5
It was mornings like this that reminded me why I loved living in California.
I’d moved around a lot as a child, but I’d always enjoyed the West Coast the best. Standing on the sand, with the water lapping at my feet and the sun warming my back, I gave thanks for my choice of career. Today this beach was my office.
Of course, it wasn’t all glamorous. When I’d modeled in my late teens and early twenties, I’d been subjected to an extensive range of extreme weather when shooting outdoors. Gale force winds had required entire cans of hairspray to tame my elaborate hairstyles, as well as regular breaks to warm up because goosebumps were never a good look for a fashion model.
Today the conditions were perfect. A light breeze carried the scent of the salt, and the early autumn morning was already warm. It was just as well. My cute little blue and white 1960s bikini certainly wasn’t providing much coverage.
“Lena can you go stand over there?” Neil, our DP, pointed to a massive rock, trying to get an idea of how the natural light would work in our next shot.
El Matador State Beach on the Malibu coast was known for its craggy outcroppings and the rocks were a feature of the cove. The largest of them had a series of small arches created by the constant pounding of the sea over many thousands of years.
I moved to the spot Neil had indicated. I put my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun, which was climbing above the steep clay slopes towering over us. The crew rushed up and down the series of weather-beaten stairs and dirt paths etched into the hillside, busy setting up.
At the top of the cliff lay a small parking lot, which our production team had taken over. There was so little room that some of our convoy had parked by the side of the Pacific Coast Highway, and security had cordoned off the entrance to the lot from the public.
That hadn’t stopped Marc, of course. He was down on the sand with a small group of extras, whose job was to look like other beachgoers while Ben and I filmed the next scene. It was the point in the story where Jean falls for Toby, and the location of their first kiss.
Marc’s presence was upsetting on a number of levels, most of all because he didn't really need to be this close. There was no risk of anything happening to me in this sort of environment. If he thought carrying on the charade of being one of the extras was necessary, it wasn’t. It was just annoying.
I needed to focus and fully immerse myself in Jean’s character, instead of worrying about him brooding on the sidelines. From a distance, it looked as though he wasn’t really engaging with the other extras. They were chatting among themselves, but Mr. Personality stood to one side—no surprises there. All the male extras were wearing super tight 1960s shorts common to that era, except for Marc. He wore a casual pair of tan chinos, and I suspected wardrobe hadn’t had much luck convincing him to wear the shorts. For which I was eternally grateful. The last thing I needed right now was to be confronted with Marc’s bare legs. It was difficult to take one’s security specialist seriously when he was half-naked.
The fact that I only wore a bikini didn’t bother me in the slightest. I’d been a model for enough years to dispense with self-consciousness, and besides, Marc had barely given me a second glance since we’d arrived. He was too busy trying to remain inconspicuous.
“Lena, Ben, places please.”
Ben arrived at my side and grabbed my hand, his enthusiasm like that of an eager puppy. He pulled me close so the bare skin on our thighs touched.
I glanced over at him and smiled. The intimacy between us came easily. The hardest part of this scene would be transforming that affection into something more sexual. He looked gorgeous in his blue shorts and with his bare tanned chest. I didn’t doubt the women watching the film would be captivated by his sweet brand of sexiness. Beside him, I looked pale, but I knew my fair skin gave me a sort of innocence that would play well into this scene.
It was another few minutes before Manning was satisfied. When we received our cue, we started walking hand in hand along the water’s edge.
I listened to Toby as he talked about his childhood—lies or truth, Jean and the viewers would never know. The lines flowed smoothly between us, our instinctive rhythm a sign we were working well together and that there would be strong on-screen chemistry. I knew the crew felt it too. They could sense this pivotal moment between Toby and Jean would set the tone for whether the movie would be a success or a failure.
The sunlight caught Toby’s bright blue eyes and he stepped closer, his focus entirely on me. Jean was the center of his world, or at least that’s what she believed, and she was about to make a choice that would change her life forever.
I gazed at Toby, my expression a mixture of uncertainty and longing, as I attempted to resist my feelings. I cast a glance over my shoulder, knowing it was my final chance to escape. Soon the attraction that was drawing us together would come to a head, but for now, I would make the viewers believe Jean had a choice.
“I can’t resist you, ma’am,” Toby breathed, captivated by Jean’s beauty. “I don’t want to.”
I paused before my next line, which was cemented in my mind: It’s Jean. And you don’t have to. You can have me.
I cast one last desperate glance over my shoulder, then went to say the words that would change their lives—but they got stuck in my throat when I saw the extra striding past. A bolt of surprise jerked through me, hot and sharp, when I recognized who it was.
Two tanned, olive legs sauntered past, powerful yet graceful, a dusting of dark hair covering them. And that ass. Oh my God, that ass. It was the sort of perfection that made women want to stop in the street and do something politically incorrect like cup its firm roundness and croon, “Oh, yes.” Above that, a sculpted back and shoulders finished the picture, muscular and broad. I imagined gripping onto those sturdy shoulders and . . .
I let out a strangled cry.
“Cut!”
Toby’s character dissolved in an instant and Ben shot me a confused look. His back had been to Marc, so thankfully he hadn’t witnessed the reason for my unusual behavior.
I slapped my hand to my mouth in horror. Oh my God, what had I done?
Surprised murmurings erupted from the cast and I quickly turned away. I could feel myself going red with embarrassment so I took a few long strides until the water covered my ankles and toes. Anything to cool me down.
“Lena? Are you alright? What happened?”
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. I coughed at the dryness in my throat.
“Lena?”
I finally met Ben’s concerned eyes.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Would you believe a bug got caught in my throat?” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“A bug?”
“Yes.” I patted my chest for good effect and coughed again. At least my voice sounded husky. “It flew right into my mouth when I went to speak my line. I’m so sorry. That was a great take too.”
Ben blinked, then shrugged. “That’s OK. We can do it again.”
I nodded then gave him an apologetic smile. “Would you mind getting me a drink of water? It still feels like it’s caught in my throat.”
“Sure.” Ben bounded off to find one of the runners, only too willing to help.
I kept my back to the crew continuing my metered breathing in the hope it would slow my heart down.
“Lena?”
I cringed at Manning’s voice, then forced myself to turn around.
His gray eyes were thoughtful. “Would you like me to have him removed?”
“Who?”
His mouth curved. “Your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my—”
Manning held up a hand, his eyebrows raised. “Oh? Either way, I think it might be best.”
I didn’t bother to protest again. There was no point. Manning was one of the few people privy to the security arrangement. “Yes, please.”
He nodded and walked away, obviously having the maturity and professionalism I currently lacked.
Oh my God, Lena, I admonished myself silently. Get a grip, will you? It’s not like I hadn’t seen attractive, half-naked men before. I’d acted in movies and posed for cameras with plenty of men far more naked than that.
I crossed my arms across my bare stomach. I suddenly felt very exposed and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
If nakedness wasn’t an issue for me, then I had to ask myself: what was it about Marc Romero that reduced me to an incoherent hot mess?