by Maisey Yates
He nodded. “That sums it up.”
“Who wouldn’t? It’s a gorgeous room, don’t you think?”
“No. Not really,” he said. “Too many gold knickknacks for my taste.”
She agreed. There were way too many knickknacks, period. She wished she could leave it at that, but the truth was clawing at her throat. It would choke her if she didn’t speak up. Nina had to share the burden with someone. Julian was right there, watching her, waiting for more. She might as well tell him. “It was my mother’s dream to stay at this hotel. She’d go on and on about the Oasis. Her idols had all spent the night here—Elizabeth, Marilyn, Diana, Aretha… My mom had extravagant dreams.”
Nina had planned this trip to mark the one-year anniversary of her mother’s passing. She had wanted to do something to honor the late actress’s life, something other than showing up at her grave with flowers.
Julian’s gaze softened. “Want to switch rooms?”
“No,” Nina said firmly. She’d gone too far with this already. “And don’t argue with me. I’m too tired.”
“Want to come in and take that selfie?”
Nina smiled despite herself. “No, thanks.”
She opened the door to her room. The brass doorknob jammed, so the movement wasn’t as smooth as she would have liked. “Good night, Julian.”
He was still watching her with that same unwavering interest, as if she fascinated and confused him all at once. “Good night, Nina.”
She shut the door and collapsed against it. She was hungry and a little light-headed. That was all. However, the feeling stayed, even after she’d eaten, showered, detangled and braided her hair.
Nina pulled out the bed and sat up cross-legged. A minute later, she got up and poured herself a glass of water. Outside, it was raining still, and the wet windowpanes glistened in the moonlight. She picked up her phone from the charger and took it to bed with her. Earlier, she’d skipped past the more revealing photos of her roommate online. Now she believed they were worth a second look. She found a trove of glossy photos taken on location in Italy’s Amalfi Coast for a British Vogue editorial. Some of the photos were candid shots taken during breaks. Nina tapped on one to enlarge it. Wearing dark sunglasses and a towel flung around his neck, skin baked to a golden brown, Julian stood palling around with the crewmen. In another, he was stretched out on the hard, flat sand, one arm across his eyes shielding them from the sun. He looked thoroughly relaxed, not pressed for time, not pressed for anything. His long limbs looked heavy.
Nina hoped his skin tasted like salt.
CHAPTER FIVE
Julian’s car pulled up the drive to the Coconut Grove estate. Nestled among mature oaks was the modern home of Francisco Cortes. Julian asked his hotel-appointed driver to come back around in a couple of hours, then climbed the steps leading to the porch. A housekeeper greeted Julian at the door and led him to a back patio. The silver-haired man with the profile that ought to be minted on coins steered forward in a motorized chair. His lips split into a smile. “This is an honor. Welcome to Miami.”
Over lunch, they discussed the California wildfires, at last under control. “With the sea levels rising,” Julian said, “you must worry—”
Francisco interrupted him midsentence. “You and I are not going to solve climate change, not today. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
Julian took a gulp of water. This would be the first time he discussed his project with anyone, and he was nervous. “I’m here to shoot my first film.”
“Going independent,” Francisco said. “JL Knight Productions… That’s got a nice ring to it.”
Julian didn’t dispute it, but he’d settled on Knight Films.
“Good luck to you,” Francisco said. “I mean it. In my day, when the business spit you out, you were done. So I admire what you’re doing. But here’s the thing—if you’ve come to offer me the role of the grandpa with the heart of gold, you can forget it. I’ve retired. I don’t play grandpas. I sure as hell don’t play characters with hearts of gold.”
Julian sat back in his chair and considered the clear-eyed man opposite him. He’d come to the right place. “I’ve come to ask you to direct.”
“You might have inhaled a little too much smoke in the fire,” Francisco said, deadpan.
“Back in ’91, you made a short film that debuted in Toronto.”
Francisco dismissed his words with a wave of a hand. “That was just for fun.”
“Fun is what I’m after,” Julian said. “I watched it five times. As I’ve watched all your films.”
“Not all of them, I hope,” Francisco said with a chuckle. “Some of them were trash.”
Francisco Cortes had played the quintessential Latin lover in countless films. He was magnetic on camera, commanding every scene he was in. But a near-fatal car accident had left him disabled and killed his career.
“Wouldn’t you have liked to direct given the chance?” Julian asked.
“Well, now.” Francisco ran his fingers along his well-trimmed goatee. “If anyone had predicted that I’d be having this discussion with JL Knight, I wouldn’t have believed them.”
“That’s ’cause you’re not.” Julian felt compelled to reintroduce himself at every turn, like some parody of James Bond. “I’m Julian. You can forget JL.”
“Don’t wipe out your legacy. On winter nights we screen movies out here.” He made a gesture capturing the world within the coral rock wall surrounding the estate: his home, the garden with its tangles of tropical plants, a kidney-shaped pool and a hot tub fitted under a pergola. “Thunder is always a crowd pleaser.”
Julian clasped his hands together. “Happy to hear it.”
“Tell me about your project.”
Years ago, a UCLA film school student and waiter at one of his favorite taco spots had pitched Julian a story based on a true crime set in LA. The half-baked pitch was a nonstarter, but it had planted a seed in Julian’s mind. On and off, he’d worked on a script of his own set in Miami. Midnight Sun was a heist film loosely based on the story of a Miami heiress who fell victim to her con-artist boyfriend.
“Yeah… I read about that,” Francisco said. “He stole her jewels during a solar eclipse.”
“Hence the title.”
“And you’d play the con artist.”
“That’s the idea,” Julian said. “It’s a supporting role. This heiress is the lead.”
“Very smart. You plan to film here in Miami?”
Julian relaxed into his chair. Francisco was asking all the right questions. “Can’t do it convincingly anywhere else.”
“Florida doesn’t offer tax incentives,” Francisco said. “Broward County has a program. You might want to consider filming some scenes there.”
Julian was open to anything, so long as he could shoot some scenes at Sand Castle.
“I’ll make a few calls. Find out what kinds of incentives are out there,” Francisco said. “Meanwhile, send me the script.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Julian pulled a copy of the screenplay from his leather messenger bag and handed it over. “If you’d like an electronic copy, just give me your email address.”
Francisco flipped through the pages. “You wrote this?”
Julian mumbled his answer, fearful of Francisco’s reaction. What if he thought it a joke and withdrew his support? But the older man chuckled good-naturedly. “You surprise me, Julian.”
For the next couple of hours, they discussed financing and distribution options. Julian had reached out to a production company and had secured some financing. Francisco had not committed to the project, but he promised to help raise more funds and support Julian in every possible way.
“What are your plans for today?” Francisco asked. “I’m having a family cookout. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Thank
s, but I’m meeting with friends.”
With that lie, Julian ended the meeting. He was not in the holiday cookout or party mood. His driver, a young guy who went only by Pete, was waiting outside. Kat had secured his services for the duration of his stay. On the drive back to the hotel, he asked question after question until Julian slipped on his earphones to signal the Q&A session was over. The rest of the ride was blissfully quiet and, by the time he got back to Sand Castle, he’d received good news and bad news via text message.
The good news was from Francisco. He’d immediately reached out to friends at a local arts foundation and put in an informal request for grant funding. “They won’t turn me down.” The bad news was from Kat. A photo of him and Nina Taylor had surfaced on social media. It was a grainy cell phone pic of the two of them on the balcony.
In the photo, they were staring at each other. Julian was dropped back in time to the moment Nina had threatened to toss him over the balcony if he called her Goldilocks again. She was looking up at him with a glint of defiance in her eyes. He’d loved the display of bravado and it showed on his face. The social media caption read: Kiss Already!
Julian let out a sigh. He only had himself to blame. He knew better than to stand on an open balcony within cell phone camera range in the company of a woman. The cover of darkness plus a veil of rainfall was no cover at all. He’d have to warn Nina. He did not want her to be blindsided.
This gave him the perfect excuse to knock on her door. Every cloud, a silver lining…
* * *
He knocked, but there was no answer. The famous pool party was raging downstairs, and he decided to check it out. Not because he thought it would be fun to celebrate the Fourth with a bunch of drunken strangers, and not because he enjoyed being passed around like a photo booth prop, which was sure to happen, but in the vague hopes that she might be there.
Downstairs, he was ushered without question beyond the velvet ropes. He ignored the assortment of vodka on display at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a woman elbowing her way toward him, and he readied himself. Holding up her camera, she begged for a photo. “My boyfriend will die. He’s your number one fan.” Women seldom admitted to liking his films. It was always a husband, boyfriend or brother who got them to the theater.
The bartender volunteered to take the photo. He was a fan as well. With so many fans, Julian wondered how his film had flopped. Then he grabbed his drink and moved away from the bar. From his vantage point on the veranda, he scanned the crowd below. It was possible that Nina had done the reasonable thing—checked out of the hotel and flown home. But then he spotted her on the dance floor, and it was clear to him that reason wasn’t the fuel she was running on.
Julian didn’t make a move—he couldn’t. In the short time he’d known her, he’d seen her angry, distraught, threatening and resigned. But here was a side of her that he hadn’t guessed existed, and he was riveted. Nina was playful, dancing freely and having fun. But then he noticed the tight set of her jaw. Her movements were forced. He recalled what she’d told him the night before. He’d lost his mother years ago and knew exactly what she was going through. He’d been in Hawaii filming a special crossover episode of Riverside Rescue when he’d learned of his mother’s untimely death. The loss had sent him reeling for months.
Julian lost sight of Nina. When he spotted her again, she was standing dangerously close to the edge of the pool, throwing back a shot of the night’s signature vodka. She wore a little white dress held up by thin straps. Her hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders. Her dark skin gleamed in the soft light of the setting sun. She was so bloody beautiful.
He raced down the stairs and forged a path toward her despite mounting doubts. Leave her alone. She doesn’t need you. Then a few things happened to erase his concerns. A rocket exploded overhead, causing the crowd to compress and swell. Nina lost her balance and tipped backward into the still waters of the pool and vanished. It was possible that he was the only one who’d seen it, and now there was no question that she needed him.
* * *
He’s not my type.
Nina had spotted Julian the moment he’d entered the upper-level VIP veranda, the same she’d been turned away from an hour earlier. She’d had to access the party at the general population entrance by the lower-level pool. Although the whole ordeal had irritated her to no end, her irritations were washed away when a hostess presented her with an array of fruit-flavored vodka shots to choose from.
She’d slept well the night before—either the sofa bed was surprisingly comfortable or she’d been too exhausted to notice the difference. In any case, she woke up with a clear head and realized that attempting to travel on the Fourth of July was plain dumb. She had the suite to herself. Julian had set out early—she’d heard him fumbling around in the sitting area actively trying not to make noise. Once he left, Nina ordered room service and sat at the antique desk to write in her journal. But she’d refused to stay cooped up in her room while a party was in full swing outside.
Nina was relieved that Julian had not yet returned when she left the suite in her made-for-a-Miami-(or Vegas)-pool-party minidress. And yet she was doubly relieved when she spotted him on the VIP veranda. She’d enjoyed the quiet in the suite, but there was such a thing as too much quiet. She had missed his voice. And then she watched as he pulled a bikini-clad beauty into a hug. Her mouth went dry, and she turned away in search of more fruit-flavored vodka.
Whatever. He’s not my type.
She went for clean-cut lawyer/stockbroker types. Men who couldn’t bench-press anything heavier than a laptop but still managed to wear suits beautifully. Julian Knight in his jeans and tees worn mostly to show off his sculpted body was the opposite of that.
Assessing the attractiveness of one action hero on the scale of lawyer to stockbroker was an insane waste of time. She was at a party crowded with men! Nina infiltrated a squad of women on the dance floor. The DJ played the summer hits, and above them the sky was turning purple. She laughed at the crazy moves of her new friends and matched them with moves of her own. Soon, though, the crowd swallowed her up. She searched around for the others, but the group had dismantled.
The dance floor stretched alongside the pool, and Nina danced her way toward it. She took a breath. I’m tipsy, she admitted, and scooped another glass from a passing waiter’s tray. Might as well get good and drunk. She sent coconut-flavored vodka down her throat in one gulp then clutched the empty shot glass to her chest. Still, the words crawled across the ticker of her mind. He’s just not my type.
The first rocket of the night surged into the sky and exploded; the sound ripped through the night. While everyone welcomed the burst of sound and color with cheers, Nina startled, lost her balance and toppled cleanly into the deep end of pool. It was a relief, frankly. The news ticker in her brain went dark.
CHAPTER SIX
Nina stood shivering in the chilly marble bathroom. From the other side of the door, Julian asked whether she was decent. She tightened the towel around her torso and the one wrapped around her head before answering yes. He handed her a hotel robe and slippers through a crack in the doorway. All she could think was: This man has seen me naked.
This man had also dived into a pool to fish her out, carried her through the party crowd guided by the flash of hundreds of camera phones and whisked her up to their suite via private elevator. All the while, she’d coughed up water on his chest. Once in their room, he’d helped her out of her dress. The zipper gave way easily enough, but the soaked fabric had clung to her like suction wrap. Then he’d assisted her into the shower.
Nina attempted to blow-dry her hair. The noise aggravated her pounding headache and she gave up, letting her hair fall damp down her back. And since she could not think of anything more to do to stall the inevitable, she slipped on the robe and stepped out to face him.
He wa
s waiting just outside the door, his face soft with concern. “Hey. Come lie down.”
“Here?” Nina flatly refused. “That’s fine. I’ll head to my room now.”
She bolted toward the bedroom door, but her tortoise’s pace made it easy for him to block her. All he had to do was step in her path. “I’m going to order tea and soup and whatever else you like. It’ll make things easier if you camp out here.”
That sounded reasonable enough. Not the part about the soup, though. That sounded terrible. Nevertheless, it felt wrong to give in to him. “My things are in my room and…” She winced with pain. Her headache intensified with each word of false protest. Between the drinking and the drowning, she had no energy left to argue.
He linked an arm around her waist and assisted her onto the large, inviting bed. Tonight, it was covered in a hunter-green bedspread embroidered in gold.
“What things do you need?” he asked. “I’ll grab them for you.”
She wanted to ask for her journal. Instead, she asked for her bag of toiletries on the bathroom vanity. Julian left and returned in a flash with her toiletries, her phone that she’d left charging in her room, her monogrammed slippers from J. Crew and her journal. She thanked him enthusiastically, and yet he didn’t look pleased.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Don’t tell me you slept on a couch last night.” His voice was flat.
“The couch converts into a bed.” When his eyes widened in disbelief, she added, “Don’t worry. It’s imported from Italy and very comfortable.”
He placed her slippers at the side of the bed. “You said this suite had two bedrooms. That’s not a bedroom. That’s a study.”
“Shows you how much I know.”
He stood over her, a frown tugging at his lips. Nina wasn’t comfortable with him handling her journal, so she pried it out of his hands. “I’ll take this. Thanks.”
“You’re spending the night here,” he said. “It’s my turn on the couch.”
