Page 79 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

I don’t want to kiss Georgia unless she feels for me what I feel for her. I thought maybe she did when she called me “my everything.” She was joking, but her voice was very convincing. There was no laugh in it like with the other nicknames. Her hand quivered on my chest. Everything about the moment felt real.

Then she called me her best friend.

That used to be enough. Now it stings worse thanteammate.

But I swear I saw something when she looked at me. Something that said more than friend or teammate. Something closer tokiss me, now!

So I’m not ready to give up yet. I’ll keep showing her how I feel, both on camera and off. I may be setting myself up for rejection, but if I get a sense she wants more than friendship as much as I do, I’ll tell her how crazy I am about her.

And, if she calls me a friend again—or teammate, buddy, or any other strictly platonic word—then I’ll pull back. I’ll save my acting for when the camera is off.

I decide all of this when I practice tucking a loose curl behind her ear. It’s the same rebel curl that always falls in her face, across her right eye. Sometimes she tosses it out of the way. Sometimes she tucks it back. My favorite is when she pokes out her bottom lip and sends up a breath to blow the lock away.

That’s what I’m picturing when, after tucking back the curl, I trace my fingers along her jaw. Her breath catches and her eyes go wide. But it’s her flushing cheeks that convince me I may still have a chance with her.

“How’s that?” I ask.

“Perfect,” she whispers.

Our eyes lock, and I want to practice so much more than curl-tucking. I move closer, and Georgia follows my lead. I can’t remember if Nick is filming, and I don’t care. I’m going to kiss Georgia Rose Beck like I’ve never kissed anyone before.

I’m going in when a head pops up.

“You guys are adorable,” Teri says, still standing next to us. “So in sync.”

Georgia and I step away from each other at the same time.

“Yeah, well, we’ve been friends for a long time,” Georgia says.

“Uh huh,” I agree through pressed lips, then I clench my mouth tighter to keep from screaming,Quit calling me your friend!

“Did anyone see where I put my purse?” Georgia looks around, very determined not to look me in the eye. “I can’t remember where I set it down.”

“I think it’s over there.” I wave toward the folding table, where her giant purse is right where she left it.

Georgia thanks me, then heads toward her purse. Her gait is still off, which means her ankle is bothering her. She won’t admit it, though, and there she is, still wearing her stupid high heels. At least the pair today are wide at the bottom instead of the kind that look like they’re made from toothpicks.

Ike and Nick walk through the still-open entry way. Today is the day the new door goes on. Last week Georgia and I went to a local carpenter to pick out reclaimed wood and a design for a custom door. Nick shot all of it and will shoot again when the door gets delivered in a few hours.

“Everybody ready to go?” Ike asks without looking up from his iPad. It’s a rhetorical question.

I glance at Georgia, and her eyes to dart to mine. There’s a nervousness behind them that I see so rarely from her that my immediate instinct is to make it better. I mimic tucking hair behind my ear, then raise my eyebrows and nod slowly, purposely. Maybe suggestively.

Georgia’s face splits into her wide, red-lipped smile, and my stomach leaps into my chest. I’m for sure not done trying to win her over.

For the rest of the day, I take every opportunity to show her how much I want her.

Sometimes I brush against her, letting our arms or hands or legs touch, but only for a moment. Other times, I watch her, knowing she feels my eyes on her. I don’t want to come on too strong, but I’m also not blind. I see what my grazing fingertips and lingering looks do to her. She’s on the verge of melting, and my temperature rises just thinking about what I’m doing to her.

But I don’t stop there. I find moments to compliment her ideas, to point out where I think she’s done something especially creative, and to tell her how much Granny Neilson would love what Georgia’s doing to this house she loved.

Those moments aren’t hard to find, and my praise isn’t empty flattery. I mean it all. I hope she knows that. I think she does. Every time I say something, her mouth slides into a soft grin.

That grin is as rewarding as seeing her flush with excitement with my touch. I want her to wantallof me, not just my face or body. Every girl I’ve ever dated has been attracted to me physically long before anything else came into play.

Physical attraction is important, obviously. But with Georgia, I’d never have to wonder if my looks are what she likes most about me. She’s known me too long and too well for that to be the case. Until the last week or so, I’ve never seen any sign that she likes the way I look. I’ve always just been Zandwich to her.

But the same is true of my feelings for her. She’s the first woman I’ve ever fallen for because she’s smart and funny first, and second because she’s pretty. Her looks aren’t the driver for my attraction. I like—love?—and want all of her.

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