America's Sweetheart

by Jessica Lemmon

  We bump into the bed, jarring us out of the trance. She’s panting and I’m panting…suspended for another heartbeat before she wrestles with my T-shirt. I help by hauling it over my head. Her small hands explore my pecs and abs, smoothing over the skin there and testing a muscle or two while she’s at it.

  “Wow,” she murmurs.

  I kiss her again and we somehow end up on the bed—with me on my back and her on top of me. Fingers in her ponytail, I tear it down, tossing the band aside and pushing the silken strands of her hair away from her face. She’s beautiful. She’s delicious. She’s surrounding me like water, and like being underwater, I have to surface to catch my breath.

  Her lips skim the column of my neck and her hands slip lower and lower, teasing at the edge of my jeans. My hips lift of their own accord, seeking relief. Just one squeeze. Just one stroke.

  Her hands climb my body rather than giving me what I need.

  Rolling her to her back, I lift the edge of her shirt and palm her flat belly. Fuck, I thought her hair was soft. Her skin is heaven. The softest I’ve ever touched.

  “Jax.”

  Her hands are threaded in my hair and her hips lift.

  “Jax…” she says again, but it’s not in the pleading, vulnerable way like before.

  I want her to ask for more, but I can tell by her tone that she’s not going to. It’s a what are we doing Jax, or maybe a we shouldn’t be doing this Jax.

  Hands gripping her rib cage, I give her a light squeeze, my fingers itching to slip under her bra and feel her creamy breasts—just once. Instead, I kiss her softly and remove my hand from under her shirt with a groan of defeat. I reroute my hand to her jaw, unable to keep from tempting her. Cradling her head, we make out, long and slow.

  She moans, wraps her leg around one of mine, and tilts her hips so that she’s grinding into my thigh in the best/worst way.

  With a whimper of defeat, she palms my face and pulls our lips apart. She shakes her head, as at a loss for words as I am.

  Sadness seeps into her dark eyes.

  “I know.” I smile. It hurts.

  My hard-on is a throbbing, insistent third party. I’m going to have to limp out of here. I kiss her on the nose and take a breath, blowing it out as I sit up. I run my fingers through my hair and scrub my face, trying to snap out of the sex haze that has slipped into the room like a thick veil of fog.

  “Sorry about that.” She sits up, looking as sex crazed as I do with her hands gripping the bedding and her hair a mess. We share a longing gaze before I nod to myself. The moment is over, but neither of us wants it to be.

  “Why can’t we do this again?” I have to ask. My brain’s not functioning.

  She bumps my shoulder with hers instead of answering. So many reasons.

  “Okay, Mini.” I sigh. It comes from the depths. “I’m going to go.”

  I wait for her to argue, tipping my head as a prompt.

  “Okay. Good night.” Part of her doesn’t want to concede. A very big part of me agrees with that part of her.

  I pull my shirt on, watching as she folds her legs under her. I have to turn away. The sight of her sitting there, eyes wide and on me, hair raked in the pattern of my fingers, is too much for me to turn down. Especially now.

  At her doorway, I torture myself with one final glance. Her eye makeup is sexily smudged, her shirt wrinkled. I’m almost out the door when she calls my name. I’m primed and ready for whatever she says next.

  “Don’t forget your plans.”

  Except for that.

  “Right.” The deck plans.

  I tell her I’ll let myself out, and head to her parents’ bedroom, where I find the plans and the information I need. After snapping a photo with my phone, I hear the quiet click of her bedroom door.

  When I walk by, I pause at the wooden panel, every ounce of me wanting one more taste before I leave. All I have to do is knock and I bet she’ll let me back in. And then we can continue what we were doing and damn the consequences. I raise my hand, then ball it into a fist before lowering my arm.

  She had her reasons to stop us. I respect her enough to let that sleeping dog lie.

  I jog down the stairs, ignoring the pull that would have me going back up and knocking anyway. But this isn’t about me and what I want.

  It never has been.

  Chapter 11

  “ ‘Schiller Park was established in 1867,’ ” Allie reads from a plaque.

  The sun is bright, and thanks to zero clouds in the sky, hot. The park looks like any park with its wide grassy sprawls and tall leafy trees lining the perimeter. Beds of brightly colored flowers dot the landscape, interspersed with works of art: statues, fountains, and more plaques.

  Allie and I are here on a Saturday afternoon for the express purpose of her being recognized and photographed. I’m the bait.

  “Where to?” I ask as we wander down a cobblestone walkway and past flower beds. We can hear kids in the distance—there’s a playground over the hill.

  “Not over there,” she decides. “Somewhere romantic.”

  Romantic. There’s a word I haven’t attributed to this woman in a long, long time.

  I’m carrying the tote she handed me when I picked her up. It’s canvas and outfitted inside to hold a wine bottle, glasses, cutlery, and plates. She told me on the way over that she’d stuffed it with picnic wares like cheese and crackers, smoked salmon, “and other stuff.”

  “Somewhere romantic with the Nina Lockhart. I’m honored.”

  She rolls her eyes, taking my hand to drag me off to the perfect setting for public outing number one. Once, her fingers could link with mine in the easiest, most effortless way. Today that’s not the case. We’re trying hard. Too hard.

  We’re putting on a show for ourselves and whoever’s watching…if anyone is watching.

  “You’d better step it up,” she murmurs as she angles toward a large tree. She has a blanket tucked under her arm. She’s wearing a short floral-patterned dress and those tall wedge sandals that are going to be the death of me. Her toenails are no longer siren hot pink but sultry turquoise blue instead.

  God help me.

  I threw on cargo shorts and a tee without a logo—her request. When I showed up and told her this was the best I could do, she grinned and told me I looked perfect. I’m not sure if she meant that as a compliment, or meant that I was camera-ready.

  She spreads the blanket over a patch of grass as a gentle breeze teases along the hem of her skirt. I catch a peek of her thighs when the wind ruffles her dress again and my chest tightens. I feel weird about being here, doing this with her. If we were alone—and I was sure we were alone—I wouldn’t hesitate to flirt. Doing it on demand is harder for some reason.

  “Better watch you don’t flash your panties to the waiting paps,” I tease.

  Sunglasses hide her eyes, but her smile is comfortable.

  “I’ve been seen in my underwear on television countless times, Burke.”

  Again with the “Burke.” What’s with that?

  Carefully, she lowers herself onto the blanket and demurely crosses her legs to one side. I join her, handing over the bag and letting her set the stage. Since it’s a gorgeous Saturday, several people are in the park walking and admiring the statues and fountains. Nearest us, three guys throw a Frisbee, and a couple pushes a stroller.

  “Baby or dog?”

  “What?” I look around for a baby who could look like a dog or a dog that could be mistaken for a baby and see neither.

  “In the stroller,” she says as she unwraps a sleeve of crackers.

  “Why would there be a dog in a stroller?”

  “It happens a lot in L.A.”

  “That’s horrifying.”

  She tucks her hair behind her ear, her smile soft, and then stabs a shor
t-handled cheese knife into a round of brie.

  I rub my palms together, inspecting the stroller couple, the guys on the hill, wondering if they’ll recognize Allie/Nina or if we’ll have to sit out here half the afternoon waiting for someone to notice us. Knowing someone is watching, or could be, is nerve-racking.

  “How do you stand this? The possibility of being watched all the time.”

  “I’m an actress. I love attention.” Her tone is condescending and her smile practiced. I know that’s not true. She followed her heart to California because she loved the screen, loved to act, and loved to pretend. She believed it was destiny and fate and karma all balled into one when her aunt called her about that internship. I remember her nervous excitement when she told me she was flying out for a visit. And the ache in my gut when I knew for sure she was leaving. Leaving to become bigger and better than Ohio.

  “Mini, I’m not an entertainment magazine reporter. You can’t bullshit the guy who knew you when.”

  She sighs like it pains her to tell me, but something about the way she meets my eyes tells me she likes being able to drop the façade around me.

  “The attention, the paparazzi both come with the job. I’m used to it, as weird as it sounds. You learn to shut them out when you want to be alone, and learn how to grab their attention when you need it. You seem uncomfortable.”

  I purposefully loosen my shoulders and realize I probably resemble an undercover agent who’s been wired by the FBI to investigate the mob. This is a few levels down from that.

  “I’m fine,” I say a little defensively.

  “Sure you are.” She giggles. “Your job, your only job is to pretend to be enamored with me. And, if the mood strikes, lean over and touch me or kiss me. That’s it.”

  “If the mood strikes?” Is she kidding? “Like it’s been striking? Like it did on your bed the other night?”

  “Yes.” Her cheekbones warm to a pretty shade of pink, likely from her remembering how close we came to stripping each other bare for old times’ sake. I’m still surprised I walked out. “Only we’re in public at the moment, so we shouldn’t get that carried away.”

  She pulls out her cellphone, tweets a photo of the sign at the entrance of the park she snapped when we walked in, and sets out our meal. Or snack, as I like to think of it.

  She arranges everything on plates like works of art. The smoked salmon rolled just so, the cheese arranged in wheels or cubes. Even the grapes are in perfect triangle-shaped clusters.

  “Can we go out for real food after this?”

  “This is real food.” A cute little dent bisects her eyebrows. I put my finger there and smooth it out. I can’t see her eyes, but her tongue darts out and wets her bottom lip in the most tempting way possible. She likes when I touch her.

  It’s weird to be here with her, to watch her respond to me and feel myself respond to her. This time around it’s primal and physical. The first time around it was all about firsts and first steps and learning how the other person worked. Learning how life worked.

  “I thought being around you would feel the same as it did when we were teenagers,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “But it’s not the same.”

  “Meaning?” Knee up, I rest my elbow on it while my other hand has rerouted from that cute dent to her hair. I wind a strand around my finger.

  “I know we were…you know…” Her head tilts back then forth as she decides on a word. “intimate before, but when you kissed me the other night it was…” She whispers the next word, “…electric.”

  I cradle her head in my hand, her long, silky hair tickling the back of my hand. “I know. I was there.”

  “I’ve thought a lot about what you asked me that night, you know. When you asked why we couldn’t…continue what we were doing?”

  She has my undivided attention. I’ve turned it over in my head, oh, about a million times since then.

  “Truth?”

  “You have to ask?” I’m tense with curiosity.

  “I can’t think of a single reason why not.” She shakes her head like she’s at a loss. I sure as hell am. Hearing that she’s onboard for getting naked together is the best news I’ve heard in days. “Not one.”

  She pulls off her sunglasses, dips her long lashes and then peers up at me. I’m transfixed. There was a time when she was innocent and I was single-minded. Now we’re neither of those. The experience of being with her now, even with the murky water under the bridge, would be nothing short of incredible. How could it not be?

  “Jackson.” A whisper.

  “Yeah?” I gulp, pushing my hand deeper into her hair, my gaze lost in hers. Then she gives me the permission I was dying for.

  “You should kiss me.”

  Entranced, I obey. I feather a kiss onto her lips and she leans into me, her hand on my chest, her tongue sneaking out for a taste of mine. The kiss isn’t chaste, but it’s not raunchy, either. We land somewhere in between. My brain ignites at the idea of new possibilities, and the fly of my shorts becomes uncomfortably tight.

  She can’t think of a reason why we shouldn’t be together, and I can’t think of anything else. She swipes my bottom lip with the pad of her index finger and hits me so hard with bedroom eyes I have to remind myself we’re in a park and that I can’t drag her on top of me, one hand cupping her ass, the other nested in her hair, and make out long and slow.

  Shame.

  “Nicely done.” Her tone is a seductive purr. Mine’s gravelly when I respond.

  “Thanks. I’ve had a couple decades of practice.”

  She pulls back, blinks, and sobers. “Looks like we gave her the shot she wanted.”

  Huh?

  “The lady with the stroller recognized me when they walked by. She must’ve checked my Twitter to confirm. I tweeted and three seconds later she leaned over to whisper to the guy she’s with and then pretended to photograph him. He stepped aside and her phone was aiming right at us.”

  My brain is stuck on stupid.

  “Oh,” is the only word I manage.

  “You learn how to spot the opportunists after a few years. I hope she got a decent shot of the kiss.”

  I rake my fingers through my hair, feeling…I don’t know. Used? “Yeah. Me too.”

  Her smile fades as she assesses me. I shove a cracker with cheese into my mouth to occupy it rather than say anything I’m thinking.

  “Oh, Jax. I’m sorry. You didn’t think…I mean, it wasn’t that I didn’t like it.”

  I shake my head vigorously, half tempted to shove a cracker with cheese into her mouth to keep her from feeling sorry for me or worse—apologize because I’m too stupid to know that she was pretending. I dig out the bottle of wine and a professional wine key and work the cork.

  “I thought you saw her, too. I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” I ask, my voice too loud.

  Cork off, I fill two glasses. I’m not exactly a white wine guy, but I could use the alcohol. I down my glass like a shot.

  “Better actor than you thought, aren’t I?” I lift my eyebrows in a quick, cocky jump and refill my glass, set the bottle aside, and kick back on the blanket.

  “Well. Not all of it was acting,” Allie says. “We have chemistry in spades. Maybe she captured the kiss on video. That’d be something.”

  Now I’m wondering if her comment about how she couldn’t think of a reason not to sleep with me was acting as a “fluffer” for our first on-screen kiss. I don’t have a lot of experience with being used, and I’m still not sure that’s the right word given I agreed to come here and kiss her for that very purpose. But I’m stinging from it all the same.

  “Oh! I brought this really yummy fig jam.” Arm-deep in the tote bag, she comes out with a jar and spoon. I drink the cloying, super-sweet wine and briefly consider asking the Frisbee guys if I can join in.
r />   I’m suddenly antsy.

  As if the gods above sense my plight, the Frisbee wings out of bounds, bounces once, and rolls to a flat stop next to the blanket.

  “Heads up!” one guy calls out with a wave.

  “I’ve got this.” I climb to my feet. “Wouldn’t want them to recognize you and act creepy.”

  I send her a wink, and she buys the lie. I jog back to the group, wing the Frisbee, and they invite me to stay for a few throws. I agree, glancing over my shoulder to take in the setting. Allie’s smooth legs are folded beneath her flowery skirt, her dark hair blowing in the soft summer breeze. The part of me that twitches isn’t located in my pants but in my chest.

  And that is a big fucking problem.

  One I intend to rectify starting immediately after this next throw.

  Chapter 12

  “Say something.”

  Julieann shakes her head as she studies the screen of my phone. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Sunday dinner is being set on the table by our parents in the other room as we speak, so I don’t have a lot of time. I wasn’t going to say anything, but when I trudged into the living room and plopped down on the couch, beer in hand, Jules sensed something was wrong.

  I thwarted her questions for a good fifteen minutes, but we’re twins, and she’d sooner buy waterfront property in Arizona than she would my bullshit story about work bothering me.

  “I’m going to watch it again even though I don’t want to,” she says of the shaky-cam video shot by the stroller-mom yesterday. It hit Twitter, then Tumblr, then was picked up by a gossip blog or two. I don’t normally pay attention to that shit, but I’ve been educating myself. Allie texted me a link and thanks again for your help.

  That pissed me off. I didn’t respond because I can’t figure out why it pissed me off. Hence me spilling my guts to my sister, who’s wrinkling her nose at the very graphic kissing scene she’s watching.