“So you’re saying he’s an actor.” I laughed. “Got it. We’re all a little crazy, Andy.”
“It’s more than that.” Andy pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Look, you’re playing star-crossed lovers, right? I know how these things go. He’s gonna want to sleep with you—”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you for your concern, Andy, but I’m a grown woman, and who knows? I may want to sleep with him too.”
“I’m just saying be careful.” He bit his lip like there was something else he wanted to say, but decided better of it. “Please.”
I saluted him. “You got it, Captain.”
Careful I was not.
When I arrived on the soundstage in Miami for our first read-through, Cole was already seated at the long table with his script before him. Someone called his name, and he turned, his gaze landing on me. He hastily got to his feet as I approached, never once taking his ice-blue eyes from mine. Everything went into slow motion, and suddenly the only people that existed in the entire world were the two of us. And then, like an idiot, I tripped over a wire that hadn’t been properly taped down, landing squarely in his strong arms. My skin burned beneath his touch, as though the pull between us was so strong that our bodies set off chemical reactions in each other just by being in proximity.
During the read-through, everyone could see the electricity between us was palpable. So much so that afterward the director pulled me aside to request that Cole and I not spend any time together until after we’d shot our first love scene. I begrudgingly complied, allowing the chemistry to blossom between us on-screen while going home alone at night to the high-rise executive apartment overlooking the bay that production had rented for me. I fantasized about him so intensely in those first few weeks that I hardly slept.
When the day finally arrived for us to shoot our first love scene, I was a jangle of nerves. The scene called for Cole and me to tumble into bed together, tearing off each other’s clothes, culminating with us wearing nothing but privacy covers as we writhed beneath the sheets. The nudity would all be tasteful, they assured me, and was necessary to the story—but that wasn’t what I was worried about. I’d done love scenes before, situations ranging from awkward to gross to sexy, but had never had chemistry like this with a costar and was self-conscious about being that turned on by someone in front of the crew. I needn’t have worried.
From the time our lips met in the first shot, everyone else melted away, and it was just Cole and me. All day long I ached for him as he kissed me and caressed my body in fits and starts between “action” and “cut.” I’ll leave the details to your imagination, but suffice it to say that by the time we wrapped that day, we were both so hot for each other that the idea of waiting any longer was unbearable. Without much regard for who might see or gossip, he slipped into my trailer and we ravaged each other for real.
From that day forward we were inseparable. We screwed on every surface of his yacht and his beautiful house on the bay, snuck into each other’s trailers between setups, slinked off to the bathroom together in restaurants. When his character in the film proposed to mine, he asked if perhaps I might like a rock just like the prop stunner he slipped on my finger; within weeks, he’d given me a genuine five-carat square-cut diamond.
Andy, however, wasn’t the only person who tried to warn me off Cole. Our director, while thrilled our chemistry jumped off screen, was visibly nervous about our relationship, doubtless concerned about what it would mean for the film if it burned out. An actress I’d worked with years ago called after seeing a picture of Cole and me hand in hand in the tabloids to say she’d dated him and it had not ended well. She’d signed an NDA so couldn’t give me details, but she said she felt it was her duty to at least warn me to be careful. I kept my promise not to tell Cole she’d called but dismissed her claims, figuring she was just jealous. What Cole and I had was special.
The weekend after he gave me the ring, Cole and I went to the annual white party at Thrive, an open-air nightclub on the sand in Miami Beach with a VIP lounge situated on a high deck with daybeds and a view of the sea. Before the bouncer even lifted the white velvet rope at the top of the stairs, I spotted her: tall and gorgeous with bronzed skin and long straight chestnut hair swept over one eye, Bar Salmaan was the kind of girl who lived for the number of heads she turned, so it made sense that she was seated at the most visible table in the club, surrounded by her model-girl posse. I squeezed Cole’s hand and nodded in her direction.
“Don’t worry about Bar,” he whispered, his breath hot on my ear. “I pay her a lot more alimony than the court mandated. If she wants me to keep it up, she’ll have to respect you.”
Regardless, I was glad our table was at the opposite end of the room, which allowed me to stay out of her way while she and her girlfriends flitted from table to table drinking champagne. By the time I visited the ladies’ room toward the end of the night, I’d had enough tequila myself that I’d nearly forgotten about her, so I was dumbstruck when I opened the bathroom stall to find her waiting for me.
She grabbed my elbow and steered me back into the bathroom stall, locking the door behind us.
“You’ve been avoiding me all night.” She pouted, lounging against the door.
“I didn’t even know you were here,” I lied.
“You’re fucking my ex-husband,”
