This cannot be happening.
I whip around and discover that this is, indeed, happening. Micah Watson jogs up behind me on the path in all of his tall, dark, and handsome perfection. He’s shirtless, breathing heavily, and wearing a very small pair of olive green running shorts. How long has he been back there?
“Are you okay?” He repeats, louder and slower this time.
I pull out an earbud. “Uh…” I blink. Am I okay? Why is he asking me that? I can’t get over the shorts.
“That looked like a bad fall.”
Ah, yes. That.
He pauses to inspect my legs, then my arms. Now he’s looking at my waist, and his eyes move up, up, up until they land on mine. They’re dark and unblinking like shark eyes.
I don’t want shark eyes on me. I want icy blue ocean eyes. I fold my arms over my chest and take half a step back. “I’m fine. Just a little embarrassed. I didn’t know anyone else was out here,” I say over the wind with a dumb little wave at the surrounding desert.
“I’ve been running out here almost every morning.” His breathing is already normal. “I move my body every day. Consistency is key.”
I bite my lip. Of course he does. “That’s true.” Why are his shorts so small, though? They’re essentially two flimsy flaps of fabric per leg, both blowing precariously in the wind. I need to look away, but it’s like I’m at the circus and those shorts are the bearded lady. I can’t stop staring. When I finally drag my eyes to his face, he’s smirking like he caught me.
“I could go with you, if you’d like. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, and there are some minor changes you could make to your form that will make a huge difference.” He checks his smart watch with a frown.
There are some minor changes I could make to your shorts that will make them cover up your biscuits, I snark internally. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, but he’s right. I should be more consistent. And what does Micah Watson have to talk to me about? My curiosity wins.
“Sure.” It’s just a run, right? Harmless. But wait. “How do you get past the paparazzi, though?” It’s strange to me that he’s just out here on his own without a crowd of photographers chasing him. “Or did you outrun them?” I laugh at my joke.
I don’t think he heard me. “I’ll be out here tomorrow morning at six if you want to join.” he says, tapping something on his watch. “Glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks?” I call to his retreating form as he sprints away. Huh. Weird. I guess I’m going for a run with Micah Watson. Should I try to be excited about this? A few weeks ago there would’ve been fireworks, squealing, and texts to everyone I know. Not anymore. All I can focus on are Micah Watson’s little shorts, barely concealing his family heirlooms, as he lopes away.
26. Anders Has a Sheet of Flips
“You know Dave, the grip?” Oliver asks as he starts up the golf cart.
He knocked on my door earlier than necessary this morning, introduced me to the replacement nanny he hired without my consent, and dragged me out of my new suite. Imogen was still asleep. Yesterday was hard on her. “Sure. Dave the grip. What about him?”
“Dave is Melanie’s boyfriend. He helped me find her.”
The sun is really bright today. “Who’s Melanie?”
“The woman we just left with Imogen. The replacement,” he reminds me patiently.
I grunt in response. On any other day, I’d hear it from Oliver over this, but he’s on his best behavior. Something about lighting my suite on fire is keeping him in line, but I can’t even enjoy it. I’m unsettled after this weekend. Sunny is so busy that we’ve barely connected. We’ve texted and spoken over the phone, but she has a lot on her hands with the fire. I’m desperate to relieve her load. Mercer gave me some ideas of what to do. I want to carry this burden with her and I have a plan. Unfortunately, I have my own fires to deal with first.
We have a busy shooting schedule today, made even more chaotic by all of the property damage and paparazzi. The weekend away was good for my mind, but now I can’t get my mind to focus on work. I’m jittery like it’s day one all over again, only this time it’s because I can’t stop thinking about Sunny.
A few hours later, we're a dozen takes into a scene that isn't working. I don't like to point fingers, but if I did, all ten of mine would be pointed at Micah. That’s a lie. Seven fingers would be pointed at him, three at me. Or three pointed at Micah, seven at me. I’m in a surly mood and it’s bleeding into my work. We’re in a stuffy walkway between stucco buildings at the resort, and heat is bouncing off the walls. I’m sweating through my character’s clothes.
Micah is sitting in his chair, scrolling on his phone while his assistant points a handheld fan to his face. I’m shooting a monologue where my character is bragging about his wealth, and I lean into the arrogance. It’s what I’ve been typecast for, after all. Sunny is going to hate this guy when this movie comes out. I wonder again how she's coping.
Lines, Anders. I’m reciting my lines. Cameras are rolling. “Please. One snap of my fingers and my Sikorsky S-92 will pick us up. I have access to jets, a train—I have a sheet of flips at my disposal.”
Son of a gun.
Fleetofships, Anders.Fleet of ships, fleet of ships…
Christopher lets me correct the line without cutting. It’s an easy fix in post.
I repeat the line. “I have access to jets, a train—I have a sheet of flips at my disposal.” This time I curse.
