Shine Your Love on Me

by Jean C. Joachim

  “Holy shit. Wow, Brooke.”

  She stood in front of him, wearing a turquoise bikini that left almost nothing to the imagination.

  “You’re wearing that to the beach?” He gulped. Every guy in the place’ll be all over her.

  “Of course. Don’t you like it?” She turned slowly in front of him.

  His gaze didn’t know where to stop first. Her luscious breasts, straining against the scrap of fabric covering them, made his fingertips itch. Her slender midriff called to his hands and lips, and her firm rear end, barely concealed by the suit, begged to be squeezed.

  “Like it? I love it. But for my eyes only. Don’t you have something more…with more…that covers…” He gestured with his hands when his tongued got tied up.

  “Like a one-piece suit?”

  “That’s it!” He clapped his palms together. “Perfect. Yes, ma’am.”

  “Nope. No one wears those.”

  “Damn. You look, incredible, unbelievably…I could…right here.” He sensed heat traveling up his chest as his groin tightened. Damn, staring at her is making me hard.

  “Go change. Let’s get there before it’s crowded.” She tugged on his hand.

  Pres vaulted up the stairs and stripped off his clothes. He rummaged around in his backpack until he found his trunks. She probably expects a Speedo. Real men don’t wear those. Not me, anyway. Might as well be naked with one of those. I’m not letting it hang out at a public beach. If it were private, well, hell. I’m no prude.

  Joining Brooke again, he laced his fingers with hers and stuffed two beach towels under his arm. They headed toward the water. It was fairly early, but there were a couple of sunbathers on the sand. He tried to figure out if the tide was coming in or going out before settling on a spot just close enough to the water.

  “Wish this was a private beach,” he said.

  Brooke cocked an eyebrow at him. “And if it were?”

  “There’d be a whole lot of things I could do that I can’t do here.” He snickered. “For one, I wouldn’t need this stupid suit.”

  Her smooth body grabbed his gaze. He couldn’t look away. Remembering the softness of her skin, the firmness of her flesh, gave him goose bumps. In California, he had been nervous at the meetings, but as soon as he left, all he could think about was Brooke. He missed her, needed to talk to her. Phone conversations helped, but they weren’t the same as pillow talk.

  What’ll I do if they want me to move there to write the first six shows?

  He refused to think about being there without Brooke. He loved his life in New York, being part of her world, and even the seniors. Hell, they made him laugh and asked how his writing was coming. They were more supportive than his parents. But he wanted that sale, wanted it so bad he could taste it. He had to prove to his father, and to himself, that he had the stuff, that he could be a screenwriter. It’s the only thing he wanted to do.

  Lying on the towel, his mind wandered, bouncing around from question to question about his future and how Brooke fit in. He needed her. Even though he kidded her about her type “A” habits, he respected her. She was organized, disciplined…more than he was. Yet, she was warm. He loved the way she treated the seniors, planned menus and movies for them. And they adored her, worshipped her. She lapped it up like a hungry cat at a bowl of milk.

  “My kitten,” he murmured.

  “What?” She pushed up on her elbows, her eyes level with his.

  “You’re great. Missed you while I was away.”

  “Yeah? I missed you, too.”

  He took her hand in his and rubbed the sand off. Then, he kissed her palm. He saw a question in her green eyes. She seemed distant. He cupped her cheek. “What’s bothering you? What’s on your mind?”

  She shook her head, lowering her gaze. “Nothing.”

  “Liar,” he said, softly.

  When she looked at him, he noticed how moist her eyes were. She tried to cover it up, but he had seen it already.

  “What’s up, kitten? What’s the matter?” He moved closer, his breath fluttering her hair. He tucked a few strands behind her ear. “Come on, fess up.”

  Again, she shook her head. He feathered a kiss across her lips. “I love you, honey. Tell me what’s making you sad.”

  She took a shuddering breath and looked away. “What’s going to happen to us when you go to California?”

  He laughed. “That’s one damn big ‘if,’ kitten. No one’s making me an offer.”

  “But they will. ’Cause you’re good.”

  “How do you know I’m good?” He narrowed his eyes, watching a blush steal across her cheeks.

  “I read your stuff.”

  His eyes widened. “What!”

  “Yeah. You went out to the bank, and I read what you had open. It’s great. I loved it. Didn’t want to stop, but you came home.”

  “Damn, woman. That’s invasion of privacy.”

  “I had to know if the man I loved was a good writer or not. So, I peeked. I’m sorry. Actually, I’m not sorry. You’re very talented.”

  A grin crept across his face. “Sure know how to redeem yourself, don’t you?” He kissed her.

  “So, what’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t want to leave you either. We’ll figure something out.”

  “I don’t want to be pushy. I know your work is important to you…”

  “So are you, Brooke. So are you.” He tipped her chin up for another kiss. She smiled at him, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “How about a swim?” He pushed to his feet, clasped her small hand in his, and together they raced down to the shallow water. They ran in, leaping over small waves and ultimately falling under, before bobbing up smiling.

  A sense of peace swept through Pres. With all the uncertainty in his work, Brooke was the one element in his life that gave him confidence. She loves me. She’ll stick. Rootlessness had never appealed to him. Now least of all. He wanted his own family, a woman, Buddy, and kids someday. He smiled at the thought that he might have that with Brooke—right before he dunked her.

  * * * *

  Happiness flowed through Brooke’s body as she lay drying in the sun. Pres had practically declared himself committed to her. He said he loved her. The rays warmed the chill from the water that made her skin pebble. Pres stretched out next to her, his arm touching hers. He rolled over on his side.

  “With the money I saved on the car rental, I’m taking you out to a fancy restaurant tonight.”

  “Fancy, here?”

  “Damn right. They have one with a four star reputation. It’s called La Petite Parisienne.”

  “I don’t have anything fancy to wear. I thought this was a beach weekend.”

  He ran his finger down her nose. “Bess said you could borrow something of hers. Check her closet.”

  “You called Bess?”

  “I asked her to recommend a restaurant.”

  A shiver ran through her. “Okay. I’d love it. French food is my favorite.”

  “Perfect.”

  She kissed him. “You get big points for this.”

  He shot her a lopsided grin. “Thought I might.”

  She laughed. “You’re an amazing man, Preston Carpenter.”

  “Back in the water. It’s too hot here.”

  They swam in the calm waters of the Sound. Then they walked along the shore toward Playland, looking for shells in the sand. At two, they returned to the house, starving. Together, they made a hero sandwich and devoured it then walked the dogs. After a shower, they retired to the bedroom for a nap and spent the time making love instead.

  Brooke stretched out her arms. “What time is dinner?”

  “Reservation’s at seven.”

  “Time for a nap?”

  “A real one? Yeah.” Pres slipped under the sheet next to her. Brooke turned her back to him so he could spoon her. Skin to skin, they fell asleep with all three dogs sleeping downstairs where it was cooler.

&
nbsp; At six, they awoke. Brooke searched through the dresses in Bess’s closet until she found a slinky, rose-colored, jersey, long gown. The sexy, slippery material was cool to the touch. Although she needed a bra because of the revealing fabric, she abandoned the idea of panties. Her sandals would be okay, mostly covered up anyway. Cap sleeves and a scoop neck were flattering on her. Brooke liked her reflection in the mirror. She brushed her hair, left it loose, and applied light makeup.

  Pres was already dressed in a button-down shirt, sports jacket and good jeans, pacing by the front door when she reached the top of the stairs. “Brooke!” he called, glancing at his watch.

  “I’m ready,” she said, walking slowly down the steps. She looked up when she heard his breath catch.

  “Oh my God. You look…amazing, gorgeous.” He offered her his arm when she got to the bottom.

  Once in the car, the handsome couple pulled out of the driveway and drove to the elegant restaurant. Nestled among a grove of trees, the stucco building didn’t look like much from the outside. They stepped inside, sinking into thick carpeting in the foyer. The walls were painted a deep, teal blue. Floor to ceiling, heavy, cream-colored damask curtains graced long windows that faced a garden. Round tables covered in tablecloths that matched the drapes dotted the spacious dining room.

  Three lush, blossoming pink peonies in a small glass vase added gentle color to the décor. The maître d’ escorted them to a table in a quiet corner and handed them menus. Air conditioning made the room cool enough to tempt Pres into ordering the lobster bisque. A casserole of Maine lobster grabbed his attention. Seared swordfish with a pesto crust made his mouth water until he remembered that pesto had a ton of garlic in it.

  He decided on the beef tenderloin with roasted hearts of palm and vermicelli. Brooke ordered the lobster bisque, too, and roasted lamb with gnocchi, carrots, and onions. Pres chose a bottle of Pinot Noir. Classical music was playing. Brandenburg Concertos.

  “I love Bach,” she said, as the waiter filled their wine glasses.

  “Me, too.” Pres raised his. “Here’s to the perfect day with the perfect woman.”

  Pleasure flowed through her at his kind words. She wondered if she had flushed under his praise. His compliments, always appearing sincere, warmed her heart and confirmed that he was the right choice for her. They drank. She inched her hand closer to his until his fingers pounced on hers. “This place is beautiful. The food sounds wonderful.”

  “If anyone should know a good restaurant, it’d be Bess, right?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Okay, tell me what you liked and didn’t like about the stuff you read.”

  “I liked it all. Especially the part about the older cop, McRae.”

  “What did you like about him?”

  “He’s wise, but not a know-it-all. Ya know? I liked the way he let the younger guy screw up and didn’t get mad.”

  “Did you think Cal—the younger guy—was an idiot?”

  “I thought he was really sexy.” She sensed heat in her cheeks. “And kinda heroic. He tried so many things to save his girl from that stalker.”

  Pres grinned as she spoke. He paid attention to her opinions, grilling her, asking pointed questions. She was flattered he wanted her take. Like a man dying of thirst in the desert, Pres seemed to drink up her positive words almost before they were uttered. His eyes glowed and color came to his cheeks. Brooke smiled to be able to bring another kind of pleasure to her man by supporting his dream.

  “Doesn’t Max discuss plot and stuff with you?”

  “Nope. Usually, he grunts when I try to get his feedback and finishes with his usual, ‘when do I get the final?’”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I’d much rather hear it from you.” He took her hand in both of his. A short silence between them was broken when the waiter arrived with their food.

  Their romantic evening ended perfectly with another round of lovemaking and a peaceful night, huddled together, bordered by three snoring pugs.

  Chapter Twelve

  Restless when he arose at six, Pres didn’t feel like writing. He paced, gazing up at the gray clouds. Looks like rain. Damn. He made coffee and opened his computer. Bored with the usual Facebook chats, he refilled his mug, looking for something to do.

  Curiosity got the best of him. I wonder why the company who bought my screenplay hasn’t decided to make it into a movie yet. He needed to know more. So, he went to his copy of their contract he’d saved on his laptop. There was the company information—Moonlight Productions, a post office box, but no phone number. That’s funny. I had to put my phone number.

  He searched online, but no website existed. Seems fishy. A cold sweat broke out on his neck. Something’s wrong. He looked closer. The PO Box number is in New York City. Determined to find them, he tried the white pages. There it was—a phone number for Moonlight Productions with no street address. He stared, rubbed his eyes, and stared again.

  Oh no. It can’t be. No, no. Maybe they changed the number. He picked up his phone. He knew no one would be there on a Sunday at seven in the morning, but he dialed anyway. The recording confirmed his suspicions.

  “Carpenter Investments, Limited. Our office is closed at the present time—”

  He’d heard enough and closed his cell. His chest tightened, and rage coiled inside him, ready to spring like a hungry tiger. He drained his mug and threw it at the wall with all the force he could muster. It shattered, leaving light brown wetness splattered everywhere and bits of glass.

  He roared. “Nooooooooooooooooooooo!”

  Pres tightened his fists. His gut knotted, pulling him over until he was folded in half, grabbing his middle. Hot, angry tears pushed through his defenses.

  The bedroom door opened.

  “Pres? Pres? Are you okay? What’s going on?” The sound of her bare feet scurrying down the stairs drew his attention. Clad only in his white T-shirt, Brooke stopped abruptly, taking in the scene. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God. What happened?” She approached him, reaching out.

  He slapped her hand away as he struggled for words. She recoiled.

  “Don’t come any closer. There’s broken glass anywhere.”

  “I’ll stand here. Tell me.”

  “The buyer.” He was gasping for air.

  “What?”

  “The buyer. The buyer of my screenplay…”

  “Go on.” She spoke quietly.

  “The buyer was my father.”

  “Oh, no. Come on. No.” She shook her head.

  “Yes! See? Right here? On the Internet. It says Moonlight Productions, but it’s his office phone number.” Pres rose up and pointed to the computer, his hand shaking. “I even called to see if he’d had it changed. It’s Carpenter Investments.” He sank down to his knees. “It’s all a lie. A lie. No one wanted my script. I’m not a success. I’m a failure. It’s all a lie.” Tears streamed down his face. “He wanted me to have a sale, stop writing, and take a job with his company. So, he bought my script under another name.”

  “Oh crap,” she muttered, staring at the screen.

  “That says it all. Shit. My agent doesn’t even know. Fuck.”

  Brooke slipped on her shoes and picked up pieces of the broken mug. Then, she took a sponge and wiped down the wall.

  Pres cleaned his face with the back of his hand. “I’ll do that. I made the mess. I should clean it up.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” She raised her palm to stop him.

  “Get back. There’s glass everywhere.” Pres grabbed a fistful of paper towels, wetted them, and then swept them over the floor, picking up the tiniest shards. “I’m sorry. I lost it.”

  “Understandable.”

  He snorted. “We don’t have to worry about moving to California. When those guys find out the sale was bogus, they’ll crap out.”

  “It wasn’t bogus. Someone bought it. No one has to know who.”

  He raised his head, his gaze connectin
g with hers. “You suggesting I lie about it?”

  “I’m suggesting there’s no need to bring the topic up. Don’t volunteer anything. If they ask you, then tell them the truth. But if they don’t, keep it to yourself.”

  “Isn’t that the same as lying?”

  “Does the movie world deal with you honestly all the time? Keeping something back is protecting yourself. They liked your treatments, and the pilots, right?”

  “So they said.”

  “Then let it be. Don’t destroy these leads because your dad did it for you.”

  “Did it to me, you mean. He sort of fucked me up the ass, if you know what I mean.”

  She made a face. “Next time could you state it in different terms?”

  “Sorry.” He blushed. “I forget you’re a girl sometimes.” Brooke frowned, placing her hands on her hips.

  “Sorry! Sorry! I don’t mean it that way. It’s just that I get…comfortable with you. You know?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

  “I mean, it’s not like dad did it to help me succeed. He only did it so that I’d stop trying and do what he wanted.”

  “But it backfired, didn’t it?”

  Pres sank down on the floor and looked down at his hands. Brooke sat next to him. “It did backfire. Buying your script made you more desirable.”

  “The joke’s on him, I guess.”

  “It is. You’ve got a shot now. Run with it.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a rumble.

  “Oh, no! Rain on a beach weekend?” Brooke looked up at the sky.

  “Something had to break the humidity.”

  A few drops on the windows soon turned into a torrent. Pres rubbed his belly.

  “How about breakfast?” Brooke asked.

  “Why not?”

  She cracked some eggs into a pan and put bread in the toaster. Pres put up another pot of coffee then poured two glasses of juice. He was quiet, thoughtful.