Page 33 of Wildest Dreams

I grin. She’s right.

“Me too,” I say, gazing out at the bright sparkling water on the blue horizon. In the distance, a largemouth bass leaps from the water and lands with a soft splash.

PIERRE

This is the longest week of my life. All I want to do is get through this shoot so I can have Saturday afternoon off and see Kendall. At the same time, each day that passes is one day closer to me leaving Magnolia Row, possibly never seeing Kendall again.

I text Kendall throughout the day every day, then call her each night before bed. The days are exhausting. Belladonna is a great director, but she’s meticulous and insists on shooting each scene in every way possible. I’m drained, especially with Marina right up under me at all times. She keeps trying to find excuses to be with me off camera, wanting to rehearse lines, block scenes, and presumably be seen together enough that we can spark those dating rumors the studio’s publicist keeps insisting on.

The worst part about it is that, in the movie, my character is the one pining for hers and trying to win her back. This is the performance of my life.

At least the kid who plays my son is sweet. I try to spend my downtime between takes hanging out with him. Besides being good for our on-screen dynamic, it gets me away from Marina.

* * *

Finally, Friday night arrives. I walk out onto the back deck of the house. Bertha has figured out my schedule and is there waiting for me, so I retrieve a chicken from the fridge and hurl it into the yard. She slinks back into the muddy water as I take out my cell to call Kendall.

“Hello, beautiful,” I say when she answers.

“Hey.” I can hear the smile in her voice and it owns me.

“So, are we still on for tomorrow evening?” I ask.

“Sure. Where do you want to go? I’m afraid our options are limited unless we want to drive to Montgomery or Auburn.”

“How about I meet you at your place, we have dinner at that steakhouse downtown, then maybe go to Cattywampus afterwards to make your ex jealous.”

She laughs. “Sounds like a plan.”

“I’ll text you when I’m done with the morning shoot. Should be shortly after lunch.”

“Perfect.”

* * *

The next day, I’m fidgety all during filming and constantly look at my watch. I send Kendall a few pictures from the set, which she responds to immediately. I love that she doesn’t play games. I always know where I stand with her.

After work, I go back to the rental house, shower and wash off the makeup from shooting, then put on some clean clothes.

I drum my hand on the steering wheel of the SUV during the entire drive to Kendall’s office/apartment. As I’m about to park, she texts that the door is unlocked.

I walk upstairs and she’s standing at the landing, waiting for me. She looks stunning—hair curled, pink floral dress touching the floor, lip gloss perfectly matching her outfit. I grab her, lifting her and pulling her lips to mine. Time stops. Right now, it’s just me and her.

When I finally put her down, she wipes lip gloss off my face.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“I was. Now I want to stay here.”

She rolls her eyes with a smirk, grabs her bag, and we head downstairs into the hot June sun. Southern Star Steakhouse is at the end of Main Street. I put my hand on the small of Kendall’s back and, for the first time, she doesn’t tense or move away. There are a few people out and about, and though I feel eyes on us, I don’t acknowledge them. Kendall notices, and I can tell she’s uncomfortable as she tucks her hair behind her ears, clutches her purse, and never looks up from the sidewalk.

The restaurant is packed, half with locals and half with film crew. I say hi to a few people I recognize from the set, and even see my on-screen son with his real-life parents in a side booth. I introduce them to Kendall, who bends down to talk to my faux son about his Star Wars shirt. It’s adorable to see them interacting and I can’t help but imagine her with her own kid one day.

No, I need to stop. This is a short-term relationship. She’s made that very clear. I do not need to think about her with kids or, worse, my kids.

Apparently, Kendall had called ahead and reserved a table in the back corner for us, perfect for privacy.

“I do their taxes,” she says, scooting into the plush leather seat swallows her whole. “They don’t normally take reservations, but for me they made an exception.”

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