Presley
Napping on the beach might be my new favorite thing.
And yes, this is the first time I’ve done it. Ever. You learn to not fall asleep at the beach when there are cameras around, waiting to catch a picture of you with double chins, mouth sagged open, and drool coming out the side of your mouth.
Not that I look like that right now. I’m actually awake, or rather just woke up, and am currently lying under an umbrella on a padded lounger, Briggs on the one next to me. He’s on his side, turned toward me, glasses off, no drool coming out of his mouth. He’s just soundly sleeping, his light-brown eyelashes looking like feathery fringes resting against his skin.
I’m loving this little bubble I feel like I’m in with Briggs. My life feels so normal right now. Well, as normal as it can be, staying at a posh resort with people who are here to cater to my every whim, and with an entire world out there that sort of hates me right now.
But there are no paparazzi, no agent or publicist telling me what to do. My mom’s not here, trying to micromanage. I’m just lying on a beach, hot and a little sticky, clad in a yellow bikini, next to a man that I really, really like.
I’m not sure I’ve ever in my life liked someone as much as I do Briggs. I’d say it’s more than like. It’s a crush. I have a crush on Briggs Ulysses Dalton.
That’s not his actual middle name—I tried it on him earlier.
I’ve had crushes on guys before, and I’ve dated of course—my dating pool mostly consisting of men I’ve been on set with. Because how else would someone who hasn’t even taken a real vacation in fourteen years meet someone? Online? No thank you. Not in my profession.
And relationships? Yeah, no. Unless you count whatever that was with Declan Stone, which I don’t really. I think he was in proximity and I was lonely, and we were already faking it, so why not try for real? And now he’s dating my mom. So, that’s a fun thing I kind of hate.
Mostly I’ve just had showmances . . . which are short, on-set flings that fizzle out when filming is over. It might carry over to a press tour, but it’s never serious, and my agent likes them because she uses them to her advantage in some way or another. Planned sightings leaked to the paparazzi. Quotes from “reliable sources” about our chemistry or whatever.
Why do I play this game? I’ve never liked it. When I get back after this break, if and when people forget about my mistake, I want to do things differently. I want to be more real, but also keep some things private.
I wouldn’t mind keeping the man asleep in the lounge chair next to me. Could I? When the summer is over and I have to go back to my real life, will Briggs be part of it? Or is this just another showmance? Or maybe an islandmance? A summermance?
Not that there’s any mance happening, although I feel like things could move in that direction. There’s definitely been more touching. And that hug in the bookstore earlier today was everything. Exactly what I needed.
Yes. I’ve only known Briggs—whose middle name is a mystery—Dalton for a little over a week, and I’d like to keep him.
I shouldn’t be thinking like this. It feels too soon to be crushing this hard. All I know is, I should be more worried about the news circulating around, the possibility that I might lose the role of Callis, and right now all I can think about is the man lying next to me, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
He stirs and slowly opens his eyes, blinking away the sleep, to find me staring at him like a weirdo.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says back, his voice sounding groggy, reaching a hand up and rubbing his eyes. “How long have you been awake and staring at me?”
“I have not been staring,” I say. “And I woke up only a few minutes before you.” This is sort of a lie. I have been staring. I’ve also been thinking about foolish things, wondering about preposterous possibilities.
Presley James, you silly, silly woman.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Briggs says through a yawn.
“I didn’t either, but it was exactly what I needed,” I tell him.
He sighs. “Me too.”
Briggs has a smattering of hair on his chest, and I like that it’s a real chest. It’s a great one. Not one chiseled out of stone, acquired from many hours a day working out, or covered in spray tan.
Yeah. I’m still staring.
I very purposefully look away, toward the ocean, where small waves are breaking against the sand.
“What plans did I ruin today?” I ask him.
“Hmm?” he asks, not following.
I look back at him. “I mean, instead of coming here, what summer activity did you have planned?”
“Oh,” he says. “I was going to take you boating.”
“You were?”
“Yes,” he says. “Tubing, actually.”
“Like where a boat drags you on a tube thingy?”
“That’s not the technical terminology, but yes,” he says, giving me a smirk.
“I’ve never done that,” I tell him. Mostly because my film contracts specifically say no water sports. Including the one I recently signed for Cosmic Fury.
“I figured,” Briggs says.
Maybe it’s for the best we didn’t do that. I’ve already violated my contract with the trampoline. I probably shouldn’t do it again. Except . . . except what if I don’t end up getting the part and I miss out on this? I could do it again, sure. And if I don’t end up getting the part, I may be taking an even longer hiatus than planned and have a lot more opportunities to do things I haven’t done. But when will I get the chance to go with Briggs? My summermance.
I sit up then, resolution on my face. “Do you think we can still go?”
He smiles. “I’m sure we can, if you want to.”
