Falling for Grace

by Kate O'Keeffe

  We slept late, waking up to the sun streaming through the windows. We’re now sitting on the patio under the shade of a sun umbrella, listening to the waves rolling onto shore.

  “Here you go,” Sam says, placing a bowl of porridge on the table in front of me. “Porridge the way it’s meant to be.”

  I look closely at the bowl. It looks like porridge. I give it a sniff: smells like porridge too.

  Sam sits down opposite me. “Try it,” he encourages.

  I pick up my spoon, load it up and place it in my mouth. Although I expect warm, sweet, oat-y deliciousness like Mum used to make, it’s distinctly salty—and not in a good way. I swallow quickly. I don’t want to offend Sam with what I really want to do: spit it out and throw the entire bowlful in the sea.

  “So?” he asks, an expectant look on his face.

  “It’s yummy,” I lie.

  His belly laugh suggests he doesn’t buy it for one minute.

  “Have another spoonful, then,” he says, his face creased in a smile.

  I take the challenge. “Sure will. I’d love nothing more.”

  I load my spoon up for a second time and brace myself for another mouthful. In it goes. Ugh. Just as bad as last time.

  My teeth clunk on something metal. “Ow,” I complain. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a coin. Two dollars, to be exact.”

  I slip the coin out of my mouth, swallowing the salty oat abomination.

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “It’s tradition, I suppose. We didn’t have that much while I was growing up so when Mum had some spare cash she’d put a coin in my porridge. Feeling that clunk against my teeth meant a bag of sweets later in the day for me.”

  Sam’s eyes are misty. I smile at him. “She sounds really sweet.”

  “She is. You’ll have to meet her someday.”

  Warmth spreads through my chest. “I’d love to.”

  His phone beeps, breaking the spell.

  He picks it up and begins to read. I try my porridge again, telling myself it’s important to Sam I like this. Two spoonsful later I know t ‘liking’ may be a step too far.

  I return my bowl to the kitchen, surreptitiously sliding the remains into the bin and put some bread into the toaster.

  When I return to the patio with my peanut butter toast a few minutes later Sam is still looking at his phone.

  “What are you reading?” I ask as I peer over Sam’s shoulder.

  “It’s nothing,” he replies, turning his phone off so I’m met with a black screen.

  Suspicious, I narrow my gaze at him. “Tell me.”

  He sighs. “You won’t like it.”

  “More stuff in the media? I thought you told me not to read stuff about us.”

  He nods. “You shouldn’t. This is different though.”

  “Show me.”

  He switches his phone back on and hands it to me. “Here.”

  I look at the screen, barely believing what I read.

  Vanessa says, ‘I’ll stand by my man.’

  Confused, I look at Sam.

  He shrugs, as though it’s no big deal.

  I scroll through the article.

  Double-crossed in love Vanessa Hudson has told The Global Gazette she has forgiven Sam Montgomery for his shameful affair with local model Grace Mortimer. Vanessa said she and Sam were currently holidaying in an undisclosed part of New Zealand, more in love than ever. “We love each other. We’ve been together for years. We’ve talked about it and he regrets what he’s done. It was a mistake and we’re moving on with our lives.”

  I turn back to Sam. “Has she? Talked to you, that is?”

  “Yeah. We talked about it with David, our PR guy, once the story about you and me broke. I knew she was going to do this.”

  Shocked, I squeak, “You did?”

  He stands up and pulls me into him. “I know this feels strange. This whole fame thing is new to me too. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. But David knows what he’s doing. You need to remember, Grace, it’s all just a game. None of this matters.” He gestures towards his phone. He reaches across and takes my hand in his. “What matters is you and me.”

  I can’t help but feel like a child, left out of the fun. Not that this feels even remotely like fun, of course.

  “But… but you hatched this plan to talk to the media without telling me.”

  “I didn’t think it mattered. Not to us.”

  “You didn’t think it mattered?” I stammer.

  “Grace, sweetheart. It’s not real. Don’t you get it?”

  Wounded, I reply, “It sure feels real.”

  “It’s not. Please don’t let it get to you. There’s no point. The last thing I want is for something like this to come between us.” He shoots me an imploring look.

  “Okay,” I concede, nevertheless still feeling unsettled. “How much longer do you think you need to pretend with Vanessa?”

  “Until the movie’s out.”

  I nod. “That’s not long, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  I can do this. Just because the world doesn’t know about Sam and me, doesn’t matter.

  Although it might matter to my family, my new sister.

  He gives me a hug. “Now, how about we go for that hike you mentioned? I could do with some exercise.” He grins at me, a glint in his eye. “Or at least some less horizontal exercise.”

  I smile. “Sure. Sounds good. I’ll go and get ready.”

  As he follows me into the house I ignore the small knot of worry sitting heavily in my belly.

  * * *

  “You were right, this view is stunning. Worth the climb, that’s for sure.”

  We’re standing at the top of Te Mata Peak, a beautiful hill soaring above the verdant plains. It’s not far from Waimarama Beach and we’ve hiked up from the car park.

  I stop to catch my breath. “It is, isn’t it? I love it up here.”

  Sam stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. We’re the only people at the summit and the air is warm and clean, the broad expanse of the beautiful pastureland, vineyards, and orchards reaching into the distance.

  “That’s Napier city over there,” I say, pointing towards the coastline, “Hastings city there, and down there is that winery we passed on our drive here, Craggy Range.”

  He looks down the hill to the gorgeous winery, with its pretty pond and row upon row of vines, heavy with grapes.

  “We could go there for a wine tasting after this,” I suggest.

  “Nice idea, but I’m not sure we should risk it.”

  “Oh, of course. I forgot for a moment.”

  “I’ll go in and buy us a bottle, how about that?”

  “Good plan.” He smiles at me and my heart gives a little squeeze.

  I take him by the hand and lead him around a rock. “You can see all the hills from over here.”

  Instead of taking in the view, he grabs my hand and pushes me up against the rock, kissing me long and slowly on the mouth. A sudden rush of desire slams into me.

  “If this is what being stuck between a rock and a hard place is like, I don’t get why people think it’s a bad thing.”

  He chuckles, kisses me again, reaching under my T-shirt to stroke my breasts over my sports bra. My nipples respond immediately.

  My eyes dart around. Still no one here.

  I grab his firm butt, pulling him harder against me. It’s exquisite torture, knowing how much I want him—and how likely it is we could get caught by a pack of unsuspecting tourists with cameras at any moment.

  It adds to the mounting excitement.

  “God, Sam. How do you do this to me?” I whisper into his ear, my need for him roaring through me.

  We hear voices nearby. We both come to an abrupt stop.

  “If you’ll all follow me, there’s a quite splendid view over the hills country from around this rock.”

  “Quick!” Sam pulls away from me, grabs my hand and we race around to
the other side of the rock, hiding from a throng of tourists who have seemingly materialised out of nowhere.

  We lean up against the rock, side by side. My heart is racing.

  “That was close. I wasn’t sure I could contain myself back there,” he whispers.

  I laugh then quickly put my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound. “We’re not very good at keeping our hands off each other, are we?” I whisper.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  We smile at one another. Something in my chest moves.

  “See the way in which seismic activity has shaped these hills,” the tour guide’s voice booms out behind us. “And if you look down you’ll see fossilized shells beneath your feet.”

  “Shall we head back down to the car?” I whisper.

  “Ah, we might have to wait for a wee minute.”

  We both glance down at the notable bulge in his shorts.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” I say.

  He chuckles. “Nothing thinking about my old gran in a string bikini won’t fix.”

  * * *

  Back at the beach house, after a wonderful afternoon of lazy love making, we cuddle up together under the patchwork blanket by the outdoor fireplace, enjoying a glass of Hawke’s Bay Syrah I picked up from Craggy Range Winery on our way back from our hike.

  “So, is that what you want to do? Personal styling?”

  “I’ve only been doing it for a short time, but I really enjoy it. And Jess is a great boss. She makes it fun.”

  “And from what I’ve seen you’re damn good at it. Apart from when you’re feeling your clients up, that is, pretending to take their measurements.” He shoots me a cheeky grin as I remember our awkward pants-measuring experience when we first met.

  “It’s amazing when you find your passion in life. So many people don’t,” he adds.

  I pause for a moment. Is personal styling my passion? Sure, I love working with the clients, seeing their transformation, loving the way they so appreciate what we can do for them. But… no, it’s not my passion.

  ‘Actually, I think designing and making clothes is.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “It is?”

  “Yeah. You know that dress I wore to the party in Auckland? The one where we kissed under the tree?”

  A smile breaks across his face. “Oh, yes. The short one that showed off your sexy legs. I definitely remember that one.”

  I laugh, embarrassed. “I made it.”

  “You did? Wow, you’re good.”

  I feel a surge of pride. “Thanks.”

  “So why haven’t pursued it? You’ve obviously got talent. Why not make a career of it?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never thought I’d be good enough.”

  “Hey, you won’t know until you try.”

  I scrunch my nose. “Maybe one day. When did you know acting was your passion?” I ask, deflecting attention away from myself.

  His face lights up. “God, as long as I can remember. I went to see a Star Wars film when I was about seven. All of my friends wanted to be a Jedi: I wanted to be the guy who played a Jedi. After that I learned whatever I could about acting. I made my long-suffering mum take me to audition after audition.” He smiles at the memories.

  “Did you get any?”

  “Yes, a few commercials, bit parts. That sort of thing. There was one advertisement I did for a kid’s toy my friends back in Glasgow still rib me about to this day.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “It was . . . ahh . . . well, let’s just say I was a pretty boy and I had long-ish hair. So, they decided to cast me as a girl.”

  I roar with laughter. “How old were you?”

  “I was eight. It nearly ruined me in the schoolyard, I can tell you. To this day my so-called friends call me Pollyanna.”

  “And I bet you were a very good Pollyanna too.”

  He chuckles. “I was. You can watch it on YouTube sometime if you want a good laugh.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  He sighs. “I only wish my work didn’t come with all this media attention crap.”

  “Can’t you be an actor without being famous?”

  “Oh, yes.” He chuckles. “That’s what I did for the first ten years of my career.”

  “So why can’t you go back to that? I mean, you act because you love it, right? Fame isn’t your goal.”

  “That’s like saying why not climb down the corporate ladder because you enjoy sorting mail. People don’t do that. They follow a logical career progression, working their way up. For me that means going from off-Broadway type plays and TV commercials to film and television work. Fame is simply part and parcel of that.”

  I regard him quizzically. “I guess.”

  I find it hard to relate to. I don’t want to be famous, don’t want to see my face plastered over magazines, read about myself in the media. To want that seems like you have something to prove, maybe even that you think you’re not enough.

  Sure, I’ve modelled—never very well, I might add—but I didn’t do it to become famous. I did it to pay the rent.

  Perhaps it’s something I won’t ever understand about Sam.

  “When exactly is this movie you’ve made out?” I ask.

  He leans in and kisses me.

  “What was that for?”

  “I love that you have no idea about my career.”

  “You do?” I respond in surprise. “I’m sorry. I thought it might bother you. I admit I’ve Googled you since I met you, but I hadn’t heard of you before.”

  “Don’t apologise. It’s a good thing. So many people change who they are around me because they have some hidden agenda.” He shrugs. “I’ve been used more times than I care to admit, so I’m a bit wary these days. But you? Either you’re a really good actor, Grace, or you’re the real deal.”

  I snicker. “The height of my acting career was when I was a tree in a play in high school. My drama teacher said I wasn’t believable.”

  “As a tree?”

  I nod. “So, you see, I’m all me: what you see is what you get.”

  “Well I like what I see.” He leans down and kisses me again before we resume our comfortable positions, snuggled up in front of the fire, the stars twinkling above us in the clear night sky.

  “Sam?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Why me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why did you choose me? There must be thousands of women who want to get you into bed.”

  “It’s been known to happen. Not thousands, exactly. And certainly not in one night.” His eyes sparkle as he smiles. He puts his fingers under my chin and raises it so we’re looking directly into one another’s eyes. “You’re amazing, that’s why. And beautiful, and smart, and sexy as hell. And you fell on me.” He grins, raising his eyebrows at me suggestively.

  I laugh, warmed by his compliments, loving the way he makes me feel.

  “I’m all those things. Clearly,” I jest and he chuckles. “But a guy like you? You could have anyone. Anyone at all. Why pick me?”

  He pauses for a beat, expels air. “I guess I’m ready. I’m tired of meaningless hook ups, of easy women wanting to sleep with their idea of who I am. And their idea of me is so far from the truth. You?” He strokes my cheek, looking deep into my eyes. “You don’t care about any of that stuff. You want me for me, not because you’re a die-hard Portal 51 fan wanting to bed the star. You have no idea how refreshing that is for me.”

  I shake my head. “That’s such an alien concept to me. I can’t imagine people wanting me because they think I’m someone I’m not.”

  “It happens, all the time. I’ve met people who call me Geronimo.”

  “Why?” I ask, half amused, half perplexed.

  He grins at me. “See? You don’t even know that’s my character’s name on the show. It’s Geronimo Fairchild, in case you’re interested.”

  “Of course I’m interested. Tiffany gave me the b
ox set of Season One. I plan on watching it when you head back to the US.”

  He kisses me again, this time it’s nice and slow, making my body tingle. “You’re real, Grace. And I love that about you.”

  It feels so good, so right. I can’t imagine ever not wanting this with Sam. This incredible man, whose arms I fell into. Who somehow wants to be with me.

  * * *

  Sunday morning rolls around far too fast. I wake up, my limbs entwined with Sam’s, the muffled sound of the waves crashing onto the shore the only sound.

  As I gaze at his face my heart gives a little squeeze. His beautiful eyes are closed but he’s still as handsome as ever. His hair is tangled, his luscious mouth is parted, and dark blonde stubble has appeared on his face overnight.

  As I think of our time here at the beach a smile spreads across my face and my tummy fills with wonderful, serene warmth.

  I’ve fallen for this man: hook, line, and sinker.

  I should be panicking, worrying about what comes next. I’m not. I know there are huge hurdles to overcome. I know he lives in another country, I know the world thinks we have had an affair and he’s now returned to Vanessa.

  Sam’s right: it all means nothing.

  It’s him, it’s me: it’s us.

  “Morning, beautiful. What are you smiling at?” His voice is sleepy, rumbling through me, waking my body.

  “You.” I reach over and touch his face with my fingers.

  He takes hold of my hand, turns my palm over and kisses it gently.

  “Why Rick Deckard?”

  He regards me through groggy eyes. “What?”

  “You told Jessica to deliver the clothes to Rick Deckard.”

  He smiles. It’s lazy, sexy. “Rick Deckard is the lead character in Bladerunner.”

  “Okay,” I reply uncertainly.

  He sits up on an elbow, looking into my face. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Bladerunner.”

  I scrunch my nose “Sorry. I don’t think I have.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s a classic. Harrison Ford plays Rick Deckard, special agent in the LAPD. His job is to ‘retire’ replicas, androids. Ridley Scott directed it. Still no bells?”

  I shake my head, bite my lip.