“To fly to France?”
“Yes. And it’s too late to cancel. Go pack.” He hangs up and leaves me gaping.
I … need to go pack.