“We don’t have to do that to have fun,” you retort.
“I guess.” Buffy shrugs as she heads for the bathroom, “But if he happens to find the keys to your chastity belt, at least you’ll be ready.”
You laugh as she skates off to the bathroom and shuts the door firmly behind her.
Colm’s business card is safely tucked into the bottom of your clutch. You pick up the bedside phone and dial for an outside line. Pacing as far as the phone cord will allow, you start to rehearse what you’re about to say. Before you have a chance to come up with anything, a thickly accented voice answers.
“Colm?” you ask.
“It is,” he replies. The rich sound of his voice sends shivers up your spine.
You hesitate for a moment then go for it. “Um, this is Anna . . . Chambliss . . . from this morning? We met at the interview?”
Ugh, you think. Could you sound any lamer?
“Uh, no, actually. Anna who?”
Your heart drops as you realize you’ve made so little an impression that he doesn’t even remember you from a few hours before. What do you do now? A sickening silence fills the air between you.
“Anna?” asks the voice on the other end of the line.
“I’m here,” you tell him in a slightly strangled voice.
Colm breaks into a deep-throated laugh. “Anna, I’m having you on. Of course I remember you. How could I forget?”
You breathe an enormous sigh of relief and smile. “I completely thought you were serious.”
“I could tell,” Colm says, still laughing. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
You laugh, too, and your heartbeat starts to slow a little.
“So . . . are you calling to retract everything you told me this morning?”
“No, no. Not at all. In fact, I can’t wait to see how the piece turns out. I really enjoyed the interview with you. You did a great job.”
“Mmmmm,” purrs Colm, his accent suddenly stronger. “Flattery will get you at least five more lines.”
This gets you laughing again. You feel like a teenager, unable to control your giggles.
“Actually, I am calling for a reason.” You pause again to regain your composure. How do you do this, anyway? You’ve never really asked a guy out before, and certainly not one you’ve just met that morning. This is totally unfamiliar ground and not comfortable in the least.
But Colm makes it easy. “Let me test my telepathy skills,” he says. “You’re calling to tell me what an incredibly sexy specimen of masculinity I am, and that you simply cannot do without me another minute of your life.”
A blush heats your cheeks as he hits the mark much more closely than he knows.
“Uh, that’s close.” You laugh. “I actually called to ask you an enormous favor. And please feel free to say no.” You stop pacing and force yourself to place the business card you’ve been nervously massacring with your fingernails onto the cold, marble countertop. You clear your throat to continue.
“I have this thing tonight—it’s one of those boring benefits where they drone on and on about the latest cause, and this one’s a doozy . . . Anyway, the dinner is most likely going to be barely palatable, and the drinks watered down, but . . . turns out I need to bring a date—I mean an escort—I mean . . . Well, I mean, I was wondering if you might be available to join me.”
After a long silence, Colm responds with a low laugh. “Well, you’ve made the evening sound absolutely scintillating. How could I possibly resist?”
“You can, I mean, really, if you have something else to do . . .”
“Anna, not only do I have nothing else planned, but I wouldn’t pass up a chance to share an evening with you for the world. Plus, it will certainly help to flesh out my article.”
Laughter bubbles up again inside as you realize you have, for the first time, asked a man on a date—and you succeeded! “Okay, then! Great! I’ll have my driver come get you at . . . seven?”
Colm laughs yet again, “I think it would be more proper if I come pick up you. Where are you staying?”
“Who said chivalry is dead?” you ask, and direct Colm to your hotel.
* * *
Much to your surprise, the VIPP dinner seems to fly by. After the headliner, famously botched rock legend, Maxx Swagger, finishes his speech, you barely listen to the endless donation appeals that follow, intent instead on your conversation with Colm. There hasn’t been a single lull or dull or awkward moment. For the sake of intimacy in this fairly public setting, you scoot closer and closer to Colm, until your legs just touch beneath the table. You’re all too aware of the heat generated between the two of you, and you wonder whether Colm has noticed it, too.
Colm speaks like a born storyteller. “So, my childhood was kind of a fairy tale, if I’m honest. Not that it was perfect, but my memories are warm ones. Lots of cousins around all the time, games of hide-and-seek in foggy fields of heather, that kind of thing. Da inherited some property, so we never really had to want for much, and he did love his woodworking. Learned the craft from his father before him, my Grandda, and toiled away for hours in his workshop. Drove my Ma almost to drink it did, with us wee ones running around and him coming in late with his hands full of splinters and smelling of varnish. But the beautiful items he made always made Ma smile, and she was proud of her beautiful home, and happy that he was happy.”
You smile as he laces his fingers with yours under the table, tracing the outline of your palm with his slightly rough thumb as he continues. “I was always dyin’ to know how Da took those rough-hewn lengths of walnut and cherry and transformed them into something altogether different, the hard edges softened and glowing, the joints of each piece fitting together just so. When I was finally grown enough he let me watch him work, still not trusting me around the lathe and saws, but soon he was letting me help and teaching me his craft. I had a knack, he saw, and I loved learning.” He breaks off and gazes out into the middle distance, then gathers himself up, as if returning to reality. “But, as Da always said, you can’t make a living in a workshop, not the kind of living he wanted for me, anyway, and I always did love to write. Took top honors in school for it, then came to the States for a degree with some meat to it. So here I am, just a touch disillusioned that WE’s been my only offer so far, but I’m just getting started. Didn’t quite know it would be so dog-eat-dog out here, you ken?”
Gazing into his eyes, you feel you’ve known Colm far longer than the brief time you have, and you’re suddenly sad that the evening has to end. As the last speech comes to a close and the applause dies down, Colm leans back in his chair to stretch his muscular arms. You can’t help but feast your eyes on the play of the crisp white cotton of his shirt against the firm flesh beneath. Neither of you has made much of a dent in the now cold mushroom-smothered chicken on your plates. Colm reaches his large, warm arm over your chilly shoulders and inclines his head to whisper, “So, would you fancy getting some real dinner?”
You smile. “Sounds perfect,” you say.
Colm takes you to his favorite Italian restaurant and orders a bottle of wine. You can’t get over how much you’re enjoying his company and hope that the feeling is mutual. You order a sinful lobster-filled ravioli and savor every bite. Colm wolfs down his thick slab of beef lasagna in what seems like three bites. You find yourself leaning over the table to bridge the distance between you, unconsciously twirling a lock of hair around your finger as you and Colm trade childhood stories. You feel you could listen to his voice forever.
Sometime during the dinner, he’s taken your hand across the table and gently massages your fingers as you talk. Could you really be feeling this strongly after knowing Colm for only one full day? You know you’ll be awake tonight analyzing and replaying every perfect moment.
At midnight, Colm suggests he take you back to the hotel, remembering your early flight the next morning. He pulls the car slowly into the circle in front of the hotel and comes to a stop, lingering for a moment before p
utting the car into Park. Is it your imagination or is he as hesitant as you are to let this night end?
“Well, Anna,” he begins, “I can’t thank you enough for a lovely evening. I truly can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much.”
You feel another blush rise to your cheeks. “Me too. I can’t think of anyone I would have rather spent the night with—I mean the evening with. I mean . . .”
What is wrong with you? You’ve never been this tongue-tied and awkward around a man. You shake your head in embarrassment and look down at your hands.
Colm takes your left hand in his and gently lifts it to his lips. The soft brush of his kiss sends a tremble all the way to your toes. You look up to his eyes and he returns your gaze, your hand still in his. His right hand reaches up to the back of your neck and he gently but firmly takes the small of your neck in his large, warm hand and pulls you close, looking deeply into your eyes. You catch your breath as he pulls you into him, and your lips meet in the most effortlessly amazing embrace you’ve ever experienced. You feel as though you’re spinning as he kisses you deeply, and you see fireworks burst behind your closed eyelids. You never really believed that actually happened! You reach out to run your fingers through the thick, soft hair at the nape of his strong neck and are overwhelmed by the heat rushing through your body.
You kiss and kiss again, feeling like a girl on her first date, when kisses meant everything.
Much too soon, Colm pulls gently away. You breathe in his fragrance, masculine and musky. You feel safe and warm, and like nothing else matters but the two of you in this moment. The feel of his broad, firm chest under the cool, smooth fabric of his shirt against your skin is almost too much to bear.
He moves to look again into your eyes, rests his forehead against yours, and, smiling, gives you the smallest kiss on the tip of your nose. You return his smile and brush your cheek against the roughness of his face, and feel completely at home. Your heart beats fast and you realize you’re feeling something entirely new: a need to be with this man that overpowers every other need you’ve ever known.
You have the overwhelming urge to tell him that you love him, but how silly would that be? You silently chide yourself. Is there such a thing as love at first sight? You’ve never believed it, but maybe . . .
“Well,” says Colm, still smiling in the most adorably handsome way possible.
You look at him and smile in return, then take what feels like the first breath of your life.
“You’ve an early plane to catch,” he says, “and I’ve kept you late enough already.”
“I’ll be fine,” you tell him. “I can always sleep on the plane.”
“Well, in any case”—Colm smiles—“I need my beauty sleep. I’ve an early date with a cubicle.”
“You’re welcome to come up . . . for coffee . . . if you’d like,” you offer.
“Anna, I would love to—you’ve no idea—but honestly, this night has been so perfect . . . we should sleep on it, don’t ye think?”
You manage a smile around the profound disappointment you feel. “Okay. You’re right. It’s just, I hate the fact that I’ll be leaving in the morning for so long, and this time with you has been so wonderful, and we’ve had so little of it.”
You realize you sound close to desperate, but you just can’t stop yourself from trying for a few more moments with this incredible man.
Colm looks at you tenderly and takes both of your hands in his, then presses his slightly callused palms against yours.
“Anna, I have loved this, every single moment. And it has been too short. But I’m a believer in fate, and I know that if it’s meant to be, it will be. Even if it is in a few months’ time.”
Although you can’t stand the thought of being apart for even a second, you know in your heart that he’s right. You take his face in your hands, kiss him deeply one last time and thank him for a magical evening. As you pass through the door to the hotel and walk toward the elevator, you wonder if you look as transformed as you feel.
From page 37, from page 44 (and continued from above) . . .
Back in your hotel room, you fall into a dreamless sleep until the phone rings loudly, jolting you awake in what must be the middle of the night. You brush your hair off of your face and squint at the bedside clock. Five a.m. Could it possibly be morning already? Thoughts of the day ahead immediately assail your sleepy mind. You push back the warm blankets, swing your legs over the edge of the bed, and rub your eyes. All at once, the memory of the night before catapults into your consciousness and you freeze on the edge of your bed in that twilight state where dreams and reality intermingle. You shiver at the confusing jumble of memories.
You stumble out to the foyer and quickly scan the flimsy industry newspaper, The Dailies, slid under your door in the wee hours of the night. You don’t have to look far for the headline about you: IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A HOLLYWOOD MINUTE SINCE HER BREAKUP WITH HAMPTON, BUT IS ANNA ALREADY ONTO A NEW ROMANCE?
Really, this so-called news source has become just as bad as the tabloids. You don’t bother to read the rest of the article but toss the paper onto the bedside table and gather your messy hair into a ponytail. Suddenly the day ahead doesn’t look so bad.
* * *
Arriving at the airport, you offer Bodhi a quick goodbye and wish him a happy vacation.
You luxuriate in the sunlight streaming through the little window of your private jet and listen to the familiar sounds of pre-flight preparations. You’re completely lost in thoughts of the night before when Buffy comes bouncing up the aisle and lands in the seat next to yours, making you jump.
“Did I scare you?” she laughs. “You almost leapt out of your seat! What are you dreaming about anyway? Your upcoming quality time with J-Mike?”
“J-Mike? Oh Lord”—you laugh nervously—“you’ve already given him a nickname?”
“He is smokin’ hot, don’t try to deny it! How can I help myself?”
“Cool your jets, Buffy,” you say, not even trying to stifle a yawn. “Believe me. He’s not all that.”
“Bah humbug! Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed!” Buffy says, kicking off her clogs and stretching her legs out in front of her. “Ahhh, this is the life!”
You stare out the window in silence, hoping Buffy will actually notice you have something else on your mind.
Finally, it clicks.
Buffy turns to you slowly, narrowing her eyes. “So, what is up with you? What happened last night anyway?”
“Last night? Nothing!” You can’t help feel a twinge of panic at how close to home she’s hit.
Buffy laughs, reaching up to adjust the fan above her seat, then stops when she notices your expression.
“What is that look?” she asks you.
You see the opportunity and take it. “I don’t know,” you tell her. “I was just thinking about Colm. The guy is pretty great.”
“Great like you’re writing your first name with his last name in your notebook great?”
“Come on, you know what I mean,” you say with a chuckle. “He’s just seems like a real person—you know—totally grounded.”
Buffy, never afraid to ask the hard questions, asks a doozy. “You sure he’s not gay?”
“Buffy!” you scream, laughing and embarrassed at the same time. She certainly knows how to cut to the chase. “Not gay. Definitely not gay. But that’s not what I meant.”
“I know. I’m just kidding,” Buffy assures you. “But take it slow. You just met the guy.”
“Just worry about yourself, missy. And ‘J-Mike,’ of course,” you tell her, successfully diverting the conversation back to Buffy’s favorite subject.
* * *
As the little plane circles the tiny white islands below and begins its descent toward the brilliant, turquoise sea, you replay the memory of your evening over and over in your head. The thought makes a hot blush rise from your neck despite the chill of the stale, re-circulated cabin air.
/> You distract yourself from the nervous pit in your stomach with thoughts of Colm. What would it be like to have him by your side, helping you off the plane, carrying your luggage, settling into the production trailer you would be sharing? At least it’s a fantasy you can hold close as you navigate the uncomfortable, early days on set with an unfamiliar cast and crew.
From page 163 (and continued from above) . . .
The flight seemed to have passed in an instant, and before you know it you are taxiing along a runway lined with swaying palm trees. You emerge from the plane into a sultry tropical breeze. A rickety taxi with no air conditioning takes you directly to the set where folding tables are set up on the beach for your first script meeting and table read. Buffy busies herself inside your trailer, parked in an unglamorous paved back lot on the other side of the low, rocky dunes separating the beach from the main island. Bulky scripts sit squarely at each place along the table. A flowery tropical drink in a coconut shell, complete with a colorful umbrella plus a skewered tower of pineapple wedges and cherries, stands beside each script. I could get used to this, you think as you head to the table. A sea-scented breeze gently lifts the hair from the back of your neck.
You find your spot. MS. CHAMBLISS is written in bold script across the front of your book. You look to your left and right and are glad to see that Jackson’s spot isn’t right next to yours.
Jeff Jeffries, the little balding director, greets you with a sweaty palm. “Well, Ms. Chambliss, so glad you could make it.” He looks out of his element in this climate. Sweat beads his head and his linen shirt flaps limply in the island breeze. He compulsively wipes his glasses, steamy from the humidity and heat. “Please summon the rest of the cast!” he yells over your shoulder at one of the on-set assistants then grins and gestures to his appearance. “What we don’t do for our art,” he says with a grimace as he takes his place at the head of the table.
You can’t help but laugh to yourself. What would be many people’s idea of paradise is almost insufferable to Jeff Jeffries. He’d be more at home on the streets of New York in winter, but he’s the best, so he’s here.
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