God help anyone who comes after her for wanting me—who tries to sabotage her career or dim her light. I can’t protect her from all the pitfalls of Hollywood, but I’ll shelter her from as much of the ugliness as I can.
Her eyelids are heavy in the wake of her orgasm, her body limp and boneless in my arms. I walk us out of the pool, uncaring that neither of us wears a stitch of clothing. This property is completely private and enclosed.
Instead of giving her a lounge chair of her own, I stretch out on one and lay her on top of me. She probably thinks I’m a stage-three clinger, but in a few days we’ll go back to having very little contact. I want as much as I can get while I can have it.
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” I tell her. “We should go out. Santa Barbara only does fireworks for the Fourth, not New Year’s, but there will be parties on the waterfront. It’ll be fun.”
She cuddles into my side, making room for herself on the narrow lounge chair. “I don’t want to go back tomorrow. I know we have to and I know we start shooting again, but I love this with you. I don’t want to go back to not having it.”
I don’t either, but I know it will be best for my focus, her career, and our movie. I lift her chin, kiss her nose. “Only until the movie wraps.”
“It’ll fly by?”
I’m quiet because two months without this, even an hour, feels too long. I nod, laughing when she rolls her eyes at my subdued response. I slap her bare butt lightly and shift to stand.
“Get your pretty ass up.” I extend my hand to pull her to her feet. “They don’t call this the American Riviera for nothing.”
“Did you guys consider Santa Barbara for the new location? If it’s supposed to be America’s French Riviera?”
It’s such an obvious solution, I can’t believe neither Evan nor I suggested it. I must be losing brain cells every time I come.
“Good idea. I’ll mention that to Evan. Let’s get inside so we can shower and get you out for New Year’s Eve.” I take her hand, and pause, noticing a small rash on her arm. “What’s that? Sunburn or—”
“Dammit.” She touches the rash and shakes her head. “It’s that skin condition I told you about. I have to be really careful out in the sun. It wasn’t that hot or bright when we first came out and I didn’t realize how much sun I was taking in.”
“Do you need some lotion or—”
“I have something from my dermatologist.” She flashes a smile and rushes past me into the house. “I’m gonna shower and take care of this.”
She dashes up the steps, and I call after her. “Leave in an hour?”
“Yup,” she says over her shoulder, not looking back.
I’ve needed the last twenty-four hours. Not just the lovemaking, though it’s the best on record. The conversation. Dream swapping. Being a director requires you to be a pragmatist who never stops dreaming. Last night in the huge master bathtub, we soaked together until the bubbles she poured in evaporated, along with all our reservations. With her back to my front, our legs and arms entwined, she told me her ambitions and I shared the stories I still want to tell. My life is a turntable in constant motion, and I can’t remember the last time I slowed down this way. She makes me want to slow down so I don’t miss a thing.
Dessi Blue has consumed most of my waking moments for the last two years, but I’ve barely thought about the movie since we arrived. I was right to hold out as long as I did, because if I’d felt this, had this with Neevah for the last few months, I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate for shit. Not at the level I need to. Helming a film, especially one of this scope, requires an almost inhuman amount of focus, to the exclusion of nearly everything else.
We have two months of shooting left. I have to turn this off, this near-feral desire to have Neevah, to be with her, if I’m going to give the project the attention it deserves in this final stretch. After the movie wraps, we can discreetly pick up where we leave off here, and fuck anyone who has anything to say about it. There’s not an acceptable scenario where we don’t take this further—not after this time together.
I take the stairs two at a time and enter the bedroom. It’s empty, but the shower is running. I step into the bathroom, but she’s not in the shower yet. She’s at the mirror, her hair lifted as she examines a tiny spot at the base of her nape using another mirror.