The Siren, KATHERINE JOHN [positive books to read .txt] 📗

Taylor

Thursday, June 20

The evening of the fourth day of filming, I’d just emerged from a steaming shower when I heard a knock at my bungalow door. I quickly threw on gym shorts and a worn T-shirt without bothering to put on a bra and flung open the door, expecting the fish tacos I’d ordered. Instead I found my personal hero, Rick, holding a conch shell in the soft night air.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

My surprise must have shown in my face because he chuckled. “Expecting someone else?”

“Room service,” I explained. “It’s been a long day.”

“How’s the shoot going?”

“Surprisingly well,” I said. It was true: the weather had behaved, we’d run largely on time, and after all her demands the first morning, Stella had actually turned in a fantastic performance thus far, while Cole and Jackson had managed to mostly be civil to each other—a win all around.

“Good,” he said. Behind him I spotted the room service guy pushing his cart up the torchlit pier and waved. “I won’t stay,” he added. “Just wanted to check on you.”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly. I knew better than to read into his impromptu visit, but I couldn’t help it. I was flattered this tall, dark, and handsome stranger had stopped by, and I didn’t want him to go yet. “Do you wanna come in and chill with me while I eat dinner? I have extra fries and a minibar. Sorry, is it rude of me to ask you to watch me eat?”

An unhurried smile spread across his face. “No. I already ate, anyway. But I’ll have a beer.”

I signed for the room service, and we settled into two cushioned loungers on the over-water porch, facing the horizon. The heat of the day had dissipated, leaving a balmy breeze in its wake. A half-moon shone overhead, reflecting on the calm sea, and lights beneath the cabin illuminated the water, making it appear an unearthly blue-green.

“What’s that?” I asked, indicating the shell.

“This is for you.” He handed me the perfectly formed conch. Delighted, I turned it over in my hands, noticing for the first time the almost erotic appearance of its rosy, smooth flared lip. “I found it this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s beautiful.” I held it to my ear and listened to the distant sound of the ocean inside.

“Conch shells are symbols of spiritual awakening and strength,” he said. “It goes deeper than that, but I don’t know all of it.”

“Wow, spiritual awakening and strength…I could use both of those.”

He held my eye a moment too long before he took a sip of his beer, and my stomach did a somersault. I turned my attention to my fries, reminding myself not to misread it. He was just one of those guys who was so comfortable in his own skin, he didn’t mind holding someone’s eye longer than usual, or gifting them symbols of spiritual awakening.

“So, Taylor.” That gaze again. My God. Like some kind of a big cat. I’d read about guys with a “glacier-melting gaze” in my romance novels, of course, had even occasionally come across them in real life, but that gaze had never been directed at me. I was the friend, just one of the guys—the cool chick they told about their exploits and shared bawdy jokes with, who they might hook up with but we’d both know it was only that and things would never get mushy. Even with Rory, it was never romantic. My therapist said because my father had never shown me love, I didn’t think I deserved it, so I chose unavailable men and lived vicariously through my romance novels rather than risking putting my heart out there. I argued that I simply didn’t have time for romance and I wasn’t a sentimental person. But maybe she was right, because Rick looked at me like I was a woman and suddenly I was a freaking puddle. “Tell me something about you, besides that you don’t read warning signs,” he teased.

I giggled like a fool. “Actually, that says a lot about me. What do you want to know?”

“Where are you from?”

It had to be just the way he looked at people because there it was again. Hypnotic. Focus, Taylor. He asked you a question. “LA, born and raised. You?”

“Here. Well, there”—he pointed toward the horizon on our right, where lights of the main island twinkled in the dark. “Saint Ann.”

It was my turn. I could do this. Carry on a conversation like a normal woman. “You have a big family?” I asked.

He nodded. “My parents and four sisters, three married with kids around here and one at medical school in Miami.”

“Wow, four sisters. You must know a lot about women.”

He laughed. “Not really. You have siblings?”

I shook my head. “Only child. My parents divorced when I was four.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Oh, it was for the best. My dad’s a total asshole.”

He raised a single eyebrow. Why had I said that? Talking about my dad was a surefire way to douse any interest he might have in me.

“You don’t wanna know,” I said.

“Try me.” His eyes danced in the reflection off the water. “Unless you don’t want to talk about it. I don’t mean to pry. I’m just interested.”

Why? I wanted to ask, suddenly defensive. But I stopped myself. It wasn’t his fault my dad was a scumbag. “It’s okay.” I sighed, crashing back down to earth. Despite my momentary fantasy of falling into his arms in the light of this beautiful moon and letting him ravage me while the ocean rolled beneath us, this wasn’t a romance novel. I was me. There was no escaping it; I might as well be honest. “My dad’s a studio exec. He’s a total stereotype—the Hollywood shark, always wheeling and dealing, screwing people.” I focused on the glimmering lights of a cruise ship way out at sea. “I took a job working for him right out of college—I’d only really spent brief amounts of time with him, so I had