Jackson splashes you again, this time sending droplets of water all over your sunglasses and hat. “I never said I was playing fair!”
“You asked for it,” you mutter, strip your cover-up over your head, and toss your sunglasses and hat onto the blanket. You execute a perfect shallow dive into the crystal water and streamline toward Jackson, surfacing directly in front of him and splashing him squarely in his smug face.
“Ugh!” he sputters, clearing the water from his eyes. You flash a satisfied smile and float away, Jackson-style, letting the salty buoyancy carry you.
The moment you begin to float, memories of childhood summertime fun come flooding back to you.
Jackson floats up beside you and for a moment there is peace between you. When he speaks it is with a quiet reverence. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
You smile up into the spectacular sky, slashed with gold, purple, pink, and indigo. “It is.”
Of course Jackson can’t let the stillness last for long. You feel a pinch on your upper leg and jump. You didn’t even see his hand move toward you.
“Ouch! Jackson, that hurt.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks with an impish grin. “Must’ve been a crab.”
“A crab called Jackson!” you shout and leap toward him in the water, trying to pinch anything you can grab.
Suddenly, you are in a full-on water-wrestling match, laughing and splashing like two little kids. You are exhilarated and energized, and having more fun than you’ve had in a long time. It feels so good to let go and just play.
The sun moves lower on the horizon, and you feel its warm kiss even through the water. The white sand beneath your toes is like silk, and the slight breeze moving through the air feels like a benediction.
Maybe you’ve done something right after all, taking the time to get to know Jackson and giving him another chance. Maybe you’ve totally misjudged him. Is it possible your suspicions about him were all in your head, that you reacted too strongly? Or perhaps his time with Buffy has changed him. You go in for one last grab just as Jackson ducks, sending you face-first into the water. He lifts you up and tosses you playfully backward as though you weigh nothing at all.
“Okay,” he says. “I surrender.”
“You give up way too easily!” you say and giggle.
Jackson advances on you slowly, all gleaming muscle as he threads through the glimmering water. “Oh really?”
Before you know it, he is upon you, firmly holding you by your upper arms. His strong hands send an unexpected wave of pleasure through you. His face is inches from yours, and for a moment you cannot breathe.
You have only a moment to think I was right before you decide what to do. Do you give into this moment and let what will happen just happen, let Buffy see the truth and decide what she will, or do you pull away and stay true to your friend, even if she hasn’t been completely true to you?
To put an end to it, turn to page 163.
To give in to the moment with Jackson, keep reading.
The spell of the sun, the sand, the salty water, and the undeniable chemistry is too much to deny. Besides, Buffy wanted to know, did know, really. Now she’ll know for sure. He pulls you close, one arm slipping to your waist as the other finds the back of your neck. A single kiss, warm and deep, sends you into spirals of dizziness.
All too quickly, Jackson pulls away. Before he leaves you, he leans close and whispers gruffly into your ear, “I told you I never give up.” Then he dives under the darkening water, now a mirror for the low-hanging sun, leaving you confused and flustered, fumbling your way back to the beach. You glance guiltily at Buffy’s sleeping form. She doesn’t appear to have moved an inch.
* * *
The next day on set is busy and hot, and you are in every scene without a moment to rest. You’re relieved that everything with Buffy seems perfectly normal but wonder how to break the news to her that what she suspected is completely correct.
Jackson doesn’t let on that anything happened between the two of you. In fact, he barely acknowledges you unless you are in a scene together, and he’s off to his trailer right after every wrap. It’s an infuriating game.
* * *
One morning in makeup, as Buffy administers a final dusting of powder, she asks off-handedly, “So, what happened between you two?”
You are so surprised by her question you can’t answer for a moment, which you know makes you look guilty. Stupidly, you ask, “What are you talking about?”
“Seriously, Anna, I’m not a complete idiot. He’s barely said a word to me since we got back.”
You take a deep breath and shore up your courage to tell your friend what you know she doesn’t want to hear.
“Buffy, I’m really sorry. You asked me to test him and I did. And you were right. He’s a complete jerk. He doesn’t deserve you.”
Buffy looks down at the brush in her hand and breathes deeply. Your heart squeezes in pain for your friend. You hate to see her hurt and disappointed.
She sucks in another breath and looks up again, the essence of the strong, ebullient woman. “You’re right. He doesn’t. But”—she places her hand on her belly and a small smile lights her eyes—“this one deserves more than an absentee dad. I’m not going to let that happen.”
You close your eyes. Although you understand how she feels, you simply can’t let your friend make what could be the biggest mistake of her life.
You decide to give it another try. “Buffy, this might sound crazy, but please listen to me. You don’t need him. I get the attraction, I really do. He’s got this weird magnetism. But you have got to pull yourself away before it’s too late.” You gesture toward her still-flat middle. “This does not mean you have to be stuck with him.”
For a brief moment, you think the message resonates, but then Buffy slaps the makeup brush down on the counter. “What do you mean you ‘get the attraction’? I thought you found him utterly repulsive.”
“Buffy, I didn’t mean—” You break off as Buffy hastily tosses her brushes and compacts into her makeup case and slams it shut. She looks at you with tears in her eyes.
“You know what? You will never, ever know how it feels to live in the shadow every minute, every day, of someone you will never outshine. Do you ever stop to think that everything I’ve ever wished for, you get? Huh? Do you see that at all? I’m not going to let it happen this time, Anna. I’m just not. Believe it or not, at some point he will see that I can be every bit as desirable as you.”
Buffy’s words bring tears to your eyes, and you make one last attempt to salvage your friendship. “Buffy, just tell me what you want me to do. I will do anything for you, you know that.”
“You know what you can do? Just stay away from us.” With that, Buffy bursts through the door, leaving you alone in your chair, ready for your close-up.
* * *
That night, there’s a light tap on your trailer door. You’re instantly hopeful and leap to open it. Your mood immediately darkens as you see not Buffy, but Jackson, standing in the dim moonlight. He leans casually against the doorframe, a bottle of champagne and two glasses in his hands.
He doesn’t wait for an invitation before promptly pushing you back into the trailer with a deep, long kiss that makes your head swim. You can taste the alcohol on his breath. You have enough presence of mind to shut the door quickly before anyone sees. You bolt it behind you, stumbling back from Jackson and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
Jackson noticeably recoils from your withering look. “Hey,” he says indignantly, “that wasn’t the greeting I had in mind.”
“Jackson,” you ask in an unnecessary whisper, “what do you think you are doing?”
He fixes you with a brown-eyed stare and a crooked smile, “Why, I’m celebrating, darlin’.” He pops the champagne and begins to pour out two tall, fizzy glasses.
“Don’t bother,” you tell him. “I’m not drinking tonight.”
“Well, that makes one
of us,” Jackson says with a laugh and downs his glass in one swallow.
You move to the window, push the curtain aside, and peer out. Thank goodness there’s no one in sight. You’ve got to get Jackson out of your trailer.
“What’re you looking for, sweetheart?”
Your heart is racing as you try to figure out a way to get him to leave quickly, “Nothing.” You think for a minute. “Hey, have you seen Buffy today?”
“Had lunch with her this afternoon. Sweet little thing.” He pauses, savoring some memory, “But she’s not you, Anna. She’s not you.”
Clearly Buffy hasn’t told him anything. She’s probably afraid to scare him away. Or maybe she just wants to handle things on her own, on her own schedule. But the more time that goes by, the harder that might be.
Before you can say another word, Jackson is on you again, kissing you so hard his stubble burns your skin. Why is it that you can’t even think when he is kissing you? You allow him to continue a moment longer before pushing him forcibly away.
“What is it, Anna?” Now he’s pressing against you, and you can feel the hard insistence of his erection as he moves. His hand lifts the hem of your halter top and his fingers slide roughly below your waistline. “Tell me you don’t like this.”
His breath is coming hard and fast and yours is too. Why is it that every touch from this brazen man feels like an electric spark against your skin? You feel your head getting light again and want so much to give in to the moment. Now he’s kissing you again and you can’t even think. His tongue slides wet and strong against yours, and you cannot stop yourself from returning his kisses.
He begins to work on your neck, his mouth sucking greedily and sending waves of pleasure through your body. You finally open your eyes and bring yourself back to the present moment.
“Jackson, stop.”
Jackson speaks through his ragged breath, “You like this, Anna, and I do, too. Just stop talking and let me take care of you.”
He begins to unbutton your jeans, falls to his knees, and uses his teeth to lower the zipper. Now his mouth is on your stomach, and moving lower. He bites at the top of your lacy thong and as his spiky chin brushes the top of your pelvis, a groan of pleasure escapes your throat.
You shake your head again, willing it to clear. “Jackson. Jackson, please.”
Jackson laughs hoarsely. “You don’t have to beg, baby. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Jackson, enough.” He continues to caress you, brushing the tip of his tongue just below your navel. You grab his head and force him to raise his chin. “Jackson, I said enough!”
Finally he seems to hear you and looks up, laughing as he rocks back on his knees. “Now, Anna,” he drawls with a smile, “you know that’s not enough.”
You take a step back and re-zip and button your jeans, smoothing your shirt over your stomach. You look him in the eyes and say quietly, “Jackson, that’s enough. Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Okay, okay, jeez, Anna. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I get the message.”
Jackson rises unsteadily to his feet and brings his face inches from yours. “You, my dear, need to learn to have some fun.”
You gaze at him icily, finally fully in control.
“You,” you tell him, “need to learn to take no for an answer. And you need to have a serious talk with Buffy.”
Jackson has the nerve to smile, shrug, and shake his head. He opens the door of the trailer and turns to you before jumping down the little stairway.
He shoots you a look of pure mischief. “To be continued. Enjoy the champagne.”
He tips an imaginary hat and then heads out into the night.
You pour the champagne down the sink and stuff the glasses into the bottom of the trash can, then sit down heavily and wonder what to do next. That night, sleep takes a long time to come.
* * *
The next day on set seems endless. You’re a sweaty mess by the time shooting is over. You can’t wait to have a moment to yourself. You need a quiet spot and a little time to think.
You decide to grab a towel and head for the beach. One advantage of the closed set is that there’s no danger of unwanted photos of your melted makeup and humidity-soaked hair. You pile it up into a sloppy bun and close your eyes against the sun, now dipping hastily toward the horizon.
From page 83 (and continued from above) . . .
You sleep in solitude on the soft sand for what feels like hours, blissful dreams of Colm playing behind your closed eyelids. You awaken slowly to the feeling that someone is watching you. Probably my imagination you think, and try to drift back into dreams of Colm again. After a few minutes you still can’t shake the feeling you’re being watched, and you think you hear some kind of shifting beside you.
Cautiously, you peel your eyes open and slowly turn your head. Sitting beside you is a true sight for sore eyes, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re seeing isn’t an illusion, some strange extension of the dream. Then Colm sneezes and you can’t conceal your delight.
“Colm!” you scream, catching the attention of some of the crew still lingering on the shoreline. “Oh my gosh! You’re really here!”
Colm laughs and blushes handsomely. “In the flesh,” he says in that liquid accent that makes you melt. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. I didn’t think you’d ever wake.”
You rise to sit and look at him. He’s more gorgeous than you even remembered. The setting sun sends sparks of gold dancing across his beautiful grey eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Working,” he says with a smile. “I am officially on assignment.” He clears his throat and puffs out his formidable chest. “My mission: to capture the actress at work and bring back the genuine article. BEHIND THE SCENES OF TROPICAL TANGO.”
He leans in to whisper gruffly, “Between you and me, the PR machine on this is enormous. They even gave me my own photographer.” He cocks his head toward a geeky-looking guy in cut-offs leaning against a nearby palm. Three cameras hang around his neck and he’s busily cleaning his lenses when he notices you looking his way. He squints in your direction and gives you a thumbs-up. “Don’t worry,” Colm confides, “he won’t get in the way.”
You laugh, taken aback and at the same time thrilled that he seems to be picking up where the two of you left off. You tingle with pleasure at Colm’s implied promise.
Colm jumps to his feet and brushes the powdery sand from his knees. “Right,” he says, “off to the trenches.” Before leaving, he squats down, making the muscles in his calves and thighs bulge beautifully. “Have a lovely rest. I will catch up with you a bit later.”
You admire the view from the rear as he begins to walk away. You almost stay silent but know you can’t let him just leave. “Hey, Colm?”
He stops mid-stride and turns back in your direction. You give him a sleepy smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He pauses, returning your smile, before he says, “Not nearly as glad as I am.”
You lower your head back onto the soft pillow of sand under your towel and gaze happily at the beautiful sunset.
Later that evening, there’s a knock on your trailer door. You open it to find Colm standing with one foot on the little stairway. He extends a hand to you, the gesture somehow regal yet unpresuming. “Fancy a walk on the beach?”
There’s no one else in sight on the little back lot. You slip on a pair of flip-flops and take Colm’s warm hand. Again you feel the rough calluses and again a shower of sparks flies up your arm, leaving goosebumps.
The sand and the water sparkle magically in the moonlight. Colm’s voice is low, soft, and melodic. “I think when my editor told me I may have actually blushed. All I could think about was seeing you again.”
For a moment you say nothing, then bravely decide to drop your guard. Colm’s presence beside you makes you feel secure. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot, too.”
The warm waves lap gently at the shoreline and the silk
en sand feels sensuous beneath your feet. The suddenly romantic evening has taken on a magical quality. You reach down to pick up a delicate spiral shell that’s floated up to your toes.
“Ouch!” you say, reaching to rub your neck.
“What’s happened?” Colm asks with genuine concern.
You laugh it off. “It’s nothing,” you tell him. “Just a cramp in my neck. All those long hours lying on the beach. Occupational hazard,” you say sarcastically.
“Indeed,” says Colm. “Let me just take a look.” He lifts your hair, sending chills up and down your spine. “Ah, I see. Nothing a little massage won’t cure.” He surprises you by sweeping his hand under your legs, lifting you off of your feet, and holding you there for a moment. He gazes so deeply into your eyes you feel you might melt, then lowers you gently into the sand.
He works his large fingers into your hairline and begins to massage your neck, gently at first, then with more and more pressure until you feel your muscles loosen, and the stress you’ve been carrying melt away. He finishes gently running his fingers through your hair, lifts it one last time, and then plants a single, delicate kiss at the base of your neck. You feel tiny explosions throughout your body.
“How’s that?” he asks.
“Colm, that felt amazing,” you tell him. Once again, you’re looking deeply into his eyes and you find yourself waiting—and hoping—for him to kiss you.
Instead, he grasps your hand and pulls you to your feet, gently brushing the sand from your backside.
Walking back to the set you find yourself a little confused and wishing once again this time with Colm didn’t have to end. “How long are you here?” you ask him.
“For the week. They fly us out on Friday. Lots to do between now and then.”
Why is it that the thought of him leaving makes you feel completely desperate?
“Well, then,” you tell him, “we’ll have to make the most of our time together.”
“We will,” agrees Colm. “I only wish this were a true holiday and not a working one.” He turns to face you and takes both of your hands, entwining his fingers with yours. “But that time will come, fair Annie, if you’ll wait for me.” At last, he pulls you close and kisses you deeply, playing his tongue around yours and sending you into an absolute meltdown.
Star Struck Page 12
