In honor of #teasertuesday here is a readers’ favorite scene from my NA contemporary novel, Lose Me.
Enjoy!
I glance at my watch. It’s barely five minutes past.
Turns out that what Tim said to me the first day was kind of an understatement. Elle really doesn’t do water. Like, at all.
So, they tell me I’m to be her.
There’s this scene towards the end of the film, where Will and Lizzie are sitting on their surfboards in the calm sea, talking. That’s where we’ll start. They put a dark-haired wig on me, because Elle will be a brunette as Lizzie in the film. It’s close enough to my own hair color, but they want it to be exactly like hers, so whatever. Then they spray tons of makeup on my shoulders and back. I’m wearing a version of the impossibly white bikini Elle will be wearing in this scene.
It will be only close-ups of her face while she delivers her lines. When Wes talks, it will be the back of my head on the screen. Matt comes over quietly, as the makeup team struggle to make my really tan and toned arms look bony like Elle’s, and looks me in the eye.
“I know it’s too soon, but go with it,” he says. “I know you can do it.”
“You do?” I ask, uncertainly. I’m still dazed.
“Yeah,” he says, “Ben says you can, so you can.”
Ben is Coach.
“O. . . kay.”
“Now, when they’re shooting the back of your head, you have to react slightly to what he’s telling you, right? Nod, or lean towards him. . . ” He must notice my face going white, because all the blood is leaving it right now. “Here, I’ll show you,” he adds.
He must be the calmest, most patient person in the world.
I’ve never seen anyone so zen. He shows me all he can and before I’ve had time to think of it, we’re down in the water.
We take our places the way they want us, with our bodies facing each other, our legs dangling in the sea, and someone sprinkles water on our hair—my wig—,our backs and swimming suits.
Wes looks like an ancient Greek god of the sea, the sun in his eyes, water dripping from his golden curls. He peels off his shirt to reveal sculpted, bronzed shoulders. Dammit, no one’s supposed to look that good. His swimming trunks are knee-length and dark blue with small white swirls that look like Hawaiian flowers, and as soon as he’s in the water they cling to his legs, accentuating the swell of wicked quadriceps underneath. A sudden realization hits me: he may not even remember kissing me last night. He was drinking, and he kissed that other girl right away. He certainly doesn’t act self-conscious around me, but then again I wouldn’t expect a guy like that to be self-conscious around anyone.
Wes smiles at me and I know he’s trying to help me relax, but I’m totally freaking out. There are cameras, rafts, microphones in my face, next to me, all over the place. How exactly am I supposed to concentrate? This is going too fast.
And then Wes begins to speak.
“I do respect your family,” he says, looking directly into my eyes with a green, piercing gaze full of meaning. “I really do, and I’m sorry for the things I said about them. But. . . ” at this he leans forward, almost to the edge of his bobbing surfboard and takes my hand lightly in his. “But much as I care for them, everything I did, I did it for you,” he says and I melt into his eyes.
“Cut!” a voice yells over the PA.
The kind, endearingly eccentric man I met a couple of days ago is entirely gone. This guy is fierce. “That was brilliant, Spencer,” he calls. “Ari, honey, what are you doing? You’re rigid. Get a grip. Go again.”
