temporarily closed off the area. Even with a breeze blowing in from the lake, it was already nearly ninety degrees.
“Is Bram here yet?” Jerry Clarke, their director, called out.
“Not yet,” the A.D. replied.
Bram hated early-morning calls nearly as much as he’d come to hate playing Skip, and Georgie knew for a fact that Jerry had assigned a production assistant to get him out of bed. Her hands curled over the railing. She couldn’t wait for today to be over. A year might have passed since the ugly night on the boat, but she still hadn’t forgiven him for what he’d done or forgiven herself for letting him go so far. She coped by pretending he didn’t exist. Only when the cameras began to roll and he turned into her Skip Scofield with his gentle, intelligent eyes and worried, caring expression did she let down her defenses.
They’d dressed her that day in a skinny, but not too skinny, T-shirt and a short, but not too short, cotton skirt. The producers had begun letting her have more auburn added to her hair, but she still hated the curls. Not only did the network own her hair, but they owned the rest of her, too. Her contract prohibited body piercing, tattoos, sexual scandal, and drug abuse. Apparently Bram’s contract forbade nothing.
The director exploded in frustration. “Somebody go find the son of a bitch!”
“The son of a bitch is right here.” Bram slithered forward, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his bloodshot eyes at odds with his light blue knit shirt, pressed chinos, and preppy wristwatch.
“Did you have a chance to look over the script?” Jerry said with open sarcasm. “We’re doing Skip and Scooter’s first kiss.”
“Yeah, I read it.” He pitched a cigarette butt through the railing. “Let’s get this bullshit over with.”
As she stood there in her girl-next-door clothes, she hated him so fiercely she burned with it. Those first few years, she’d been so determined to see him as a moody romantic figure waiting for the right woman to redeem him, but he was really just a garden-variety snake, and she was a sucker not to have figured that out right away.
They ran their lines and found their marks. The cameras began to roll. She waited for the magic to begin as Bram transformed himself into Skip.
SKIP
Scooter, what am I going to do with you?
SCOOTER
You could kiss me. I know you don’t want to. I know you’re going to say that I’m-
SKIP
Trouble.
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I don’t mean to be.
SKIP
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Georgie felt the hard touch of his lips, and this time the magic didn’t work. Skip’s lips should be soft. And Skip shouldn’t taste of cigarettes and insolence. She pulled back.
“Cut,” Jerry called out. “Is there a problem, Georgie?”
“There’s a problem, all right.” Bram scowled at the camera. “It’s eight fucking o’clock in the morning.”
“Let’s do it again,” the director said.
And they had. Again and again. It was only a simple stage kiss, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make herself believe Skip was kissing her, and each time their lips met, she felt as though she was shaming herself all over again.
After the sixth take, Bram stormed off and told her to go take some “fucking acting lessons.” She shouted back that he should swallow some “fucking mouthwash.” The crew was used to temperament from Bram, but not from her, and she was ashamed. “I’m sorry, everybody,” she murmured. “I don’t mean to push my bad day off on you.”
The director coaxed Bram back. Georgie reached inside herself and somehow managed to use her own churning emotions to show Scooter’s confusion. They finally had their take.
And now here she was again, doing something she’d never thought she’d have to repeat. Kissing Bram Shepard.
Bram’s mouth closed over hers, his lips soft as Skip’s should have been. She began her mental retreat to the secret place she’d hidden in so many years ago. But something was wrong. Bram no longer tasted of late nights and seedy bars. He tasted clean. Not clean like Lance, who had an Altoids addiction, but clean like-
She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew she didn’t like it. She wanted Bram to be Bram. She wanted the sour taste of his condescension, the tainted bile of his disdain. Those were both things she knew how to handle.
She waited for him to try sticking his tongue down her throat. Not that she wanted him to-God, no-but at least it would be familiar.
He nibbled at her lower lip, then slowly set her back on her feet. “Welcome to married life, Mrs. Shepard,” he said in a soft, tender voice even as his hand, hidden in the folds of her skirt, pinched her bottom.
She smiled with relief. Bram was finally acting like himself. “Welcome to my heart…,” she said just as tenderly, “…Mr. Georgie York.” Beneath his jacket, she jabbed him in the ribs as hard as she could.
It was dark outside when Duffy left, and the management had slipped a message under the door. The switchboard was swamped with calls, and a horde of photographers had gathered outside. She turned on the television and saw that the news of their marriage was out. While Bram changed his clothes, she sat on the edge of the couch and watched.
Everyone was shocked.
No one had seen it coming.
Since only the bare-bones details were available, the cable news outlets were trying to fill out the story with comments from a string of so-called experts who knew absolutely nothing.
Bram came out of the bedroom in a fresh pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. “We’re leaving tonight.”
She muted the remote. “I’m not exactly anxious to drive to L.A. with a herd of photographers chasing us. As Princess Diana would say, ‘Been there. Done that.’”
“I’ve taken care of it.”
“You can’t even take care of yourself.”
“Let me put it another way. I’m not staying here. You can either come with me or explain to the press why your new husband is leaving alone.”
He was clearly going to win this skirmish, so she conjured up a sneer. “You’d better know what you’re doing.”
As it turned out, he did have the situation taken care of. A paneled plumbing van waited for them at the darkened loading dock. He tossed their suitcases inside and slipped the driver a couple of folded bills from his wallet. Afterward, he gave her an arm-up into the back, then climbed in himself and shut the door.
The interior smelled like rotten eggs. They wedged themselves into a space near the doors, drew up their knees, and set their backs against their luggage. “We’d better not be going all the way to L.A. in this,” she said.
“Were you always so whiny?”
Pretty much, she thought. At least this past year. And that was going to change. “You worry about yourself.”
The van lurched away from the loading dock, and she fell against his side. Her life had come to this. Sneaking out of Vegas in the back of a plumbing van. She rested her cheek on her bent knees and closed her eyes, trying not to think about what lay ahead.
SCOOTER
