Falling for Grace

by Kate O'Keeffe

  But all I can think about is kissing him, his hands slipping up my neck, tangling his fingers in my blonde hair, his firm, muscular body pressed oh-so wonderfully against mine.

  The kiss is an explosive release of the sexual tension that has been building between us since the moment we met.

  My knees actually go weak.

  What are you doing? my brain screams at me. Step away from the hot guy, I repeat: step away from the hot guy!

  “God, Grace. I’ve wanted to do that since we met,” he mutters against my mouth, our breath mingling as my heart hammers.

  Eventually, after way too long luxuriating in our seductive kiss, I manage to pull away from him. It takes all my strength.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He sighs. “Vanessa?”

  “Of course, ‘Vanessa’. You’re dating her. Remember?” I put my hands on my hips, angry with myself for having succumbed to him—and for enjoying it so much.

  He lets out a breath of air as he leans against the oak tree. He’s silent for some time. I even begin to wonder whether I should leave him here, walk back to the house.

  Eventually he speaks. “Is that the only thing stopping you? Vanessa?”

  “It’s kind of a big one.”

  “Sure.” He stands back up, takes my hands in his. He looks into my eyes. “If I wasn’t dating Vanessa, would you want to be with me?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “But you are.”

  Irritation momentarily passes over his face. “Humour me, okay? What if I wasn’t?”

  “Then . . . yes,” I reply hesitantly.

  His face breaks into a brilliant smile. “Good.”

  “Sam, you are with—”

  He silences me with another kiss, pulling me into him against the tree so my body is leaning right up against his.

  He slides his hands around my waist and up and down my back as our kiss deepens, our bodies taking over.

  It takes all my strength to pull myself away from him a second time. I stand back, looking at him, panting, trying to regain my composure.

  “You’ve got to stop doing that,” I say, my breath shallow.

  “Why?” he asks, a crooked smile on his handsome face. “It’s pretty spectacular.”

  He’s right about that. Spectacular is about the only word to describe those kisses. I suppress a smile, shaking my head. “We can’t. I can’t.”

  He pushes himself off the tree, glances around us. “Look. What if I told you Vanessa and I aren’t actually together? That it’s all for show?”

  Not together? What is he talking about? My heart soars at the prospect.

  Hang on, is this a line?

  I wrap my arms around my body. “Sam, I really don’t think—”

  “Please, Grace. Hear me out.”

  He has such a look of sincerity that despite my misgivings I give him the benefit of the doubt. “Okay.”

  “Vanessa and I were together for a long time. A year ago, we broke up. We didn’t tell anyone.”

  I narrow my gaze. “But you’re together now. It’s all over the media.”

  “And the media is always right?”

  “You have a point,” I concede. “That doesn’t explain why she’s here with you in New Zealand, at this very party, or why she was in your hotel room—your hotel room—with you in Wellington.”

  Does this guy think I was born yesterday—or just hope I was?

  He shrugs. “It’s complicated.”

  “Complicated? Ha!”

  “Look, I’m telling you this because it’s the truth. I want to spend some time with you, get to know you better.”

  “In bed. You want to get to know me in bed.”

  He grins. “Is that so wrong?”

  My girly parts give a traitorous clench. I ignore them.

  I stand up to my full height, steady my nerves with a deep breath. “Maybe not for the likes of Matilda in there.” I cock my head at the house. “But for me it is wrong when you’re dating someone else, even if it’s just for show. Sam, it’s not going to happen. Goodbye.”

  Chapter 10

  I WAKE UP BEFORE daybreak the following morning. I’ve barely opened my eyes when my mind turns to Sam.

  I take a deep breath, try to push him out of my mind: the way his body felt pressed against mine, his scent, his liquid honey voice. And how it felt to kiss him.

  I’m not exactly succeeding here.

  I sigh, my body reacting to the memory. Kissing Sam was good. No, scrub that: it was great. The way he kissed me weakened my knees, rendering me virtually incapable of standing, leaving me breathless, wanting more. Oh, so much more.

  I roll over, stare at the blank wall. The sun is beginning to rise, a hint of the coming day sneaking around the edges of the curtains.

  I don’t want to want him. But I do. Oh, how I do.

  No. The last thing I should do is get myself embroiled with Sam Montgomery.

  I have to fight this. No matter how much my body yearns for him—in a way I haven’t felt before.

  I climb out of bed, stretch. I open the curtains and squint as I look out at the rising sun: orange, red, pink, glowing at the edge of the morning sky.

  I can barely believe I’m going to be on television today. And I need to speak confidently and knowledgably about men’s fashion. Neurons of nervousness instantly begin to ping around my brain.

  Time to pull myself together.

  I head to the shower, hoping to calm my nerves. I let the water run over my face. Despite my best efforts, thoughts of Sam cloud my brain once again.

  Was he telling the truth last night? If so, why would he and Vanessa keep up the pretence of being in a relationship? What’s the point?

  I have to give him points for persistence—and for imagination. The whole ‘we’re in a fake relationship’ thing is certainly a new line on me.

  If it is in fact a line.

  An image of his face flashes up in my mind. He looked so sincere, so crestfallen when I refused him and walked away.

  But then, he is an actor.

  I shake my head. I will probably never know. Chalk it up to experience, Grace.

  Time to put my heart away and get on with my day.

  * * *

  I arrive at the television studio in central Auckland a few minutes early, my nerves running at a huge rate of knots.

  I’m greeted by a guy who’s exceptionally perky for this unholy time of the morning and taken to a dressing room.

  “Take a seat here. Janine will be along to do your hair and makeup shortly. Coffee? Tea?”

  “I’m good thanks,” I reply, taking my seat in front of the well-lit mirror. Adding caffeine to my heightened nerves might not be the best course of action right now.

  A moment later a woman enters the room. She has a blue Mohawk, arranged into an elaborate knot-type arrangement, thick black eyeliner almost reaching her hairline, with brightly coloured tattoos emblazoned on her arms.

  “Hi, love. I’m Janine.”

  This is the woman doing my hair and makeup? I hope she’ll take a more… conservative approach with me.

  “Hi. I’m Grace.”

  She stands behind me, her hands on my shoulders. We both look at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Right, what do we have here?”

  I’m not quite sure what to say. “Umm, just me?”

  She laughs. “Do you want to do anything with your hair, or are you happy to have it down like this? I could do a cute up do?” She gets a hold of my long hair and holds it up high on top of my head.

  Add fruit and I’d look like Carmen Miranda.

  “Perhaps down?” I suggest.

  “Gotcha. Down it is. I’ll just smooth it out for you.”

  I smile, relieved. “That would be lovely, thanks.”

  “First, though, makeup. How do you like it? Natural? Dramatic? Glamorous?”

  I swallow, looking at her thick, black eyeliner. “Natural. Definitely natural.”

  She winks at
me. “Gotcha.” She pulls out a drawer to reveal a makeup collection that would put any self-respecting beauty queen to shame.

  “So, what are you in for, love?”

  She makes it sound like prison.

  “I’m doing the fashion segment. It’s usually Jessica Banks, but she’s sick.”

  “Oh, I love her! She’s a hoot.”

  I smile. “She is.”

  She covers my face in foundation with a small sponge. “What sort of stuff are you doing today?”

  “I’m doing men’s fashion. What’s in for the coming season.”

  “Oh, you lucky bitch. All those hunky male models. Mind you, give me Vin Diesel any day.”

  “Yes, he’s . . . ah, very good looking.”

  “Oh, he’s more than that, love. I would chuck out my bloke and three kids just for a crack at him, I can tell you.”

  I nod. “Okay.” Change the subject. “Have you been a makeup artist for long?”

  She adds concealer under my eyes. “Bloody years. I love it. I’ve been doing Cheryl since she was a newbie.”

  “You have?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She powders my face. “Lovely girl, that one. Although she seemed a bit off today. She got a message on her phone while I was doing her false eyelashes. Leapt out of the chair in a flap and headed straight out the door.”

  “So, she’s wandering around with lopsided lashes?”

  “Yep. One eye has them, the other nothing.”

  I can’t help but giggle.

  “She’ll realise soon enough. You want them?”

  “False lashes?”

  She nods. “I’ve got loads.” She opens another draw and pulls out a box of about twenty different lashes, from big to small to multi-coloured.

  I peer at them. “I think I’ll just stick with some mascara, if it’s all the same.”

  “Of course it is, love. A young girl with your looks doesn’t have to try too hard.”

  I blush a little. I’ve never been very good with compliments.

  She brushes some lipstick onto my lips then stands back. “There. What do you think?”

  I peer at my reflection in the mirror. I look like me only much, much better. When I’ve modelled I’ve had my face done by makeup artists, of course, but Janine has done a quite exquisite job.

  “I want to say I look amazing, but that sounds conceited. So just … thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, love.” She grins at me. “I’ll fix that hair and you’ll be all set.”

  * * *

  “Take a seat here. You’ll be speaking to Cheryl, not looking at the camera. Make it conversational, only make sure to smile all the time, okay?”

  The floor manager doesn’t even wait for my reply.

  Sure, like it’s perfectly natural to be sitting around discussing men’s fashion with Cheryl, smiling like a Looney Tunes character.

  To quell my fears, I glance around the set. It really is extremely pink and green in that ‘in your face’ kind of way. No subtlety here. If their goal is to wake their audience up, they’ve certainly achieved it. I’m glad I went with Jessica’s suggestion and wore blue.

  Cheryl takes a seat next to me. I notice both eyes now have false lashes.

  “Good morning, Grace,” she says pleasantly.

  “Hi, Cheryl. How are you?”

  “Not as good as you, I’m quite sure of that.”

  I look at her, perplexed. What does that mean?

  Before I have the chance to ask her the Wake Up New Zealand theme music begins to play.

  Ah-oh, this is it. I take a deep breath, steady my nerves.

  “On in five, four, three.” Someone points at Cheryl who smiles her famous smile at the camera.

  “Welcome back to the show. Now we are very excited to have Grace Mortimer with us today. Grace is stepping in for Jessica who’s sick. Get better soon, Jess.” She turns to me. “Welcome to the show, Grace. It’s great to have you here.”

  Forget the cameras. Act like it’s just Cheryl and me having a chat.

  “Thank you. It’s great to be here.” I smile at her.

  Phew. Okay, I’ve only said seven words but so far so good.

  Cheryl faces the camera again. “Now before we get those gorgeous male models out here, Grace has some news to share with us.” She sits in expectation.

  News? What is she talking about?

  I paste on the smile again. “Um, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cheryl.”

  She laughs. “Don’t you be coy with me. We know all about it. You and Sam Montgomery.”

  Me and Sam?

  She turns to the camera, a wild look in her eye. “It turns out Grace here has started a relationship with Sam Montgomery, actor on the wildly popular British cult series, Portal 51.”

  Smile forgotten, I sit with my mouth open, utterly agog.

  She turns back to face me. “Tell us all about it, Grace. How did you meet?”

  My eyes dart around the set as I clench my hands in my lap. Why is she doing this to me?

  When it becomes clear I have no intention of talking about Sam, Cheryl says, “They met when Grace fell off the stage at the World of Wearable Arts show in Wellington recently. It was quite the sensation at the time. Our viewers are sure to remember it.”

  An image of me falling into Sam’s outstretched arms flashes up on the monitor.

  It’s official: I want to strangle New Zealand’s television darling, Cheryl Greenacre.

  “Isn’t that romantic? She fell and he caught her. And now it seems they’ve been seeing each other in private.”

  What?!

  “Wake Up New Zealand can reveal the two snuck off together at an A-list celebrity party last night—which was also attended by Sam’s long-time girlfriend Vanessa Hudson—to canoodle secretly under a rather magnificent oak tree.”

  A new photo appears on the monitor, this one of Sam and me together, kissing beneath the tree last night.

  I swallow, my heart racing. Who took that photo?

  “Has this been going on long?” With the camera on me, Cheryl shoots me a self-satisfied look.

  I look wildly around the set. Images of me, looking dismayed, appear on every monitor. “It’s . . . it’s not what it seems,” I manage.

  She arches an eyebrow. “Really? Well perhaps you can tell New Zealand what kissing a man the way you’re kissing him in that photo means to you?”

  God, I could kill her. Slowly, painfully.

  “It was a one off thing. Th-that’s all,” I stammer.

  “A one-night-stand sort of one off thing?” She smiles at me sweetly.

  I narrow my eyes at her, grit my teeth. How dare she do this to me! I’ve never done anything to her. I’m supposed to be here talking about fashion and instead I’m being roasted about a fabricated relationship with Sam.

  “Have he and Vanessa broken up?”

  Shocked, I reply, “No!”

  “So, it’s an affair.”

  She’s putting words in my mouth. I glance wildly around the set. “It’s nothing.”

  She turns to the camera. “Let’s see what our viewers think of that, shall we? Who do we have on line one?”

  “Hi, Cheryl. My name is Beryl. Our names rhyme!”

  “They sure do, Beryl. What did you want to say?”

  I listen, rooted to the spot, not quite believing what’s happening.

  “I’d like to say if one of our Kiwi girls can get the likes of Sam Montgomery, fair play to her.”

  “So, you think it’s all right Grace and Sam are having an affair?”

  What?

  “Cheryl, I told you we—”

  I’m drowned out by the voice on the phone.

  “I’m not condoning that kind of behaviour, Cheryl. All I’m saying is way to go, Grace. He’s hot!”

  I’ve reached boiling point. I stand up. “Excuse me. I . . . I have to go.”

  I rip off my microphone and dash off the set backstage. Momentarily blinded by the lights I trip ov
er a camera cable and fall to my hands and knees.

  People look at me in shock on the floor. I pause, humiliated, catching my breath.

  “Grace Montgomery appears to have declined to comment,” I hear Cheryl say on camera behind me. “I guess I’ll talk us through the fashion today.”

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  Shaking like a leaf I get back onto my feet. I shoot Cheryl the angriest look I can muster. Of course, I know she can’t see me in the dark, but it’s the best I can do.

  With tears streaming down my face, I reach the dressing room and slam the door behind me.

  Fuming, I pace the room. Why did Cheryl do this to me? Last night she seemed so nice. And today? She’s like another person altogether.

  How did someone take a photo of Sam and me kissing last night? I thought we were completely alone. Who was it? And why would they do something like this?

  I wipe my eyes angrily with my sleeve. I’m so enraged I could blow.

  I collect my things and swing the dressing room door open. It slams into the wall, startling some passers-by. I stomp down the corridor and out into the blazing daylight.

  I must look a fright, an angry woman on a mission, with makeup streaming down my face. Several people in the car park stop and stare.

  Finally, I reach my hire car, get in, and collapse in a heap of tears at the wheel.

  What a right royal mess.

  Chapter 11

  I REACH MY HOTEL and dash through reception, noticing a porter watching me closely. He picks up a phone, speaking briefly with someone on the other end.

  My cheeks redden. Did he see the show? Is he calling a journalist?

  Have I become completely paranoid?

  I rush towards the elevator. I press the ‘up’ button countless times until it finally arrives, the doors opening at glacial speed.

  “Come on!” I say through gritted teeth.

  Who operates this thing? A pack of elderly sloths?

  Thankfully the elevator’s empty. I get in, close the doors—come on sloths, pick up the pace!—and stand there seething until I reach my floor.

  Once safely inside my room I drop my bag on the floor and hurl myself onto the bed, my mind racing a mile a minute.