Between the Lines

She narrowed her eyes. “Somehow I can’t imagine you as a Boy Scout.”

I blinked innocently. “Oh—that’s a Boy Scout thing?”

She rolled her eyes and I leaned in and kissed her. “Reid.”

“Emma… my room or yours? Your choice.” I grazed her temple with my lips and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Lots of this.” I kissed her again. “And all clothes stay on.”

She peered at me, lips pursed, and I held up two fingers again, which made her laugh and shove my shoulder. “Okay. Yours.”

Just then we heard the PA, Laura, coming around the corner saying, “They couldn’t have gone far…” I stepped two feet back, yanking my sides from the back pocket of my jeans while pulling Emma from the vertical mattress I’d pressed her into.

When Laura appeared, I was pointing to the middle of the sheet and Emma was looking on. “And that’s your cue to give me the evil eye.”

“Oh! I see,” Emma said, as though we were discussing the script while standing amongst a buttload of sundresses. Out of sight from everyone else. Good thing we’re actors.

Laura spotted us. “There you are. What are you two doing over here? Nobody knew where you went! They’re ready for you.” Emma gave me another little shove when Laura looked away. I mouthed what? with the most angelic expression I could muster.

Mall filming should wrap early tomorrow. A couple of retakes, a few distance and tracking shots, and we’re out. Even still, I’ve got to pack and get to LAX to check in by five. So it’s tonight, or we’re talking next week. Damn.

*** *** ***

Emma

The big screen television is still on, but we’re not exactly paying attention to it.

When I got to his room, he pulled me inside and locked every bolt on the door. “Um…” I said, and he told me he didn’t want housecleaning coming in, but he thought I probably wouldn’t want him to hang the do not disturb tag on the door. Definitely not.

Now, we’re sitting on the floor, our backs to the foot of the bed, and he’s just told me that if the zombie apocalypse ever happens, I’m going to be in deep shit. I pretend to be insulted. “I’m not convinced that my inability to avoid getting my brains eaten on a video game directly correlates to certain death in an actual zombie attack.”

Smiling, he tosses the controllers next to the television and pulls me up from the floor. “Maybe not. But you have to admit, it doesn’t bode well.” We pick our way through the dinner dishes littering the blanket he’d spread on the floor when room service arrived. Very little remains of his butter poached jumbo shrimp or my artichoke cream cheese crepes; nothing remains of the chardonnay. I feel just full enough and pleasantly fuzzy, but not drunk. As we sit on the sofa, though, I’m so aware of him, of every detail, that I’m buzzing hard.

“So. Where were we earlier today, while we were hiding from the film crew…”

His hands run over me, so focused and expert that the existence of clothing makes little difference. We make out on his sofa, kissing and touching until I’m lying flat, melting into the cushions as he stares down, his eyes navy blue in the dim light, his tousled hair hanging over his forehead. “You’re incredible,” he says, his voice soft, face propped on one hand while the other carefully teases from the hollow in my throat, over a breast, triggering a gasp when his fingers graze the nipple, down over my stomach, dipping into my shorts.

He makes no move to unfasten them, but I know what he’s thinking. He knows that I do. He’s a hypnotist, and he doesn’t intend to snap his fingers and count to three, removing me from this trance. “I know what I promised. Clothing on. But you promised nothing, and if you want to, I’d be happy to let you make me a liar.”

The difference between us? He knows exactly what he wants.

“Reid. It’s only been a week.” Five days, actually. Five days of kissing and making out, half our encounters ending in some sort of skirmish of yes and no.

“That long?” I roll my eyes and he laughs. “I’m sorry, Emma. I know I’m being pushy. You’re so adorably irresistible, and I’m just a guy, you know?”

He’s overly fond of that excuse. As though I wouldn’t pull him into his bed right now, if not for that nagging feeling that I need a few more days. If he’s this persistent with every girl he runs across, the majority would have been in his bed five days ago if they were in my position. And that’s what’s bothering me. How many have there been, and how many are waiting in the wings? I need some time alone, to think. And I need Emily.

Reid Alexander wants to sleep with me. And I keep telling him no.

I must be insane.

***

No one checked out of the hotel in Austin, preferring to keep our temporary quarters intact, so I’ve only brought one bag with me on this trip to the home that’s never felt like home.

When my father married Chloe, she moved into our house. Within months, she began pleading for a new place. “We need a home of our own,” she pouted, her arms around his neck as I eavesdropped from the laundry nook off of the hallway to their bedroom. “Let’s move to Los Angeles or San Francisco. Somewhere not so horrible and suburban.” I held my breath. Leaving Sacramento would mean leaving Emily and Grandma.

“Chloe, my job is here,” he answered.

The compromise was a big new house, where the furniture was child-unfriendly and my bedroom was decorated in something Chloe called shabby chic, the walls a mustard-gone-bad color that I hadn’t known existed. I spent weekends with my grandmother as often as possible, where it was acceptable to talk about Mom, and I was permitted to put my feet on the sofa and keep a kitten I named Hector.