“Is this how we’re greeting each other now?” I ask dryly. “Should I be sponging you back?”
“Shut up. I told her you looked blotchy, okay? It was the first excuse I could think of to get away from her.”
I close my eyes as she starts patting my forehead. “That actually feels kind of nice,” I murmur. “Please, feel free to brush out my hair after you finish blotting me.”
“Your hair is fine. Do you know how long those perfect-but-not-too-perfect beachy waves took to create?”
“Yes, I was sitting in the chair as you created them,” I point out.
“True enough.” She starts touching up my matte lip stain. “Can you believe we’ve been here over a week already?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s a bit unreal.”
“Things are going smoothly,” Wyatt interjects, looking up from the script in his lap. “We’re on track to wrap early, assuming the weather holds.”
“Early?” I scrunch my nose. “How early?”
He shrugs. “Maybe five more days? Six, at most, if we stay on track.”
Harper pouts. “I don’t want to leave Hawaii. I still haven’t learned to hula properly.”
“I think you should let that dream die,” I say gently. “Your lack of rhythm is truly remarkable.”
She jabs me a little harder than necessary with a contouring brush.
“Ow!”
Her eyes narrow. “You were saying?”
“That you’re a delightful dancer, should quit your day job, and become a professional hula-girl.”
“Thought so.”
Wyatt snorts. “If it’s any consolation, the hotel is putting on a luau for us before we head home. I’m sure there will be plenty of hula opportunities.”
“Really?” Harper squeaks.
He nods and tilts his head. “You do know they roast a full pig, right? Some of you vegan girls take issue with—”
“Vegan?” I snort.
“Dude.” Harper’s eyes are wide. “Bacon is the base of my food pyramid.”
“How are you from Los Angeles?” he asks her incredulously.
“I’m not.” She grins. “I’m from Iowa.”
“Ah.” He nods, like that explains everything.
Annabelle walks into the tent, hips swaying a little more than necessary, in my opinion. Her eyes are locked on Grayson as she announces that Sloan needs us back on set in five, since they’re ready to start shooting again.
In an act of extreme maturity, I stick my tongue out at her as she sashays from the tent with her clipboard clutched pertly in front of her perky breasts. When Harper spots me, I try to play it off as a yawn, but it’s useless. Her smirk is all too knowing.
I close my eyes, in part so she can finish touching up my makeup but mainly so she can’t read the emotions in them.
It’s hard to believe we’ve been filming for more than a week already — the first few days on the island flew by so fast it makes my head spin just thinking about it. Our set, a stretch of gorgeous white-sand beach a few minutes’ walk from the villas, where designers have constructed Beck and Violet’s “home” of thatched palms and driftwood logs, may look like the site of a dream vacation, but our time in front of the cameras has been anything but relaxing. Sloan is more like a slave driver than a director, getting us out of bed to shoot before dawn and keeping us there until the fiery red sun is sinking into the waves. Whether we’re running lines, blocking out new scenes, or shooting takes of Beck and Violet struggling to find food, water, and shelter, there’s hardly been a moment of downtime.
I barely appreciate the accoutrements of my gorgeous bungalow, with the exception of the king size bed which I collapse into face-first every night, exhausted from all day out in the elements. We may not really be castaways, but after twelve straight hours of hacking at palm trees, sparking fire from flint and twigs, stitching fake injuries, and dragging huge logs to spell out H-E-L-P on the beach, in the off-chance a rogue fictional plane flies by to rescue us, I feel as though I’ve actually survived on an uninhabitable island with no company except a taciturn ex-photographer who, until about halfway through the script, says all of three words to me.
Beck .
Truth be told, the actor portraying him isn’t much more talkative.
Since our heated kiss that first night on the island, things have cooled significantly between Grayson and me. We never discussed our drunken indiscretion, the passionate moments we shared standing ankle-deep in the waves, mouths devouring each other without reserve. In fact, he’s been so unfathomably normal toward me, so wholly unchanged, I could almost convince myself I made the whole thing up. That it was nothing but a dream — some far-flung fantasy conjured by an overactive imagination and too much rum.
Almost .
I know it was real. That it actually happened.
The sad reality is, my imagination never felt half as good as his lips claiming mine, his hands gripping my hips, his eyes roaming my features as though he could stare at them for days without ever tiring of the sight. No dream, no figment of my subconscious, could ever live up to that moment with him.
I’m not sure whether he’s consciously creating some distance or simply too focused on the project to pay me much attention, but we’ve spent no more than a few minutes alone together in the past week. Then again, Harper is never far from my side, nor is Wyatt, so even if Grayson wanted to speak to me about our drunken slip-up, he’d have a tough time catching me unaccompanied.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
That it was one kiss.
That I’m being ridiculous.
And yet, I can’t deny how often I find my eyes following him between takes, or the inexplicable fury that simmers inside my chest like a dormant volcano when I see him making small-talk with Annabelle in the morning as she delivers coffee to everyone on set, tossing her glossy hair like she’s auditioning for a damn Herbal Essences commercial. Accepting my cappuccino from her — with smile, without comment — is the first in a long line of daily demonstrations in self-control.
This should be the most invigorating week in my life. The culmination of everything I’ve been working toward since I was three months old and Cynthia enrolled me in my first baby beauty pageant. And yet, I feel no joy at the accomplishment of my dreams, no fulfillment at the prospect of attaining all the fame I’ve ever strived for.
Instead, I feel distracted and distant, as though I’m watching the events of my world unfold through a wall of glass. All day I smile and bite my tongue and say my lines perfectly, and all night I toss and turn beneath the sheets, trying to forget the way Grayson’s mouth burned into my skin like a hot brand.
I have morphed into a needy, unrecognizable creature.
And I know exactly who’s to blame for it.
* * *
L ater that night , after I’ve changed out of my costume and Harper’s wiped the makeup from my face, instead of walking back to my villa I linger at the edge of the set. Grayson is filming a solo scene at the other end of the beach as the sun slowly dips below the edge of the horizon, turning the waves into a kaleidoscope of color.
“Hey!” Harper appears by my side, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” I say brightly, blinking at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just seem a little… off . At first, I thought it was just the stress of you being here, working so hard to get all your lines right, to live up to Sloan’s expectations… But now…” Her eyes dart down the stretch of beach to Grayson. The cameras are tight in on his shirtless, sweaty frame as he uses a makeshift axe of sharpened rock to chop firewood.
I swallow audibly.
“Now, I’m pretty sure there’s something you aren’t telling me,” she finishes dryly.
I look back at my best friend. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Uh huh.” She looks doubtful. “You can tell me, you know. I’m always here for you. No ma
tter what it is, I’ll listen and promise not to judge.”
My eyebrows lift.
“Okay, I’ll judge,” she concedes. “But the point is, I’ll listen. I’m here. You can talk to me about anything, don’t you know that by now?”
“I know.” I sigh. “Thanks, Harper.”
She nods. “Worried about you, babe. You seem distracted. I don’t want you to spiral.”
“Who’s spiraling?” Wyatt appears beside us, munching on a crisp apple.
“No one, eavesdropper,” I say, standing up, snatching the apple from his hand, and taking a colossal bite from the side.
“That was mine,” he says forlornly, watching me devour the rest of his snack. “And I wasn’t eavesdropping. I happened to walk by while you were saying intriguing things.”
“Do we ever not say intriguing things?” Harper asks. “I, for one, think we are fascinating creatures.”
I snort. “You also thought Taylor Swift’s last single was the most important contribution to music since The Beatles’ White album.”
“I stand by that.”
“I agree,” Wyatt mutters. “T-Swift is a mastermind.”
I stare at him for a beat. “For the record, this is me judging you.”
“For the record, I don’t give a shit.” He shrugs. “There’s a certain kind of beauty in the ability to create art from the aftermath of someone fucking you over. Not to mention making millions of dollars in the process.”
“Fair enough,” I concede. “But do you think it’s healthy to dwell on someone after they’ve walked away? I mean, she spends months writing albums about guys who’ve long since moved on.”
Wyatt glances at Harper. “Clearly, Katharine has never been in love.”
“True,” Harper agrees, putting away her makeup kit for the day.
“What makes you say that?” I protest.
“Because,” Wyatt says, eyes narrowing. “When you get your heart shattered by someone, you’re going to spend months dwelling on them regardless. Most of us just suffer in silence… but artists have the rare chance to turn their pain into passion. And money, if they’re half-decent at it.”
I blink at him, surprised by his serious tone.
“Someday, you’ll get your heart broken,” he continues softly. “And you’ll understand.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m not wishing it on you. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I just know it’ll happen at some point.” His eyebrows pull together and a dark look flashes across his features. “It happens to us all, eventually.”
“Even you?” I ask.
“Even me.”
“Who broke your heart, Hastings?”
“That’s not your business, baby. Not yet. Maybe not ever,” he says, smiling before turning on a heel and walking down to join Sloan.
When he’s gone, I glance at Harper and shrug. “He’s a mystery, that one.”
“He’s just… intense. When he looks at you, it’s always like he’s searching for something deeper. Something more .”
“Like a rogue planet seeking a sun,” I murmur, eyes drifting from Wyatt, standing on the sidelines behind the cameras, to Grayson’s tanned form, posing in front of them. “Like you might be the center of his universe, instead of a passing meteor.”
“What?” Harper asks, brow furrowing as she snaps the last clasp on her case. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Nothing. Never mind. It doesn’t matter anyway.” I press my eyes closed. “Let’s head up to the resort and grab something to eat. I’m starving.”
* * *
D ays continue to pass with alarming alacrity.
After a week and a half of nonstop work, while breaking for lunch one day, Sloan announces we’ve filmed three quarters of the script and should be fully wrapped within four days’ time. The news should make me buoyant with joy — things are going so well, we’re actually ahead of schedule.
Instead, the announcement instills an unshakable sadness inside me. For the rest of the day, I fudge lines and misstep well-rehearsed scenes. Sloan, frustrated by my mediocre performance, cuts our filming short and gives us the rest of the day off to “recoup and rebalance.”
Whatever that means.
We’re not scheduled to shoot again until the next afternoon — we’re filming night scenes from dusk till dawn — so we have a mini break for the next twenty-four hours.
Seeing Harper is still tied up with Cassie, I walk back to the villas alone, lost in my thoughts. I let my mind drift to the character I’ve embodied for the past two weeks and feel a restless sort of kinship with her.
Violet .
She has become so much more to me than a fictional character torn from the pages of a dog-eared novel, evolved so far past an imagined girl in a stranger’s screenplay. The longer I play her, the more I relate to her words, her feelings, her inner contradictions.
In front of the cameras, Violet and Beck have morphed slowly from unwitting allies to co-dependent survivors to reluctant friends. The more time they spend together, the more they depend on each other to make it through their stranded nightmare, the deeper the tension between them grows. I can’t help but feel, as I act out Violet’s stolen glances and underhanded comments for the cameras, as I play a girl in love with a man who cannot ever love her back in the way she craves, that we have far more in common than I ever assumed.
Sometimes, when the cameras are rolling, it’s hard to tell where she ends and I begin. And, when I look at Grayson, it’s becoming harder and harder to differentiate him from Beck, the reluctant hero whose gruff exterior harbors a pure heart, the steadfast man whose unbridled passion for a girl on the island wars with unfailing loyalty to a wife back at home.
I know Uncharted was written to tug at viewers’ heartstrings — I just didn’t think it would tug so deftly at mine. Every time I think of Violet and Beck, my chest aches.
I can’t help but worry this will only intensify, after tomorrow.
The night shoot. The cave scenes.
In the script, Violet and Beck are forced to retreat from the home they’ve carved out for themselves on the beach when a hurricane hits the island. Taking refuge in a cave, they’re trapped for days as rain and strong winds pummel the world outside. Huddled together for warmth to stave off the cold, for the first time since the crash they give in to the magnetic pull between them… and take comfort in each other’s arms.
A flutter of butterflies erupts to life inside my stomach.
Having sex with Grayson — even fictional sex, in front of a camera crew — will be the ultimate test of my self-control. I don’t let my thoughts linger too much on it. If I did, I’d drive myself to distraction. Plus, after a week of pretending not to be bothered every time Annabelle flips her hair in his direction, I’m getting better at shutting him out of my mind altogether.
I’m nearly back to my villa when the sound of his voice halts me in my tracks.
“Kat! Kat, wait!”
He sounds out of breath, as if he’s run to catch up with me. I turn slowly to face him and see his green eyes are uncharacteristically serious, his mouth is set in an uncompromising line.
My eyebrows go up. My voice is cool, casual. “What’s up, Dunn?”
“I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“You weren’t focused. You messed up your lines.” His eyes narrow. “You never mess up your lines. In fact, you’re always so prepared, it’s a little annoying. You usually make me look bad. But not today.”
“Maybe I’m just having an off day.”
“Because of me?”
I blink. “Are you kidding? Why would it possibly be because of you?”
He hedges, shifting from foot to foot. “I don’t know. You just seem pissed at me or something.”
“Shockingly, not everything is about you, Dunn.”
“This is what I’m talking about.” He takes a step closer. “You’re always snappy. You’re always sarcast
ic. You’re not scathing , though. There’s usually a softness under all that bitchiness, and it’s missing today. I want to know where it went, why it’s gone, and how I get it back.”
My mouth is parched. My palms are clammy. “Like I said before, I’m not pissed at you. I’m just having an off day. It’ll pass.”
His eyes hold mine and I get the distinct idea he doesn’t believe me. “If you say so.”
“I do,” I snap.
I realize I’m being a bitch, lashing out at him for breaking promises he never made to me, but I can’t seem to contain myself. I have absolutely no right to be angry… and that only seems to make me angrier.
I know it isn’t fair, but I don’t know how to stop. I’m trapped in a paradoxical circle of suppressed emotions.
“What are you doing right now?” he asks abruptly.
“I was planning to take a nap, climb into my hammock, and enjoy a few hours of peace and quiet with my nose buried in a novel. You know, so my bitchiness doesn’t affect any innocent bystanders.” I narrow my eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“Screw that,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my hand. “You’re coming with me.”
“What? Grayson, let me go! I’m not in the mood for this!”
“Nope.”
“Are you serious?”
He drags me along, holding me fast despite all attempts to struggle away. “I want to show you something.”
“If it’s the thing you like to show girls when they come back to your place after a night of inappropriate binge drinking, I’ll pass.”
“Cute.” He pulls me faster. “You’ll actually like this surprise, I promise. And, if you don’t, you can go back to being a bitch in a few hours.”
“A few hours ?” I hiss. “Where are you taking me, Montana?”
“Just shut up and go with the flow, for once.”
“I’m not a go with the flow kind of girl.”
“Ride or die, Firestone.”
“I don’t ride or die either. I have questions. Where are we riding? Why do we have to die? Can we stop and get tacos on the way?”
“See, you’re already cheering up. A few more hours in my presence, you’ll be back to your normal, caustic self.”
The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1) Page 20