Page 52 of Take 2
Not enough.
I throw the nightstand drawer open and grab my vibrator. A soft moan escapes me when I find the right spot. Pressure builds, and behind my closed eyelids, it’s all his doing. Every touch we’ve shared replays in my mind, as well as a collection of fantasies. His hands, lips, tongue. His bare chest and chiseled stomach. How differently it’ll go when I pull his pants off again. My hips buck as I reach my peak, butPrestonisn’t the name on my lips.
Heart racing, I melt into the bed and cover my gaping mouth with my hand.
“Oh shit.”
I’m … no. Nope, nope, nope. Not good.This is not the same, Mira.This is not falling for a football player in college. I’m a fucking grown-up.
The way that sounded whiney even in my head really makes me feel like an adult.
He’s … this … ugh. I need to get my head screwed on straight.
A shower doesn’t actually wash out my head, but it resets me a little. I’m a grown-ass woman on a trip with a grown man, andif—or when, it’s probably when—we have sex, it may or may not mean anything. Which is fine. Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt. The pressure we’re putting on it is all in our heads.
Nothing about this has to be weird.
When he knocks on the door between our rooms, I jump like a gun was fired next to me. For fuck’s sake. I press my hand over my heart and let out a slow breath.
The door opens, because apparently that was a courtesy knock, and since he slept in here, who gives a shit? “Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning.” Is it possible to look casual standing in the middle of a room like an idiot?
“I slipped out to hit the gym. Did you sleep in?”
“Mhmm.” I’m pretty sure I haveI masturbated thinking of youpainted on my face.
“Are you okay?”
All. Over. My face. Heknows. “Yep. Just worried about falling off the boat again.”
He cocks his head. “Are you going to complain if I kiss you again?”
“Oh, the lesson I learned was: don’t kiss on boats.” I shrug and grab my purse. “Let’s go.”
In the car, he asks, “Do you want to tell me why you’re apprehensive?”
I lick my lips and look down at my hands. If this isn’t proof that he can read my mind, I don’t know what would be. “I may be scarred from being married for only a year and a half.”
“That’s decent by Hollywood standards.”
“Not by Wisconsin standards.” I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. “We were too young for that kind of commitment, and the speed with which it fell apart gutted me.”
We stop at a light, and a thousand things flash in his green eyes when he looks at me. What comes out of his mouth is, “You’re older and wiser now. You’ve lived and thrived. Now that you know yourself better and what you want, are you still closed off to romance?”
“That’s …” Kind of a deep question?
“One day at a time,” he amends, “of course.”
This is trouble. “I can be open-minded one day at a time.”
Of course, today is one more day on a yacht in the Mediterranean, which is made more uncomfortable by my mental slip-up this morning and bringing up the failed marriage. If the weather forces a third day of this, I might skip it. What’s become of me if I’m willing to skip a filming day because of my ghosts?
“Hey, the life jackets are in the cabin,” Chris says when we board.
“Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Preston only rolls his eyes and continues past us.
