‘Bullshit.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
He unzipped the red Tudor dress. ‘You wore a dress this colour in the Caribbean. You looked stunning in it.’
The faint glow in her cheeks burst into full-blown flames. ‘Keep your voice down,’ she said, checking the doorway.
‘Why? There’s no one here.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. And why would it matter if there were? I’m not ashamed we… hooked up… are you?’ His tone was assertive, but his expression was laced with uncertainty. A beat later, he said, ‘Well, are you?’
She folded her arms. ‘So you’ve told everyone about me, have you? About how we met?’
‘Well… no, not everyone.’
‘Exactly. So don’t pretend you’re any more okay with this than I am, because you’re not.’
‘Hey, I’m not the one who’s changed. I’m exactly who I was on holiday. You’re the one who’s had a personality transplant—’ She winced. Harsh. ‘—and I’m still trying to work out why. We had a great time, the best. It was magical. There’s no way you faked that.’
She looked away, searching out the flock wallpaper. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Then what happened?’
Lily unhooked the 1950s ballgown from where it was hanging on the door. There was no way she was about to answer that… or model the red Tudor dress, which would require someone to lace it up, and her resolve wasn’t up to letting Will Taylor touch her. ‘Where can I change?’
The intensity in his unwavering gaze was unnerving. He was obviously reluctant to let go of the conversation. Tough. ‘Behind the screen.’
She marched over to the dressing screen and ducked behind it. Anything to avoid further discussion about why she’d been so different on holiday. She yanked her hoodie over her head and threw it on the floor. ‘I don’t have any suitable shoes.’
‘We’ll crop the shot so it’s just the dress.’ He sounded grumpy. Good. It was safer that way.
She wriggled out of her jeans. ‘And my make-up isn’t strong enough for the lens, so cut my head off too.’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ he mumbled.
Charming. She stepped into the ice-white ballgown and wiggled it over her hips, zipping up the side. ‘And my nail varnish isn’t the right colour,’ she said, emerging from behind the screen.
‘It’s fine—’ Whatever else he was about to say died on his lips.
She stilled. ‘What?’
‘Like I said, stunning.’
Not a lot you could say to that.
‘Come over here,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Stand on this stool.’ He was back to barking instructions.
She dutifully obeyed, using his shoulder to lean on as she climbed onto the stool. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. The faint scent of him was enough to invite butterflies to fill her tummy and hold their own private rave. Helpful. Not.
He walked away and picked up a camera, one of those proper photography ones with a zoom lens. ‘Face me,’ he said, aiming the camera at her.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing. Just stand still, so I can capture the dress.’ He moved around her, taking snaps. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘What question?’
‘What happened?’
She could plead ignorance and pretend she didn’t understand his meaning, but it would only delay the inevitable. ‘Reality,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘That’s what happened.’
‘Meaning?’
She sighed. ‘We were on a romantic Caribbean island. Everything around us was designed to seduce. The candlelight, the music, the exotic food. It was a film set. A false existence. With no daily chores, no worries, and no challenges to remind us of life back home. And it worked. For two wonderful weeks there was nothing to focus on other than having fun and indulging.’
He caught her gaze. ‘You agree it was wonderful?’
Wonderful didn’t come close. It had been utter bliss. The most precious two weeks of her life. ‘But it wasn’t real,’ she said, somehow managing to hold eye contact – how, she had no idea.
‘It was for me.’ He snapped a shot of her face.
‘Hey, you said no head shots.’
‘No, you said no head shots.’ He walked off and adjusted an umbrella. ‘Can you put on the medieval wedding dress, please.’
She bit her lip. Stay and argue, or comply?
She climbed off the stool and marched over to the door, unhooking the wedding dress.
Feeling flustered and agitated, she removed the ballgown and replaced it on the hanger. A sensible person would keep quiet, or change the topic, but for some reason she felt aggrieved that her character had got such an assassination.
‘So you’re honestly telling me that was one hundred per cent Will Taylor on holiday?’ She unzipped the carry bag and removed the wedding dress. ‘There was nothing you edited about your life? No aspect of your history left untold? Everything I saw was the real Will Taylor with no airbrushing whatsoever?’
Stony silence.
‘Just as I thought.’ She draped the dress over her head, shuffling it down her body. ‘And that’s what a holiday romance is all about. We present the best version of ourselves, with no dramas or flaws, and omit anything that we dislike.’
She laced the ties at the front, sucking in her breath. Her waistline wasn’t as svelte as Megan’s. She continued, raising her voice to be heard over the screen, ‘I have no qualms in admitting I wasn’t entirely honest during that holiday. I was grieving for the recent loss of my granddad, and I needed an escape, so I pretended to be a confident, carefree version of myself, who wasn’t afraid of anything. Someone who was up for a laugh, and who was happy to chill and enjoy the attentions of a hot bloke. But it was bullshit, okay?’ She wasn’t about to admit the full depth of her deception. No way. But maybe partially admitting she’d been ‘faking it’ might satisfy his need for answers.
Finally, the dress was secured.
She marched out from behind the screen to find Will with his back to her, fiddling with the camera. ‘That’s why I didn’t want it to continue. That’s why I was so spooked at seeing you again. Because you’d caught me out in a lie. This is the real me. Inconsistent, lacking in confidence, unglamorous and majorly flawed.’ Her hands went to her hips. ‘Satisfied?’
He turned. Swore. And fumbledthe camera, nearly dropping it.
Luckily, it was on a neck strap.
She recoiled. ‘What?’
But his eyes said it all. He was looking at her like he had on holiday. Full of wanting, longing and tenderness. The kind of look that made you feel like the most stunning woman on the planet. The kind of look that made you want to say sod decorum and remove your underwear.
He removed the camera from around his neck and stepped closer.
Her heart was racing. ‘Do you want the overcoat on?’
He glanced at the blue coat still on its hanger before his eyes landed back on her, travelling down the length of her and then up to focus on her eyes. ‘I want you… just as you are,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper, causing her skin to break out in goosebumps.
The air in her lungs disappeared and for a moment Lily forgot to breathe.
Her brain was screaming, warning her to back off. But her heart was ignoring any objections and giving in to the pull of her body, which was drawn to his like a magnet.
And then he was there. In front of her. His face lowering to hers, his hands sliding around her waist.
A shiver coincided with his lips touching hers, and an explosion went off inside her, as if a tightly wound coil had been unleashed. An unravelling of all the tension she’d held onto for the past four months since they’d last kissed.
It was frantic. Fast. Encompassing every part of her.
It wasn’t a question of consent. Or making a rational decision to let this happen. Her body made the decision for her, as it ignore
d any doubts her brain could muster. Her body went in all guns blazing, entwining itself with his.
And then she was flying, lifted into the air, her legs encircling him as he carried her over to the sofa, their lips still locked together. He pressed against her, his movements fluid, yet driven by an urgency she found startling… but could definitely relate to. Like satisfying a craving. A need like no other.
And then a woman said, ‘Whoa! Shit, sorry!’
It was enough to break the moment.
As the fog of lust cleared, frantic uncoupling followed, and both of them resumed an upright position, while adjusting dislodged clothing.
The sight of Megan Lawrence standing in the doorway looking both surprised and amused was like being doused with ice-cold water.
They stumbled away from each other, embarrassed and mortified.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Megan said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I had no idea. I thought I was needed for a photoshoot. I’ll go.’
But it was too late.
Their secret was out.
Chapter Seventeen
Friday, 16 July
It was a glorious sunny day. Almost too sunny. The mass of surrounding woodland was helping to block out the intensity of the burning sun, but the dappled sunlight reflecting off the nearby lake was causing the lighting team a headache.
Despite the technical issues, the scene looked magical. Perfect for a romantic wedding scene.
The grand arbour at The Cow Pond in Savill Gardens had been erected to celebrate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. It nestled at the edge of the vast forest adjoining Windsor Great Park. The wooden construction had been draped in ivy and an array of pink climbing roses had been wound around the foliage. In front, were several rows of rustic log seating. The centre aisle was decorated with informal displays of pink and white roses and strands of gypsophila which waved about softly in the breeze.
It reminded Will of his own wedding day, years ago. An outdoor ceremony at a small chateau in the Dordogne. It had been a wonderful day, a small affair with close family and friends. Intimate and special. But the memories weren’t as fresh as they’d once been. Or as uplifting. And as always, whenever his mind drifted back to happier times, his thoughts inevitably ended up at the same sad place, halted at the tragic conclusion to his all-too-brief marriage.
He closed his eyes and tried to visualise Sara standing next to him at the altar, the pair of them loved-up and gazing dreamily at each other, excited by the promise of a happy life together. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. Like it had happened to a different person.
Not helped by the fact that it wasn’t Sara’s image that popped into his brain these days, but Lily’s. It was her face that he saw now. Not his dead wife’s… which was highly disturbing on many levels.
Will shook the thought away.
Dwelling on the memory of kissing Lily on Tuesday wasn’t helping him to focus either.
He scanned the rows of extras filling the log seating, all kitted out in their medieval finery. Anything to distract him from thinking about being sprung kissing his costume designer by the tour guide’s leading lady.
Too late. He was back there. He was sucked into the reminder of how great it had felt to kiss Lily again. The relief. The flood of endorphins that had overruled his normally rational brain, and the utter bliss of indulging in physical pleasure… until the moment they’d been interrupted.
He groaned and rubbed his eyes.
Never before had he acted with such reckless abandon. Not at work, anyway. But something had switched inside him and he’d abandoned caution and had fumbled around like a horny teenager. If Megan had arrived a few moments later, she might have witnessed a hell of a lot more than mere kissing. And there would have been no coming back from that.
Thankfully, as steamy as their encounter had been, they’d remained fully clothed, and his humiliation had been curtailed to mumbled apologies and skimming over the incident as though it had never happened.
Something which Lily had taken to a whole new art form. She wouldn’t even look at him. Which was excruciating enough, but was made worse by Megan Lawrence surreptitiously watching them from a distance, a sly knowing smile on her face, as though she was waiting for a repeat performance.
She wasn’t the only one.
Because however embarrassing it had been getting caught, it hadn’t eradicated how hot it had been at the time. His blood had yet to cool down.
Trying to bring his mind back to work-related issues, Will studied the view ahead. Isaac James was playing the part of a medieval knight. He was standing by the arbour looking dapper in his long black tunic, awaiting the arrival of his princess bride.
All they needed now was for the sunlight to play ball and to wait for the police helicopter circling above to bugger off and stop ruining their take.
Shielding his eyes, he glanced around the congregation, searching out Lily. She was nowhere to be seen.
And then he mentally kicked himself. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about her.
‘The director’s calmed down,’ Gemma said, making him jump.
Jesus, where the hell had she snuck up from?
He turned to his sister. ‘He won’t stay that way if we don’t start filming soon.’ He noticed she was holding a coffee carton. ‘Is that for me?’
‘Nope.’ She took a mouthful. ‘What’s the hold up?’
‘Lighting.’ He gave her a disgruntled look. ‘You didn’t think to get me one?’
‘Why would I get you one?’ There was a warning note in her voice. ‘If you want a coffee, get it yourself. I’m not your slave.’
‘Someone’s grumpy this morning. What’s Chris done now, alphabetised your condiment jars again?’
Her cool eyes focused on his. ‘Here’s an idea. How about you focus on your own family issues, instead of criticising mine?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t have any family issues.’
Her pale eyebrows lifted in disbelief. ‘Then why has my son been acting as a glorified childminder for the past two weeks?’
Not this again. ‘Zac doesn’t mind looking after Poppy.’
‘You’re right, he doesn’t. Or if he does, he’d never say anything.’ She fanned her loose white shirt, trying to get some airflow beneath. ‘But I mind.’
‘Why? He’s getting paid for it.’
‘Because you’re being hypocritical.’
He turned to her. ‘How so?’
‘One minute you’re telling my husband that Zac is a valued member of the project team—’
‘Which he is.’
‘—the next, you’re treating him like a babysitter.’
An extra walked past, almost poking Will’s eye out with her sun-brolly. ‘He’s helping me out,’ he said, ducking out the way.
‘But at what cost?’ Gemma dabbed her forehead. ‘How is Zac supposed to be taken seriously as a hair and make-up designer if the boss keeps dumping his kid on him… Hold that.’ She shoved her coffee at him, unearthing a tissue from her trouser pocket. ‘You wouldn’t ask anyone else on the team to look after Poppy, would you?’
‘That’s because I don’t trust anyone else to look after her. Zac’s family. He’s responsible. I know she’s safe with him.’
‘But it’s not what he’s being paid to do.’ She gestured for him to hand over her coffee. ‘You’re damaging his career… Give me that.’
He held the carton aloft. ‘That’s not my intention.’ He took a swig of coffee, knowing he was being childish. ‘And it’s just for a few more days, until I can sort out proper childcare arrangements.’
‘Something you’ve been promising to do for months.’ His sister snatched her coffee back. ‘Years, even. And yet somehow you never quite get around to it.’
‘That’s not fair. I’ve explored various options, you know I have, but they never work out.’
He was subjected to a glare. ‘So you’ve registered with an agency, have you? You’ve advertised for help? You’ve acti
vely tried to source a suitable childminder for Poppy?’
‘Well, no—’
‘I rest my case.’
‘It’s not that simple, Gemma.’ Why didn’t anyone understand how challenging it was? ‘Poppy doesn’t like being with strangers. You know how shy she is.’
‘And she’s not going to get over that if you keep pandering to her insecurities.’
‘I do not pander.’
‘Yes, you do.’
His agitation kicked up a notch, not helped by the stifling heat. ‘It’s okay for you, you’ve always been part of a couple. You’ve had support looking after Zac.’
‘May I remind you we both worked full time. Don’t make out our situation was any easier than yours. It wasn’t.’
‘I know, but Zac was more independent than Poppy.’
‘Not at first, he wasn’t. He was a painfully shy toddler, or have you forgotten that?’ She sipped her coffee, tormenting him. ‘But he soon toughened up. Mostly because he had to. We weren’t there to mollycoddle him. He had to stand on his own two feet.’
‘Model parenting.’
‘Better than having a child who’s scared of her own shadow.’
‘She’s not that bad… And will you keep your voice down?’ He glanced around, noticing a few people watching them with interest. ‘There’s no need for the whole team to hear about my parenting inadequacies, thank you very much.’
‘You admit you’re inadequate?’
‘Listen, I do okay,’ he said, trying to keep a lid on his temper… and then he remembered he’d yet to source a costume for Poppy’s upcoming play. Work had scuppered his plans to take her to a hire shop at the weekend. Indignation switched to guilt. Okay, so maybe he didn’t have a handle on everything. Not that he was about to admit as much. Not when Gemma was in such a grump. ‘I can’t discuss this now. We need to get on with filming.’
‘Talking of filming. Have you obtained a reference for Lily Monroe yet?’
‘I’m waiting to hear back from the agency she was registered with.’
‘They haven’t responded?’ Gemma frowned. ‘What’s the hold up?’
Someone Like You: Escape with this perfect uplifting romance Page 22
