One More Time(23)

Jenna nods. She’s agreeing, but she doesn’t seem pissed. She actually looks relieved.

“Good. I was hoping you’d feel that way. That can never happen again. It’s too risky.” I notice her nervously fidget with her fingers.

“Yes. Exactly. Completely agreed. Never again.”

“Okay. Cool. Well… Great.” Now Jenna shifts on her feet and touches her hair.

“So are you going to tell your boyfriend about it?”

“What boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Oh,” I say, confused. “I guess I got that mixed up.”

“Yeah, you did. I definitely don’t have a boyfriend.”

She sneaks a quick look up and directly at me before jutting her eyes down and away. I used to call it her French eyes. The move made me feel like I was in some black and white French romance flick…or vintage French porn. When we first met that look could get me hard in a hot second.

Turns out, it still can.

We’re quiet for a moment. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I’m turning this new information over in my head. Maybe he was just a friend with benefits. Or an uncle I don’t remember.

So where does that leave me?

I look at her and she’s looking at me, and this time we both cut our eyes away.

“Even though I’m sorry,” I venture, “I don’t regret it.” More silence, but only for a moment.

“It was pretty hot,” she agrees, and even without glancing over, I can hear the smile in her voice.

“We’re shooting Seven next,” she says conversationally. Seven is the first time that Bobby and Grace go home together. Despite a no-nudity clause in Jenna’s contract, the scene looks to be pretty steamy. There will be tons of shots of our bare skin, sliding against each other, shots of neck kissing and hair pulling and all the other things I’ve been fantasizing about doing to her off-camera.

“So, do you maybe want to get together tonight to rehearse it before we shoot Monday?” I ask.

I didn’t really mean to say that out loud. I feel like some weird demon took control of my mouth. The words just came flying out like some kind of physical reaction. And now I can’t take them back.

But then Jenna says, “Yes, definitely,” without a single bit of hesitation.

Play it cool, Tanner. Roll with it.

“Okay good. Yeah. Cool. My room?” Not sure that was “cool” but it was certainly bold. She’s smiling, and either I’m crazy or it’s a flirty grin.

“I don’t know. Do you have a suite?”

Yep, definitely flirty. Game on, Jenna Stahl. “I do. Room 1019. King suite. Come see if it’s up to your lead actress standards.” I wink at her, and am gratified to see her blush. I can’t wait to see the flush on her cheeks when I make her come again, this time with my mouth.

Wait. That’s not what I’m supposed to be thinking about. Are we still talking about rehearsing?

“Deal. Your room. Nine o’clock?” She pivots to leave, hardly waiting for my answer. Like it would be anything other than acquiescence.

And it is. “Yeah. Perfect. See you then.”

I watch her ass as she walks away, this time without a measure of guilt.

And with that I can’t decide if this late night rehearsal is the best or worst idea I’ve ever had.





By ten after nine, when Jenna is nowhere to be found, I’ve decided it’s definitely the worst. I pick up the remote and head for the minibar, ready to drown my feelings in a combination of tequila and basketball.

Then there’s a knock on the door.

“Hi, I’m sorry I’m late,” Jenna says breezily as she walks in, oblivious to my gaping.

At least, that’s what I think she said. I can’t focus on anything but the thin white t-shirt she’s wearing over a black lace bra. It shows off every curve of her perfect breasts. I force myself to think of something cold and boring – miserable icy showers at Aunt Pat’s beach house! – and I’m saved, for now.

“No worries,” I say, recovering quickly. “Something to drink?”

“No thanks,” Jenna says. Then she takes the script out of her bag and starts leafing through the pages. “Do you wanna get your script?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Of course.” I escape into my bedroom to grab it, and mentally slap myself across the face. She’s here to work, idiot.

“I think we should use your kitchen counter as the bar,” Jenna calls from the other room.

“Fine,” I say as I walk back in, script in hand.

“It’s a little bright in here. Mind if I dim the lights?”

I want to say No, Jenna, if you dim the lights then this is going to feel too much like a real bar, and in a real bar I wouldn’t make it through a single line. I’d just throw you up on the counter and fuck your brains out.

But instead I nod a yes. I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread, and desperately hoping she doesn’t notice.

“K, you lean on the counter opposite me,” Jenna directs. “Let’s take it from the top of page twenty-five.”

I move in like she suggested, then scan the page. The dialogue seems harmless enough. Grace and Bobby are chatting after they’ve met up at Happy Hour after a long day of work. It’s friendly and simple.