Page 47 of Wildest Dreams

I roll my eyes and hear my dad’s muffled voice in the background.

“Sweetheart, your dad wants to make sure you’re using protection.”

“Goodbye, Mother.”

“Kendall—”

I hang up. I cannot talk to them about my dating life, if dating is what this is. I have no idea what I’m doing. I had no intention of Pierre spending the night, but he was looking at me with such intensity when we were taking those pictures, and in the moonlight, he looked like a god. I got carried away.

Now I really don’t know what this means to me or to him. I was apprehensive before, but now I’m a mess. I don’t know what I want. Part of me is ready for this whole movie business to go away and for things to get back to normal, but that also means I’ll never see him again, and the thought of it breaks my heart.

I’m in way too far over my head.

* * *

For the rest of the afternoon, I watch murder shows and eat junk food while trying to ignore the noise outside. Part of me wants to go downstairs and do some work, but I don’t even want to be seen through the window on the short walk from the stairs to my back office.

What a nightmare.

Finally, that afternoon, after drinking the rest of the wine from last night, I take the camera off the table and pull out the memory card. I upload the photos onto my computer and go through them one by one.

They’re perfect.

Even in my wedding photos with Tucker, I hated the way I looked. Here, I look radiant. No touch-ups, no filters. Just me. I never thought it was possible, but I do love seeing myself through his eyes. I’m so happy I let him take these pictures, and I’m grateful he let me turn the camera on him. He isn’t a movie star in these photos; he’s vulnerable and tender. He’s the Pierre he only shows me.

Right on time, my phone dings with a text from Pierre. They’re still outside shooting, but he wants me to know he’s thinking about me.

I melt. I truly melt.

I dig a blank memory card out of my camera bag and duplicate all the photos onto it so Pierre can have his own copies. Once he’s gone, I want him to remember me.

PIERRE

My stomach is in knots for hours after I leave Kendall’s apartment.

Not once in my career have I been late for anything and, of course, today I am late in the most public and embarrassing way. Belladonna is mad, the entire town saw me come out of Kendall’s door, and Marina has been on me like a hawk, wanting to know what’s going on.

“What were you doing in the accounting office while we were supposed to be filming?”

“None of your business, Marina.”

“Who were you with?”

“None of your business, Marina.”

“Did you even spend the night at your place? I heard the studio rented some fancy house on the river for you.”

“None of your business, Marina.”

It’s like this all day.

To top it off, I felt terrible for Kendall. The entire time I’ve known her, the last thing she’s wanted is attention. Now the whole town will be talking about me stumbling out of her place with my shirt on inside out. Last night was spectacular—she’d finally let her guard down in every way. I hope this morning doesn’t set us back again.

I send her a text when I get a break between scenes. Luckily, she answers, which is reassuring after she ignored me most of last week.

Once I get back to the lake house, I take a much-needed shower after spending all day in the Alabama heat, then settle on the back deck to watch the sunset and enjoy a cold beer. Bertha is waiting, of course. I go back in, retrieve yet another rotisserie chicken, and chuck it towards the water, where I watch her disappear into the orange and blue reflection of the sky.

I crack open my beer, a Swamp Ass Stout from Cattywampus, of course, and call Kendall. I hold my breath until I hear her voice.

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