Between the Lines (Between the Lines #1)

As we round the corner, Emma has just pulled the door to her room shut and stands in the hallway, grasping the handle on her rolling carry-on bag. She turns back to the door as soon as she sees me, but it’s too late—it’s clicked closed and automatically locked; we’re all stuck in the hallway together.

As we pass her, I say, “Good morning, Emma.”

Lips pursed, she raises her eyes to mine before sweeping them away as she turns towards the elevator. “Good morning,” she murmurs.

Pointlessly, the girl in my shirt giggles. I angle her shoulders towards her room and swat her ass, resisting the urge to shove her in that direction. “Get some sleep, young lady.”

Ow!” she says, followed by more giggling. Jesus.

Following Emma to the elevator, I can’t help but inventory everything I ever found physically attractive about her—how her hair flows over her shoulders, the way she holds herself as she walks, the curve of her hip and the line of muscle down the side of her legs below the hem of her white shorts, the wrist of stacked bracelets on her left arm, and on her right hand, the silver band with the story I’ll never learn. We enter the elevator and ride to the ground floor in silence, her pale shoulder against the opposite wall. I hum to myself as we take what feels like the slowest descent in the history of motorized, pulley-operated boxes. I find myself thinking Is this goddamned thing even moving? I could crawl down the stairs faster, when not long ago, the two of us appreciated the elevator’s lethargic pace.

Graham and MiShaun are in the lobby, along with Bob, who walkies that he’s bringing us out. Luckily, the early hour yields just a couple of paparazzi photogs. MiShaun takes Emma’s arm, talking nonsense on the way to the car. She sits next to Emma and Graham takes the seat across from her. They’ve joined forces to make sure I’m as far from her as possible.

Awesome.

Emma

“You never told me how the SAT went.” Graham loads his tortilla with some of everything from the fajita platter we’re sharing, including the sour cream, cheese and guacamole that I avoid lest I be accused of another baby bump. The two of us found a Tex-Mex place for our last meal out in Dallas. MiShaun’s computer guy is in town on some consulting project, so she’s with him, and Reid is probably hooking up with one of the new extras or a local groupie. Filming was hell, but it’s done.

“The exam was protracted and arduous.” I tap my foot to the rhythm of the music in the background as I select lean pieces of grilled chicken and veggies. Graham smiles, and I notice a bit of sour cream at the corner of his mouth. I wonder what he’d do if I reached out a finger and cleaned it off. Maybe with a napkin. Maybe I should just say something. Maybe just ignore it.

“Sounds traumatic,” he says. Huh? Oh, the SAT.

I shrug, take a sip of iced tea and glance back at his mouth. Sour cream still there. I have a vision of leaning across the table and licking it off, and I blurt, “You have a little…” and point to the corner of my mouth. He pulls the napkin off his lap and swabs at the corner.

“Gone?”

“Yeah.” Must stop staring at his mouth. I lean back into the soft leather booth and force myself to look away from him. If Graham and Brooke are together, or trying to be, then I have no business contemplating… licking him.

“Fans, three o’clock.”

“Huh?” I say, and he raises an eyebrow. “Okay, that doesn’t count. That was basically a question, not a huh.”

“All right,” he smiles. “I’ll spot you that one.”

I try to be covert in looking over my shoulder, but covert doesn’t matter—an entire table of sorority girls is staring back. My glancing at them ignites all of them to begin talking to each other excitedly, and then the cell phones emerge.

“Crap. Can we leave?”

“I haven’t paid yet.” He looks for our server, motions her over. “Restaurants sorta frown on customers who leave without paying. Even famous ones.” The server arrives with the check and Graham hands her a credit card. “You know, we talked about this a while back. It’s going to happen even more, once the movie’s released.” He laughs softly as I scowl at my lap. “Emma,” he says, prompting me to look at him. He’s leaning up, his forearms folded in front of him on the table, his eyes dark and direct. “You’re the lead female role in a major studio film. This is about to be your normality.”

He’s right, of course. I lean up on my forearms, too. “Emily told me the fan pages are going crazy wondering why Reid’s being seen with everyone but me.” I could get so lost in his eyes. I must stop gazing into them like I want to get lost there. “You know what this will do, me being photographed at what will no doubt be described as an intimate dinner, with you.”

He smiles, signing the receipt and stowing his card away. “I can take it. Now put on a little attitude, and let’s get out of here.” He calls our driver to meet us out front and takes my hand as we exit, and despite the people staring, pointing cell phones, or just plain pointing, I feel calm with my hand in his.

Chapter 43

REID

The last weeks of filming are moving in a blur.

According to the fan pages, Emma and Graham continue their morning runs and are rumored to be making out all over town—despite no photographic evidence beyond the hand-holding incident in Dallas. In private, they’re no different near each other than they’ve ever been. Easy familiarity, but no staring across the room as though they can hardly wait to get each other alone and no touching that I’ve witnessed or heard about. Graham continues to appoint himself as Brooke’s protector—which at least I get now. I still think they’re involved.

Emma was chosen to play Lizbeth because of the chemistry between us, which refuses to ebb just because we want it to. And oh, how I want it to. Delivering Will Darcy’s declarations of love to Lizbeth is torture. Touching her is torture. Kissing her is torture.

When possible, I bow out of any group social activities in which Emma might be involved. Tadd, of course, is the one who notices my discomfort. Or maybe he’s just the only one who gives a shit or doesn’t automatically think I deserve to reap what I’ve sown. “Almost over, dude.”

“What?” We’re on set, waiting to see if Richter wants any more takes on the argument between Will and Charlie, when Charlie figures out that his best friend sabotaged his relationship with Jane. I sense Tadd isn’t referring to today’s filming, though. The chemistry between us on film is as easy as our relationship has always been, so we’re probably good.

Swinging his hair out of his eyes, he levels a look on me, his mouth in that sarcastic twist I know so well. “I’ve never seen you so whipped, man. Why don’t you just give up and beg her forgiveness?”

My mouth drops open. “In one sentence you’re calling me whipped and in the next you’re suggesting I plead for mercy? What the hell, man. That makes no sense.”

He sighs noisily, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, it kinda does. You managed to be a dickwad to someone you were falling for. You could try apologizing. God knows you’ve given screwing her out of your head your best shot.” He chuckles softly. “So not working, by the way.”

I stare at the object of this discussion across the room where she sips from a water bottle and laughs at something Meredith just said, and my jaw clenches. “I’m not falling on my face at her feet so she can kick me more easily. That’d be fucking stupid, not to mention degrading.”

“More degrading than it is for her to watch you bed every girl in the cast?”

I love the guy, but God, Tadd is a know-it-all sometimes. “She listened to Brooke’s side and didn’t even ask mine,” I hiss. “Where’s her apology to me?” When the production assistant looks over, I know this discussion has gone too far. I don’t want to debate whether or not I should apologize to Emma for some perceived thing I did to Brooke.

Tadd turns to me, his clear blue eyes unnaturally serious. “Dude, you’re miserable—”

“No. I’m pissed. But like you said, it’s almost over.”

“Good job, gentlemen,” Richter says then. “No more retakes, you can vamoose.”

As we turn, Tadd nods once, clamping his mouth shut and containing whatever he was going to say. I’m deaf once I’ve made up my mind, and I’ve always been good at shutting my emotions off. I’m getting better.

Emma

I’m home.

The last weeks of filming were challenging, not because of the scenes themselves as much as what happened between them. When Reid and I filmed intimate scenes, staring into each others’ eyes and reciting the play of words between Will and Lizbeth as they fell in love despite all intentions otherwise, he was utterly convincing. But Richter’s “Cut!” shut off the passion and devotion in his eyes like a thrown switch.

I was afraid kissing him would be unbearable, but with preparation, once my eyes were closed, I became Lizbeth Bennet kissing Will Darcy, and Reid Alexander wasn’t there anymore. There were a couple of times I wasn’t prepared, and the trace of his mouth on mine constricted my breath. Both times, I could have sworn he was affected as well, until the inevitable end to the scene, when he blinked and the connection was gone.

On the last day of filming, the celebratory mood was shaded with the bittersweet grief of ending. Simultaneous laughter and tears, hugs and promises of keeping in touch were passed between all of us. Reid’s lips grazed my temple, briefly, before he turned away to do the boy-hug thing with Quinton. He and Richter left the hotel that night. The rest of us checked out the next day.

Graham and I took a taxi to the airport together; our flights were at the crack of dawn, departing within ten minutes of each other. We got through security more quickly than we’d expected, and decided to hang out at the cramped coffee bar. We sat watching the other travelers: some bleary-eyed, some lost, some type-A frustrated with all the others.

Graham tore off a hunk of the cinnamon roll we were sharing. “Have you applied anywhere yet?” he asked, consuming his sticky portion in one bite.

“Doing that when I get home. We’ve got everything organized—which schools want an essay, which have extensive applications, which require recommendation letters.”

He smiled. “That’s great.”

“What about you—after graduation?” I nibbled at a much smaller segment of our joint breakfast, licking my fingers reflexively. And then Graham was staring at my fingers and mouth, suffusing me with an unexpected warmth so strong it felt visible. As he lowered his gaze to the last bit of roll, I wiped my fingers on the napkin in my lap while struggling to stop imagining his mouth sucking the sticky sweetness from each one, slowly and thoroughly. “You can, um, have the rest.” I strove to sound impassive and heedless of the electricity zipping through my body.

He cleared his throat. “My agent called yesterday—I’ve got another indie film lined up for mid-summer, to be filmed in New York.” After looking at me for another long moment, he said, “If you decide on a university there, I’ll probably be around when you start next fall.” He clicked his phone, checking the time. “We’d better get to our gates.”