by Ember Leigh
“He’s all right,” David said, fluffing her hair. “A smooth-talker. Cocky, but if I had his ass, I would be too.”
“Cocky is right. And an asshole.”
David laughed. “So you’ve seen the bad side of him.”
“Is there really a good side?”
“Yeah, there is. But I’ve heard both sides. Depends on if he wants to screw you in bed or the workplace.” He giggled. “I made that one up myself. Copyrighted!”
“Where do you fall?”
“Somewhere in the middle.”
“Tell me you hate him.”
“Sometimes, but God would I love to have him in bed.”
Paige fought a smile, swallowing the me too that had attempted to escape her mouth.
“All right, hon. You’re all set.” David looked at her with eyes like a father admiring a daughter on prom night. “Beautiful. Go knock ‘em dead.”
“I hope you’re my permanent makeup artist.” Paige watched him hopefully, noting the smooth upward curl of his lips, the lift of his eyebrow as he beheld her.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Thanks, David.” She squeezed his hand before she left, and he giggled like a fan girl.
As she re-entered the Hawaiian world beyond, an intense rush of heat suffocated her. The place might be lovely, but the heat took some getting used to. She wandered back down the path, pausing to finger white, curling blossoms that formed delicate cones among backsplashes of waxen, jade leaves. Maybe the trade-off of raw, beautiful nature was worth the heat. Even if it meant a make-up retouch every ten minutes. Nearer to the set, a crewmember spotted her and ushered her toward a small, boxy building.
“This is the newsroom,” the worker explained as he opened the door, a blast of cool air greeting them. It was an otherwise bland room except for a flashy news desk, an exciting backdrop featuring a sky view of a hip, downtown city, and a couple guys she pegged for the crew. Miscellaneous equipment littered the walls of the room—spare cameras, carrying cases, enough cable to throw an anchor to the bottom of the ocean.
Paige sat at the desk where a small stack of papers waited for her. A decade prior she had been here, totally green and fumbling over lines at her first gig. Both nervous on the first day yet confident that great things were in store for her career. The desk reminded her of her roots, her most important formative years—but in no way did it represent where she belonged now.
She held up her head, prepping her gaze and stature. The round eye of the camera greeted her. She snapped into show mode. A former colleague once described her face as unshakably concentrated, a phrase that later made it to her professional website. That was her game face. And it was on.
“This is just our first run-through,” a camera worker explained. “We’ve slotted an hour for our run-through, and then we’re going to do the final taping.”
She arched a brow at him. “An hour?”
He shrugged. “I mean, for practice run-throughs and all.”
Paige didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. This had to be his first job. He would have caught on to her professional air by now if he were seasoned in any sense. An hour for the run-through? She needed ten minutes, final cut included.
She cleared her throat and skimmed the sheets. She could be in the middle of a tornado and still read her lines for the first time flawlessly. With perfect hair, even.
“We’re going to cue the music, and then he’ll point to you when you go,” a worker explained. “Remember, it’s just a run-through. Mistakes are okay.”
She bit back a smile and thanked him. He was greener than an unripe melon. He’d remember this day for a long time once he got a load of what she had in store. Tinkling music appeared, and a crewmember cued.
She erupted with eloquence, nailing each syllable and her voice flowing, firm but melodic, the perfect newscaster form. She tilted her head with each camera shift, smiled when the sheet had reached breaks, and gave personality to the otherwise standard news script.
When she finished, nobody spoke.
“Well…” A cameraman began.
“Do we have to re-do it?”
They conferred among themselves. A crewmember spoke quietly with someone on his headset and then turned to her.
“That was…well…it was perfect. Better than we’d expected. Have you done this before?”
She grinned. “You have no idea.”
“Let’s just do it one more time,” the cameraman said.
“Why?”
He hesitated, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t film it the first time. I didn’t think it would go so…smoothly.”
Paige cleared her throat, agitation spiking. Green as they got. Once the countdown came, she delivered the segment again, leaving a jittery camera crew in her wake. Now they understood a bit more about who they were working with—and if the recording mistake happened again, she’d be sure to use it as fodder to get out of the contract. Or maybe she could begin arming a case with this mishap now.
She excused herself after confirmation that the second round had, indeed, been taped. Now that her segment was over, she understood this gig’s approach—Josh had gone for the high-end exotic setting, but skimped completely on the staffing. Typical corporate corner-cutting.
When she re-entered the heat, the roar of the ocean surprised her. What a lovely thing to hear every time she stepped outside—much better than car horns and bakery neighbors arguing about yeast integrity. Gary approached. “Are you done already?”
“Of course,” she said. “Did you think I’d have to do it a thousand times?”
“That barely took a half hour.”
She shrugged.
Gary eyed her. “I’ve known you for years, but I still think you’re a robot.”
The main set’s most interesting feature was the open air, using the ocean as its most sparkling and breathtaking background. A makeshift roof covered the length of the presentation areas, to protect the furniture and flooring from infrequent storms, and tarps could be drawn around the entire set at night to protect the equipment from any manner of intrusions and weather.
The design was an elegant intersection of hip and modern talk shows with the flair of island life—tiki-inspired decorations, wicker adornments on the guest’s couch, an ample presentation area for performances where leis littered the background. Bridgette’s laugh sliced through the air, followed by the smooth undertones of Josh’s voice.
Her stomach knotted and her heart palpitated. The stomach knotting, she reasoned, could be from any number of things—intestinal infection, Bridgette’s laugh, being trapped on the island—but the heart palpitation? It certainly had nothing to do with the confidence Josh exuded as he slouched in his overstuffed chair, the perfect intersection of casual and cool.
So that’s his TV personality. He was a smooth-talker, like David had said. The type of TV host teenage boys watched and wished they could hang out with. The type that would have women tuning in just to stare at that jawline, regardless of what came out of his mouth.
Beside him was Bridgette at the edge of her seat, body a perfect 90-degree angle. She talked loud and fast, her hand gestures large enough to land a plane. Classic rookie mistakes. She could learn a thing or two from Paige.
“Stop the tape.” The director waved his hands in the air. “Relax, Bridgette. We flow from the politics joke to the national security joke. We don’t skip to the rain forest bit and then come back to the other two. Pay attention.” He gave her a stern look that tickled Paige to her core.
The two started over and this time Bridgette got the jokes in order, except she’d somehow stiffened more. Paige remembered what it felt like to be a beginner, though she didn’t think she’d ever been that amateur.
Gary leaned into her. “I think you could film three shows in the time this is taking. Now I remember why I only work with seasoned professionals.”
The director called for a break and both Josh and Bridgette slumped into thei
r seats, the spell of the run-through temporarily on hold.
“And you only get to seasoned professional status with experience and mentors.” She eyed Bridgette. “I think I’m gonna help a girl out.”
She maneuvered through the confusing mess of cables and wires taped to the stage floor, beyond the camera’s line of sight, breezing up to Bridgette’s overstuffed white chair where she sat, scowling at the script. “Hey there.”
Bridgette peered up at her, confused. “What?”
“I was watching your run-through, and I thought I might offer some tips.”
Bridgette stuck her chin out. “I don’t need your help.”
Paige’s shoulders tensed. A first-time host sneering at help from a veteran? She hadn’t known Bridgette long enough to justify the amount of strikes against her. The goodwill inside her chest evaporated in a black puff. “Excuse me. I didn’t realize you already knew everything about the business.”
“Go back to the newsroom.” Bridgette turned her attention back to the script.
Paige stared, mouth agape. The bitch knew where to punch, and it stung more than she wanted to admit. It was a few seconds too long before her brain started churning again.
“Just because you sit in this chair as opposed to the one in the newsroom doesn’t mean a damn thing about how good you are,” she spat. “Check your tone the next time you talk to me.”
Bridgette turned to her, lips pursed. Before she could respond, someone else spoke.
“You done already?” Josh appeared at her side. She didn’t look away from Bridgette.
“Yeah. I just finished.”
“No kidding?”
Josh looked genuinely surprised. His eyes were sparkling and he seemed almost human. It took the edge off her anger for a moment. “Really.”
He jerked his head toward the newsroom. “Let me see it.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I want to see it.” He walked toward the newsroom. She frowned at Bridgette and followed Josh, catching a whiff of his cologne in the salty breeze. It clouded her judgment for a moment, made her forget about what she was doing and how she should act around him.
When they entered the room it was empty. As the door clanged shut, Paige let a terse sigh. Josh glanced over his shoulder at her and said, “Bridgette, right?”
“Did you hear what she said to me?”
Josh headed for the camera and opened its digital display, rewinding it to where she had been recorded. “I did.” Then after a moment, he added, “Sorry about that.”
“Not your fault, for once. I mean, she has her own brain, right?”
He opened his mouth to speak then clamped it shut, the vestige of a smile on his face. “How long did it take you?” He nodded toward the camera.
“About twenty minutes.”
He sighed. “Must be nice.”
A smile flickered at her lips. They were relating like regular coworkers. Almost. “I tried to offer Bridgette some advice, to help so maybe it wouldn’t take so long—”
“Probably the biggest mistake you could have ever made,” Josh muttered.
She couldn’t fight the grin this time. Was it possible Josh hated his girl toy, colleague, whatever-she-was? Excitement sizzled inside her body briefly, a lightning bolt of possibility.
“Okay, let’s see this.” Paige’s face lit up the screen, stern and defined against the moodily lit backdrop. Josh crossed his arms and watched the report with a straight face. Discovering his opinion made anxiety prickle in her belly, but why should she care? She’d blown it out of the water—only a total idiot could say otherwise. Someone like Bridgette.
Paige alternated between an intense personal assessment of her performance and a careful assessment of Josh as he watched her performance. Both important pieces of her job performance. And not, for instance, related to sneaking glances at the dark stubble on his face, or the infuriatingly perfect size of his ears.
“Nice,” he said when it was done, flicking off the camera.
She cocked a brow. “That’s all?”
“What more do you want?”
“Maybe a ‘thank you for sucking it up’?”
“It’s your job. It’s what you’re supposed to do. It’s unnecessary to go out of my way to thank you for doing what you’re expected to do.” His jaw flinched and they shared a long, tense glance before he swiveled and exited the room, leaving Paige slack-jawed for the second time in ten minutes.
Between him and Bridgette, she wasn’t sure who she disliked more; and after that comment, she needed to leave the island come hell or high water, whether by airplane or kayak or floating on Gary’s back using the hotel bathrobe as a sail.
****
Josh knew he was an asshole; it was a trait he’d worked hard to cultivate. But maybe the outer shell he’d spent so many years fortifying had turned into something of a thumb at his pressure point; a crippling factor despite his efforts to be strong and invincible. Maybe he’d been in the business so long he’d actually lost all traces of his former self. Back before he had the asshole shell. Was that even possible? A cold fear sprouted in his gut, but he squashed it as he settled into the plush chair beside Bridgette.
Paige, of all people, deserved the least harshness. What he’d wanted to do in the newsroom was spill his heart out about Bridgette’s inadequacies as a host and bitch and moan about how much she annoyed him. Then take Paige in his arms, to see how she might fit there against his chest, how his hand might cup that perfect intersection of ass cheek and upper thigh.
But thoughtfulness definitely wasn’t in his nature anymore. Sex and business he could manage, but anything fit for a Hallmark card was way out of his league. Besides—Paige was work. She wasn’t someone he’d met at a social event. She definitely belonged in his employees file. Why should he care if he was a jerk to her?
Because you want to get to know her.
Paige appeared at the side of the set, staring daggers at him. He held his head high and cleared his throat. Do not look at her. Do not look at her.
His gaze slid over to her. She was tiny yet firm—like she could run a marathon but also wriggle through cracks. Tightly packed and small, but with a professional drive too big to contain—the perfect package.
“Here we go.” The director’s voice cut through his thoughts. After brief theme music and the announcer’s dub, the red light flicked on.
“Hey everyone, and thanks for Wakin’ Up.”
“For our debut show,” Bridgette began, “the feature that’s most likely to get you out of bed is our guest for today.”
“That’s right, Bridgette. Today we’ve got Kirk Colby. Wasn’t he your favorite on Crypt Raiders?”
“Yeah, after the bald guy with the stomach staple.”
The laugh track roared. Josh could feel Paige’s eyes tearing through his skin.
“Also for today’s show, we have a Hawaiian chef who wants to show you what’s really behind the Mahili Kaki secret.” Josh grinned. “I’ll give you guys a hint—it’s similar to Kahlua but waaaay more potent. And later on, we’ll have the news report from Paige Alexander.”
Chills ran up and down his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was from the mention of her name or if those eyes of hers had really broken skin. He liked the way her name rolled off his tongue. Maybe my tongue could be doing a few more things…
His cheeks heated up. From the way her glare darkened, maybe she’d heard his innermost thoughts by mistake. She was intense enough to provoke telepathy. What a horrifying thought—but within the realm of possibility with her.
He allowed himself one last glance, resolving to push Paige Alexander out of his thoughts for good. Not just during filming, but until their contracts expired and their time on the island was over. One thing was sure—no matter how good she looked in a short skirt glowering in the corner, or how much she reminded him of himself, or the ever-growing list of questions he’d been formulating in the back of his mind for her, he didn’t need the d
istraction. And when Josh Lambert made up his mind, it might as well be law.
****
“I think there’s a recorder inside her throat,” Paige said as she and Gary walked toward the hotel, dragging her fingertips over the wide leaves of a plant bearing something very similar to grapes, “and someone remote controls it to play at specific intervals.”
“See, I thought that maybe instead of breathing, she giggles. Like what fish do with gills, but instead of water she does it with laughing.”
It was late evening. Taping had taken forever due to a certain novice, and after the dinner break they were all back on set to wrap up filming. Paige was ready to call it quits, even though she’d resolved to see the whole day through.
“Listen, Gary, I’m about ready to turn in. After this equatorial sun and screeching all day, I’m exhausted.”
“You sure you don’t want to finish up with the rest? Your advice has helped the crew out a lot. These camera workers, I swear, they’re straight from school. And you shared some great ideas for the next show.”
“No, I think I’m going up to my room. Maybe I’ll head down to the spa, later. At any rate, I’ve got to get away from them.” She jerked her head in the direction of Josh and Bridgette.
“All right. See you tomorrow morning. Thanks for a good first day, Paige. The best it could have gone.” Gary squeezed her arm and walked back toward set, disappearing into the dense foliage.
Never, in all of her years, had she ever had such a bizarre and stressful first day. Ignoring Josh was like trying to ignore the fact that Big Foot had aimlessly stumbled into her living room and was collapsed in her armchair. Friend or foe, all eyes were drawn to him. No matter what you do to fight it.
It had to be his eyes. She’d seen them up close yesterday, and again today in the newsroom. They sparkled, or maybe glinted, like he was scheming something evil but also gobbling her up in his mind. Combined with everything else on his body, he was divine.
She loved watching him, as long as he had no idea. Already she’d picked up on his curious habit of rubbing his thumb around in his palm, like a subconscious mortar and pestle. Furthermore, he was a brooding man when no one was looking, someone who frequently slunk off into his own internal world. She saw the way he retreated to the sidelines amid chaos, the way his eyes wandered off to the horizon to ponder something else. What was in there? What occupied his thoughts when he wasn’t steely-eyed and ordering people around?