Our phones buzz simultaneously and we both read what I assume is the same message from the PR group chat.
JARED:Please complete this list before sunset …
1. Walk along the shore holding hands
2. Harmony puts sunscreen on Riff’s shoulders
3. Riff tucks Harmony’s breeze-blown hair behind her ear
4. Riff gives Harmony a surfing lesson
5. Have a splash fight
6. Wrap up together in the same beach blanket
7. Listen to a song using the same pair of headphones
8. Have a drink together
9. Roast marshmallows
10. Snuggle next to the fire
Feel free to elaborate on any of these or come up with your own. Have fun!
I stare at the list for a long moment before I can force myself to meet Riff’s eyes again. How the hell am I supposed to do all this with him and not lose my mind?
And they want me to actually learn to surf??
I’m starting to consider calling my legal team right now.
My driver leaves too. There’s no one else here because, just in case anyone happens to find out about the date, we can’t be seen taking direction as though we’re shooting a movie.
Riff gestures at a trail leading down to the sand, where all our paraphernalia awaits. “Ready for me to take-take-take-take-take you to the beach?”
Dammit. Why does he have to be funny?
I roll my eyes as I walk past him to start my descent.
By the time we get to the bottom, we have more instructions. We have about five minutes to get comfortable before the photographer arrives, and then it’s full speed ahead on the list. No “dilly-dallying” (yes, PR uses that exact term) between tasks; they know it’s awkward and they don’t care. We are to avoidlooking in the direction of the bluffs. And of course we are to “act natural” at all times.
Our prep period ends too soon and I can practically hear Stef saying, “Ready? Action!”
Riff extends a hand to me. “Shall we?”
I take a deep breath and nod.
The camera will be to our backs from here, getting shots of us walking away down the water line. We’ll go a certain distance, then turn around and come back for shots from the front.
I’m stiff as I hold Riff’s hand. If I clasp it too tightly, that’ll make it seem like I like this, but if I try to keep a loose hold, it’s going to seem like I’m cold and unyielding. Meanwhile I’m certain he can feel every odd twitch of my palm or my fingers and he’ll think I’m having a mini meltdown—and I kind of am.
“Why don’t we talk about something?” he suggests.
Like I can think of anything to say right now.
“Um,” I start. “Okay. I bet you … think you could land a plane in an emergency if you had to.”
Riff shakes his head. “Not toxic traits.”
