as she stares up at me and drops her voice. “I feel so safe and confident with you, I’m not nervous at all.”
I don’t give a shit what I’m wearing anymore. I don’t care if I’m the laughing stock of every future French class. I grip her hand and lean in. I just want to cover her mouth with mine, but she dodges me.
“Make-up will kill us,” she says, eyes wide. “This lipstick alone took fifteen minutes.”
I pull back and snort. “Tell me about it.” I point to my face, making her laugh.
She squints. “Is that beard oil?”
“No comment,” I grunt.
Iris dissolves in hysterics. “Oh my God, I love that we get to do this.”
I crack a smile. I love it too. Because I’ll never forget this. The way she looks in that dress and those boots. And I couldn’t forget this shirt if I tried. The memory of this day will stay with me. We’ve made a lot of memories the last six weeks.
They’ve been the happiest weeks of my life.
She’ll be gone in four days, and I haven’t come out and told her how I feel. I haven’t said those words that ache in my throat every time we make love. And we’ve been doing that like we could win a medal for it. Two or three times a night and before we say goodbye every morning.
You’d think all of that would sate my desires, but I just want her more. Twenty times a day, I catch myself picturing the swell of her breasts or the feel of her tight heat around me. That sexy frown she wears when she calls my name, right before she comes.
I blow a breath out my nose and rein in the urge to pull her against me. We’re on a movie set for Christ’s sake. There’s like a hundred people in here.
But every time I think about losing her, my body wants to claim her all over again.
She doesn’t want us to say it’ll be over. I don’t either. Of course I don’t. But Iris is so young. And this is her first relationship. She doesn’t know how easy it is for people to grow apart—especially when two time zones separate them.
But I don’t think those time zones and all the miles in between are going to help me get over her. This is going to hurt like hell. It already does. The heartache just makes me want to tell her even more.
I love you. I love you so damn much.
But is telling her even fair? When she gets back to L.A., her life will pull her in its fast-paced current. Especially now that Moira can’t hold her back and keep her from having a life. She’ll find someone else in no time.
She doesn’t need to hear that I’ll never forget her. That I think I’m bound to love her for the rest of my life.
That she has lit up my world like a fireworks show, and the night is going to be as black as pitch without her.
A bald guy with a clipboard charges up to Iris, pulling me out of my pity party. “Iris, Jonathan says five minutes.”
She nods. “Thanks, Doug.” She turns back to me and gives my hand a squeeze. “We should take our marks.” Then her eyes sparkle. “See you on the dance floor.” And she’s gone.
It actually takes longer than five minutes to get all the extras in place. They’re all locals, and like me, most of them are dressed in Western wear, but some are in overalls. Overalls. Ridiculous.
A part of me chafes under the gross misrepresentation of Cajun culture, but then again, a real Cajun band will be playing up on that stage—a song of their own recording—and we’ll all be dancing the Two-Step and Cajun Jitterbug. People will watch the movie, and maybe they’ll get curious.
And Vermilionville is a real place. A place for them to come visit and learn about our true history and culture.
I don’t have long to question the ethical implications of Hexed because the stage manager begins barking instructions about chairs and props, and the band starts warming up. A pulse of energy tightens my skin, and it feels like it connects me to everyone in the space. I look to the right and find Iris offstage. She’s watching me, and I can tell by the excitement in her eyes she feels it too.
It’s been a long time, but it’s the same thrill that runs through the veins of