The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  The humidity hits me like a wall as soon as I step out of the plane, squinting at the harsh glare of the sun against the tarmac. It’s so hot, the blacktop steams. Water mirages float like illusory puddles at the other end of the runway.

  “Shit, it’s hot,” Harper says, stripping off her light cardigan and stuffing it into her small duffle as we make our way down the stairs single file. I stare at the space between Grayson’s broad shoulders, at the strap of my duffle bag slung alongside his own. He insisted on carrying it for me, probably in an attempt to appear gentlemanly after his speech, earlier.

  “It is Hawaii,” I point out, looking around at the lush green mountains rising up into the misty clouds. I feel like we’ve been transported to some craggy, prehistoric era. Crystalline blue skies stretch for miles in every direction. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. “God, it’s beautiful.”

  “It is Hawaii,” Harper mocks.

  I shove her lightly. “It looks like something out of Jurassic Park.”

  “Probably because they filmed it here.” Wyatt grins over his shoulder at me as we hit the runway. “Though, if we stumble across any velociraptors, I’d suggest you run. Fast.”

  I roll my eyes. “Ever the film buff.”

  “Who’s driving?” Harper asks, looking at the second Jeep.

  There’s a fraction of a second where Grayson and Wyatt stare at each other. Simultaneously, they burst into motion, racing for the Jeep like two teenagers given car privileges for the first time.

  “Boys,” I mutter, snorting as I watch them jostling for the driver’s seat. Harper and I walk leisurely in their wake. By the time we get there, Wyatt’s settled his hulking frame behind the wheel, relegating a somewhat put-out Grayson to riding shotgun. We scramble into the back, grinning like mad as the engine rumbles to a start.

  The other Jeep is already en route, pulling through the gated exit onto the main road. Sloan is wasting no time getting to the hotel, eager to start micromanaging the staff so we have a green light for filming bright and early tomorrow morning.

  “It’s about thirty minutes to the hotel if you take the main roads,” Wyatt says, watching as their taillights fade from sight. “But I say we take the scenic route. Any objections?”

  At our lack of protest, he shifts into gear and we head through the gated tarmac exit. Foregoing the turn for the main highway, we head onto a winding, narrow road that snakes along the coast, at some points dropping down to a single lane as we pass endless stretches of white sand beach, rocky outcroppings, and more palm trees than I could ever count. Stray chickens wander the dusty shoulder like squirrels, but human sightings are few and far between. The stretch is undeveloped and largely unpopulated. Every now and then, we pass food stands offering shaved ice, giant seasoned shrimp, fresh coconuts and tropical produce.

  “I could get used to this!” I shout over the rushing wind, hair whipping into my face. Harper throws her hands straight up into the air, like we’re on a roller coaster, as Wyatt shifts into a higher gear and the Jeep flies down the road, kicking up dust behind us in a cloud.

  Grayson flips on the radio and messes with the buttons until the familiar strains of a Wildwood song drift out the speakers. It’s strange, hearing Ryder sing, now that I’ve met him in person. Just one more oddity of my new life as a so-called A-lister, I suppose.

  We drive for about twenty minutes, singing to the radio and staring around at the island in awe. When we pass another food stand, nestled by an empty stretch of beach, Harper and I whine until Wyatt concedes to pull off onto the side of the road. As the boys take turns learning how to hack open a coconut with a machete from a local expert, Harper and I strip off our shoes and wander onto the beach, plunking down in the sand to eat our ice. I let the sugary sweetness dissolve on my tongue as I stare out at the azure blue ocean, my heart thumping in time with the steady waves of the Pacific that crash against the coast, and feel a deep peace settle into my bones.

  “I can’t believe we’re here.” I hear the awe in my own voice. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

  “In case I didn’t say it before — thanks for bringing me along for the ride. Some people in this business… they make it big and they forget where they came from. They get fancy new friends to match their fancy new life.” Harper swallows a bite of ice. “Thanks for not being one of them.”

  “Well,” I say quietly. “You know how I feel about fancy people.”

  She bumps her foot against mine in the sand. “Fancy is just another word for fake?”

  “Exactly.”

  We both smile.

  After a while, the boys join us at the beach, each bearing half a coconut with a straw poking out the top. Spoils of war.

  We sit together, taking in the view, until my spoon scrapes the bottom of my empty bowl.

  “Where are you going?” Wyatt asks as I rise and head for the water.

  “I’m going to stick my feet in.”

  “Watch out for sharks!” Harper advises.

  “I’m not going deep,” I call back, rolling my eyes. “I’m not even wearing a bathing suit.”

  I’m almost to the water when someone sprints past me at top speed, shirtless and kicking up sand with each powerful stride. A laugh bursts from between my lips as I recognize Grayson’s messy black hair a second before he hits the water, diving straight into the waves and disappearing from sight. Harper, stripped down to her lace blue bra and boy shorts, bolts in after him, giggling like a lunatic. I see a flash of purple hair against blue water and then she, too, dives out of sight.

  I’m so busy watching for them to reemerge, I don’t hear Wyatt coming until it’s too late. He hits me like a freight train, strong arms scooping me up against his warm chest and cradling me close as he charges headlong into the waves. I shriek and struggle in his hold, recognizing his intentions, but it’s no use.

  “Hey! What are you doing? What—Wyatt!” I squawk in protest, but he pays me no mind. “Put me down! Don’t you dare— WYATT!”

  I feel the laughter rumbling through his chest, hear the sound of the crashing waves getting closer, and then, before I can even pull in a full breath, he’s propelled us into the air with a great flying leap. We hit the surface still intertwined. I brace for a rush of cold, but it never comes — the ocean is warm as bathwater as it closes around us.

  He pulls me back to the surface and I’m laughing even as I gasp for air. I hear Harper giggling at me from a few feet away; Grayson is oddly silent as he watches Wyatt and me, but I don’t pay him much attention. I’m too busy glaring at the grinning man before me. Wyatt’s arms are still looped loosely around my waist, his long hair unbound from the leather tie he always uses to keep it back. A Viking at sea.

  “You’re so dead!” I hiss. My hands find his shoulders and I push down with all my strength in an attempt to dunk him under. He’s so sturdy, my efforts are completely wasted. In fact, he just laughs harder as I try — and fail — to retaliate.

  With a huff, I pull back. “I’ll get you back when you least expect it, Hastings. Just you wait. You’ll think you’re safe and WHAM! Revenge will be mine.”

  “Wham ?” he asks, light blue eyes brighter than the sea and sky all around us.

  “Yep. Wham .” I swallow hard.

  “I’ve never been so terrified,” he drawls lazily. “I don’t know how I’ll get through the day. I’ll never sleep soundly again.”

  “First the plane ride, now this… You’re really on my shit list. For the record.”

  “Oh, come on. I thought you wanted a swim.”

  “I said I wanted to dip my feet in .”

  His eyes drop down to my toes, visible through the crystal clear water, and he smirks. “And so you did.”

  I push away from him, laughing in spite of myself, and start trudging back toward the beach, wringing out my hair as I walk. I’m thoroughly soaked, my tank top and jean shorts plastered to me like second skin. When I reach the beach, I collapse back against the hot sa
nd and close my eyes. The sun overhead beats down so strongly, I know I’ll be dry in no time. And as I lay there, listening to the sound of the others laughing and splashing in the waves, I think this, right there — stretched lazily in the sunshine, surrounded by friends, the whole horrid world reduced to wind and waves and warm sultry breezes, with sugar on my tongue and joy in my heart — is the closest to heaven anyone who’s ever lived has managed to get.

  * * *

  W e arrive at the hotel waterlogged and trailing more sand than an hourglass. The lobby resort is empty but gorgeous — floor to ceiling windows offer a spectacular view of the Pacific. There’s a cafe equipped with an espresso machine and a full array of baked goods, a sleek bar area complete with a cute bartender and several rows of top-shelf liquor, and a concierge desk where a woman named Kelea is waiting to greet us with a tray of tropical drinks.

  After brief introductions, she informs us we won’t be staying in the hotel with the rest of the film crew and production staff. We sip our mai-tai cocktails as she leads us out a side door, down a landscaped path toward the beach.

  “This way — it’s not much farther.”

  We follow her down the sloping lawn in silence. The rum hits my empty stomach like a bullet. Harper and I trade excited glances as we step through a small row of palm trees and find ourselves staring at four private bungalows, practically on the beach itself, each with a thatched roof. Brightly colored hammocks are strung between nearby palms trees. A fire pit surrounded by massive driftwood logs sits at the edge of the sand, waiting to be lit.

  “We reserve the villas for our most exclusive guests, to ensure you have the utmost privacy during your stay with us,” Kelea says, smiling as she leads us to the closest hut. “The grounds are fully monitored at all times with video surveillance and armed security personnel — you’re completely safe from outsiders, so long as you stay on the property.”

  I blink slowly, digesting that statement.

  I’ve come to know Grayson so well, I sometimes forget that he’s one of the most sought-after celebrities on the planet. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn he has stalkers or overly-obsessive fans following him to filming locations, not to mention all manner of paparazzi seeking a money shot whenever he strips down to a swimsuit.

  “The beach where you’ll be filming is a five-minute walk down that way,” Kelea notes, pointing past the bungalows to where the path disappears around a bend. “Now, let’s get you settled in.”

  She uses a keycard to swipe open the door and holds the entry ajar so we can step inside. I can’t contain my gasp as I stare around the villa. I hear a similar sound from Harper as she takes it in.

  It may look like no more than a shack from the outside, but stepping through the doors you’d think you were in the finest of French mansions. Decorated in lush tones of cream and pale blue, the entire space boasts a provincial elegance, from the massive king bed to the elegant writing desk to the round, copper bathtub basin sitting in the middle of the ensuite bathroom. There’s a box of chocolate-dipped strawberries on the duvet and a bottle of expensive champagne on ice in a bucket on the table.

  Kelea picks up a remote control and pushes a button — two bamboo panels along the far wall slide apart to reveal a large flatscreen. I can’t help but wonder, looking out at the beach twenty feet away, who comes on vacation to a place like this and wastes a single moment watching television.

  “This remote controls everything in the villa,” Kelea says, calling my attention back to her. “Absolutely everything is customizable to your exact preferences, from the temperature to the lighting to the window shades.” She hits a sequence of buttons on the space-age looking remote to demonstrate. “You can order room service day or night, and book spa appointments, if you find yourself in need of any relaxation services. There is also an instant assistance button, which will connect you to our exclusive villa support staff, should you require anything from us.”

  My knees seem a bit weak as my eyes drift around. I must be dreaming. This, surely, is not my life.

  Grayson and Wyatt hover in the doorway looking entirely bored, as if they’ve heard this same song and dance a thousand times before. Then again, they probably have, at every hotel they’ve ever stayed in. I’m relieved that Harper, at least, appears as stunned and starstruck by our lavish accommodations as I feel.

  “Miss Firestone, you’ll be in here.” Kelea glances down at her phone to check something, then passes me the room-control remote with a smile. “If the rest of you will follow me, I’ll show you to your own bungalows. Mr. Dunn, I have you in the villa to the left, Mr. Hastings on the right. Miss Kline, you’re down at the end of the row.”

  “I get my own hut?” Harper says, sounding thrilled. “I figured I’d crash with Kat.”

  Kelea tucks a strand of glossy black hair behind her ear. “Originally, Mr. Stanhope was supposed to stay in our fourth villa, but he said he’d prefer to be in a suite at the main resort, with the rest of the film crew. The crashing waves keep him awake, sleeping this close to the beach.”

  “If I know Sloan, he’s more worried about Grayson’s late-night partying keeping him awake than he is the waves,” Wyatt mutters as the three of them follow Kelea out. “Probably interferes with his yoga meditation sessions.”

  Grayson laughs, not denying it.

  Harper waves dazedly at me as she disappears after them.

  “Bye!” I call as the door swings shut with a soft click.

  Alone for the first time since I left my apartment this morning — which seems an eternity ago — I revel in the quiet. A warm breeze stirs the floor-length white curtains covering the French doors — I pull them aside and a slow smile spreads across my face as I see the sky streaked every shade of orange, as the sun dips low over the water.

  I have no idea what to do first.

  Chug champagne? Devour dessert? Order room service? Take a bath in that glorious copper tub? Have an emergency dance party to celebrate how fucking awesome my life is, at the moment?

  The only thing I do know, without a semblance of doubt is…

  I could get used to this.

  * * *

  T he four of us spend our first night out by the fire pit, passing around a bottle of rum in the ever-growing dark, laughing and talking until our voices run hoarse and the stars are shining overhead like stark, stagnant fireflies. There are no awkward silences, no stilted moments — Harper tells horror stories from her time doing makeup on different TV show sets, Wyatt lets slip several juicy secrets about industry insiders, Grayson has us all near tears when he describes his first time filming a sex scene, which evidently resulted in a case of blue-balls so severe a doctor was called in to consult.

  It’s past midnight and the fire’s burned low — we’re all too liquored-up and lazy to go find more driftwood logs to feed it. Harper is the first to turn in. Her eyes are drooping shut when she plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek and stumbles toward her villa, swaying like a hula girl and singing off-key. I watch to make sure she gets inside, giggling under my breath when she nearly hulas her way straight into a palm tree.

  Wyatt doesn’t outlast her by much. He pushes to his feet, looking stone-cold sober despite the fact that he’s had more than a few swigs of rum. Probably because he’s solid muscle.

  I, on the other hand, am solid drunk .

  I blink up at him, fascinated by the way his hair gleams gold in the light of the dying flames.

  “Hastings!” I lament, clutching a hand over my heart. “Not you too!”

  “Sorry, kids, this old man is off to bed. I’m beat.” He stretches his arms over his head with a groan, his shirt lifting to reveal a taught slice of tan skin above the hem of his jeans. “See you bright and early. Don’t get too drunk, Dunn, or you’ll forget all your lines.”

  Grayson flips him off halfheartedly as he disappears into the dark. When we hear the distant thud of Wyatt’s villa door shutting, he looks over at me with hazy eyes and grins crookedly.<
br />
  “Thankfully, Beck is the strong silent type.”

  “True. There aren’t many speaking lines tomorrow,” I say sleepily, leaning back on my elbows in the sand and craning my neck to look up at the stars. “I think we’re filming the scenes where we arrive at the beach and I stitch up your leg with fishing line.”

  “That’ll be fun.” Grayson grimaces. “I bet you’re looking forward to sticking me with a needle.”

  “I doubt Sloan will let me use a real needle.”

  “Thank god for small favors.”

  I smile at the stars and listen to the sound of him taking another swig of rum. He extends the bottle in my direction again, but I shake my head. I’ve had more than enough.

  He screws the cap back on and a second later, I feel him settle in the sand beside me. Our shoulders, hips, and ankles are pressed together, three indisputable points of contact that seem to echo through every atom in my body as we lie there, side by side, looking up at the infinite constellations overhead. They seem to be swimming, drifting in and out of focus like a camera lens shooting straight into the sun.

  “Grayson?” I ask after a few minutes of silence.

  “Kat?”

  “Can I tell you something?”

  I hear the slur in my words. A small, distant voice in the back of my mind is screaming at me — shut up, shut up, shut up — but I’m too far gone to listen. In my peripherals, I see his head turn to look at me. I keep my eyes on the stars.

  “You can tell me anything,” he whispers, so close his breath stirs the fine hairs at the nape of my neck.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I’m sorry I was such a judgmental bitch to you, when we first met. Sometimes I have a hard time letting people in, giving them a chance. It wasn’t fair to you.”