The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  His lips land on mine and I feel traces of tears on his face as his mouth moves with passion, an indisputable underscore to the emotions he’s just laid bare at my feet. My hands reach up to cup his face as I pull back, breathing hard, and stare into his eyes.

  “Beck.”

  “Violet.”

  “…Let’s go home.”

  His eyes glitter down into mine, full of love, and I feel my breath catch as he grabs me by the hand and, together, we run full-tilt toward the bonfire. Toward our future.

  “CUT! That’s a wrap!”

  Sloan’s voice rings out when we hit the end of the beach. Out of breath, both Grayson and I bend over to clutch our knees, winded after our fifth time running headlong down the sandy stretch. We filmed the actual fire-lighting yesterday up on a nearby cliff, while Sloan’s drones got sweeping shots of us from above as the dry pile of wood burst into flames higher than my head. Which means… we’re done.

  For the day.

  For the week.

  Forever .

  The thought catches in my throat. I feel like I might choke. When I straighten back to full height, I find Grayson staring at me, looking a bit strangled himself.

  “That was it. The last scene on the island.” I see his Adam’s apple bob. “Can you believe it?”

  I shake my head. My eyes are watering — I tell myself the tears stem only from the emotional aftermath of Violet and Beck declaring their love, but it’s not very convincing. The line between my character’s feelings and my own have become irreparably blurred. Standing here, staring at him, my heart is so full it might explode.

  “I…” I swallow. “I just can’t believe it’s over.”

  “I’m sure they’ll drag us back into the studio at some point, to re-shoot something. Sloan is a perfectionist. It’s not over yet.”

  “Right. But our time in Hawaii…” My voice gets quiet.

  Maybe it’s odd, but I feel more like Violet than ever. The scripted lines I’ve said over and over all day are haunting me.

  I don’t want to leave. This is my home now. You’re my home.

  As soon as we leave, it’ll all be over.

  You’ll go back to her. And I’ll be alone.

  Grayson offers me his hand. “Come on. Let’s walk back.”

  I lace my fingers tightly with his, saying nothing but squeezing hard. When we arrive, hand in hand, at the other end of the beach, the entire crew is clapping and cheering. Sloan steps forward, eyes misty behind his glasses.

  “Well done, you two. Tremendous work.” He hugs me with surprising force for such a small man, and whispers quietly in my ear. “You, my girl, are a bright star. Thank you for bringing Violet to life so beautifully.”

  “Thank you for giving me the chance,” I murmur back, before he pulls away and engulfs Grayson in a hug.

  I’m trying not to cry, but it gets harder when Wyatt steps into my path. The way he looks at me — like I’m something remarkable and rare — is almost too much to handle, right now. He says nothing as he steps close and sweeps me into a bear hug that lifts me clean off my feet. I drape my arms around his shoulders and tuck my face into his neck as he swings me around in a dizzying circle. His mouth finds my ear, after a moment.

  “Didn’t I tell you, baby?”

  “Tell me what?” I say, laughing as salty tears drip against his skin. “You tell me lots of things, old man. You’ll have to narrow it down.”

  “I told you I was going to change your life.” His voice gets rough. “I just didn’t know you were going to change mine, too.”

  His words hit me like an arrow to the heart. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a squeak of air as I struggle to keep from blubbering like a little girl who’s missed her afternoon nap.

  He sets me down gently, but doesn’t move away. His eyes are so steady, so deeply sincere as they hold mine, it simply makes my tears flow faster. His big hands cup my jaw, thumbs wiping away rogue teardrops as they trickle steadily down my cheeks.

  “Don’t cry, baby.”

  “I’m not crying,” I lie.

  His lips twitch. “You remember what else I told you the first day we met?”

  “That your therapist says you’re emotionally distant and damaged?”

  “Well, yes, that too.” He laughs. “But also that I thought you were going to be perfect for this project. Better than anyone we’d considered casting before.”

  “And?” I lift my brows.

  “Well, I still think if we’d gotten one of the Olsen twins—”

  I smack him.

  He grins.

  “Be serious, Hastings.”

  His grin fades a bit. “You don’t want me to be serious, baby.”

  “I do!”

  “You sure about that?” he asks softly. My heart starts pounding faster at his tone.

  “Of course,” I say lightly, disarmed by his sudden shift in mood from teasing to intent. “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Fine.” He leans closer, blue eyes on mine. “You were the best Violet I could’ve asked for. The best Violet anyone could’ve asked for. You were perfect — are perfect. Katharine…” The guard he always keeps over his eyes drops, just for an instant, and I see a flash of a man so serious, so intense, so hopelessly contrary to the playful friend I’ve dismissed him as for the past three weeks, it makes my mouth go dry.

  He leans a fraction closer and the celebrating crew around us goes suddenly mute, out of focus, until all that’s left is this beautiful Viking, towering over me speaking words I’m not sure I want to hear.

  “I don’t know how to go back to a world where I don’t see you every day. I know this is the wrong time to tell you, but if I don’t say it now, I might never get the chance again. Katharine—” He cuts himself off before the words can escape him.

  “What?” My heart flips inside my chest. My tears flow faster. “Wyatt, tell me—”

  “There you two are!” Harper screams, shattering the moment as she bounds up to us. “It’s over! I can’t believe it. In fact, I refuse to believe it. I think we should stage a boycott. A sit-in. A riot. We’ll just stake out the place and make the damn producers keep paying for at least another week in paradise as reciprocity for all the Oscars we’re about to win them.”

  Wyatt stares at her. “And by those damn producers you mean me, correct?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Sorry. No can do.” He steps carefully out of my space. “We have to get this footage into post-production as soon as possible, if we want to have it ready in time for the winter festivals.”

  “Well that just sucks .” Harper sighs heavily. “Kat, next time you get us one of these gigs, try to make it last at least a month, okay?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah. I’ll do my best.”

  “I have to go catch up with Sloan — I’ll see you guys later.” Wyatt winks and walks away, shoulder brushing mine as he passes. The strangest sensation comes over me as he leaves — that I should stop him, say something to him about that look in his eyes a few moments ago…

  I swiftly dismiss it.

  It was just a moment. Hell, maybe I imagined it.

  No.

  He’s never looked at you like that before.

  As the crew moves in around me, overflowing with warm words about the film and kind wishes for the future, I reach up and touch the spot where his shoulder brushed mine with light fingers, wondering why real life can’t ever be as simple as a movie script.

  * * *

  H arper and I are wearing our grass skirts and coconut bras, knee-deep in the ocean with rum drinks in our hands. Drunker than sin, we sway and shimmy to the distant music piped through the resort’s outdoor lounge speakers. The rest of the crew is up at the pool bar, doing shots to celebrate our last night on the island. Even typically buttoned-up Trey is letting loose — I saw him slurp down three tequila shots before he and one of the lighting crew guys disappeared like giggling teenagers to make out against a palm t
ree in the ever-lengthening afternoon shadows.

  Wyatt is babysitting Sloan who, for once, has forgone his god-awful green juice in favor of something slightly less healthy. Two rum drinks and he’s practically under the table, telling inebriated stories about his long Hollywood career to anyone who’ll listen. Annabelle, looking sour as she sips her vodka soda and texts rapidly on her cellphone, watches the festivities unfolding around her like a prom queen stuck at band practice. If her nose gets any higher in the air, she’ll get altitude sickness.

  It’s not the official wrap-party, of course — that’s not till next week. Apparently, it’s a formal affair at Wyatt’s estate up in the Hills, and everyone will be there: the full cast of extras and flight crew from the plane crash scenes, our costume designers, set builders, and the rest of the production staff who stayed behind while we flew to Hawaii.

  Harper’s phone rings in her hand. She stops swaying and squints down at the screen. “Oh, crap.”

  “What? Who is it?”

  “Greeeeeeeeeg,” she wails drunkenly.

  “Don’t answer.” I take a generous sip from my straw. “Boys are stupid.”

  “TRUE!” She shrieks, pointing aggressively at me with her drink. A dollop of mai-tai sloshes over the side of her cup into the ocean. She watches it fall, face twisting into a pout. “What a waste .”

  “Harper, it’s an open bar,” I point out, taking another large sip. “You can get more.”

  “There is not enough rum in the world to make me want to talk to Greg.” She tilts her head to the sky. “Why am I with him?”

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  “He’s not nice. He never takes out the trash unless I nag him. He leaves toothpaste gobs in the sink. AND!” She points at me again, sloshing more rum. “He has a really, really, incredibly small penis.”

  “Harper!” I gasp, giggling.

  “Don’t laugh,” she says solemnly. “This is serious. I don’t give a hoot about that whole it’s-not-the-size-of-the-ship-it’s-the-motion-of-the-ocean shit. You know who started that rumor? Men . Men with small ships , if you catch my drift, sailor.”

  I dissolve into giggles again.

  Her phone chimes in her hand for the third time.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Stumbling a bit, she rears back and hurls her smartphone as far as she possibly can out into the ocean. I watch it sail through the air and plunk into the depths with wide eyes, hissing her name in a low voice.

  She looks absolutely thrilled with herself.

  “TAKE THAT, YOU TOOTHPASTE-GOOP MONSTER!” she screams at the top of her lungs, chugging down the rest of her cocktail and twirling round in happy circles that splash water in all directions.

  Shaking my head at her ridiculous, drunken antics, I suddenly catch sight of someone standing on the beach, staring at me. With a start, I realize it’s Grayson.

  “Hiya, honey!” I call happily, feeling my face stretch into a grin as I rush toward him. I shimmy my shoulders so my coconut bra cups clank together. “If you’re looking for coconuts, you came to the right place.”

  His lips twitch as his eyes flicker down to my chest.

  God, he’s gorgeous.

  Just the sight of him brings me up short. He’s wearing black jeans and a tight gray v-neck. There’s a day’s worth of scruff along his jawline and a duffle bag slung over one muscular shoulder.

  Wait. Back up.

  “Why do you have a duffle?” I ask, tilting my head at him. The grin falls off my face. “Are you leaving?”

  He nods. “Yeah. I have to get back.”

  “Oh… right now?”

  “Yeah.” He shifts from one foot to the other in the sand and shoves his hands deep into his jean pockets. “I wish I could stay, but I have a commitment to another project. My agent just called, he said they need me back ASAP. I have a ticket out of Honolulu in two hours.”

  He’s lying. We both know it.

  “But…” I suck in a breath that does nothing to steady me. “It’s our last night. We’re all leaving tomorrow afternoon on the jet. Can’t you stay, just for the party? It’s only a few hours…”

  “No.” He clears his throat. “There are some things I have to take care of.”

  I’m not sure if it’s because I’m drunk or genuinely devastated by this shift in his demeanor and his plans, but suddenly there are tears filling my eyes.

  “Hey,” he whispers, voice softening. “Don’t cry, Kat.”

  “I’m not,” I croak stubbornly. “I just thought…”

  “What?”

  “I thought we had more time. One more night together. One more morning. The whole flight home…” I swallow my tears, trying to get ahold of myself. “I was counting on a few more hours of paradise with you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Listen… I’m no good at long goodbyes.”

  Then don’t leave, I think miserably.

  He extends his hand to me but I stay knee-deep in the water where he can’t reach — not unless he wants to ruin his expensive shoes and soak his jeans. My hula skirt is plastered to my legs as the waves crash around me. Their rhythmic pounding against the sand is the only sound I hear as I stare into Grayson’s eyes, thinking this can’t possibly be the end. A reckless, selfish part of me wants to beg him to stay; the rational, sane part of me realizes he’s already made up his mind about leaving.

  I’m weak — I beg anyway.

  “Don’t go,” I whisper in a small voice. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’ll see you in a few days,” he tells me, eyes holding mine. “We’ll have re-shoots, I’m sure of it. Plus, the cast party, then the press tour, then promotional interviews, and the film festivals… Trust me, over the next few months we’ll see so much of each other you’ll be sick of me. I promise.”

  “But it won’t be the same.”

  “You can’t be sad, Kat. Not after all the fun we’ve had together.”

  “Why can’t I be sad? You’re leaving and it sucks.” I bite the inside of my cheek so I won’t cry again. “I don’t understand this. I don’t understand you .”

  “What don’t you understand?”

  How you can walk away so easily, when the thought of saying goodbye to you is killing me.

  “Any of it,” I say, jerking my chin higher. I see Harper hovering awkwardly in my peripherals, not sure whether to stay or go.

  “Just come here,” Grayson says softly, eyes beckoning. “Would you, please? Things always make better sense when you’re in my arms.”

  Because I always give in, when I’m in your arms…

  “No.”

  I don’t want to go to him. If I do, he’ll kiss me. And when he kisses me, I can’t think clearly. Can’t see straight. Can’t do anything but cling to him as my limbs dissolve into water.

  His eyes narrow. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “And you’re being an ass.”

  “Look, my plane is leaving in an hour. There’s already a car waiting to take me to the airport. I can’t do this right now. Not when you’re drunk and irrational.”

  “Don’t call me names.” My brows tug together. “Me being drunk has nothing to do with this, and you know it.”

  “We’ll talk when we’re both home.” Grayson runs a hand through his hair, looking exasperated. “Don’t blow this all out of proportion. If I could stay until tomorrow, I would. Don’t you trust me?”

  I don’t respond, because I can’t give him the answer he wants to hear. Not without lying.

  “Kat.” There’s a pleading note in his voice. A week ago — hell, two days ago — hearing it would’ve brought me to my knees. Now, I just stand there frozen, staring at his mouth as it forms words I don’t understand. “I’ll see you soon.”

  There’s that phrase again.

  See you soon.

  “Fine,” I whisper into the fractured space between us. “I’ll see you soon, Grayson.”

  We stand there, separated by five small feet and an entire goddamned chasm of mis
communication.

  “Fuck it,” he mutters finally, tossing his duffle down on the sand out of reach of the waves, striding into the water so his shoes fill with water, and yanking me into his arms. I make a small sound of protest, but it’s swallowed up as his lips claim mine in a crushing kiss.

  This kiss — this last, goodbye kiss — is hauntingly similar to our first. Ankle-deep and angry.

  His lips are harsh, hard against mine. There is no compromise in the way his teeth and tongue dominate me. No tenderness or devotion. It is a clash of contrary interests and misguided feelings. It is desire laced with damage.

  His hands cup my cheeks, pulling me closer, and I align my curves against the hard planes of the chest I’ve come to know so well, and we devour each other with the sun sinking at our backs — a boy made of stardust and selfishness; a girl filled with fire and fury at the world. We are a tangle of emotional wreckage, two broken messes thrown together, trying to navigate something we can barely comprehend.

  I feel something shatter within me, as his lips leave mine. I look up at him, panting through swollen lips, and stare into those gorgeous green eyes that have held me spellbound for weeks, and know, deep inside myself, that nothing will ever be the same between us if he turns and walks away from me right now.

  Don’t go.

  Please, don’t go.

  His eyes hold mine for one, two, three long beats… and then he releases my shoulders, strides out of the water in his sodden shoes, grabs his bag from the sandy shore, and leaves it all behind.

  The hotel.

  The island.

  The movie.

  Me.

  * * *

  I ’m drunk , but it doesn’t do anything to numb the pain radiating out from the left side of my chest. Back in my villa, I rip off my stupid grass skirt, toss my coconuts onto a nearby chair and stumble toward the bed, tears blurring my vision.