Chapter Twenty-Eight
Andrew helps me climb out of the hot-air balloon, and we walk over to the checkered picnic blanket set up for my one-on-none date. My legs still feel shaky from the landing, so I plop down with all the elegance of a stampeding white rhinoceros.
Despite my anxiety about being alone with Andrew, I take off my fake glasses and dig into the picnic basket, because apparently not plummeting to your death makes you very hungry. “Oh my God, there’s vegan cheese!” I squeal.
Andrew holds up a bottle. “And champagne. But didn’t you swear off alcohol forever?”
I hand him the champagne flutes and shrug. “I can make an exception.”
He smiles and pops the cork. As he pours, I take in the vineyards surrounding us.
The rows of grapes form natural runways to the rugged Santa Monica Mountains in the distance.
We’re sitting underneath a gorgeous old walnut tree and when I look up through its branches, I’m greeted by a bright blue sky dotted with lazy clouds.
“Damn, this is romantic. What would I have done by myself?” I ask with a laugh.
Andrew hands me my champagne. “Yeah, seems like a waste just to make you look depressed and lonely.”
“We still have to get that shot,” calls Bruce, who’s lying under a nearby tree with his camera beside him. His baseball hat is over his face, and he looks like he’s minutes from falling asleep.
Andrew and I share an amused grin, then he holds up his champagne to cheers me. “To overcoming fears,” he says.
I hold up my flute and add, “And to the best one-on-none date I’ve ever been on.” We maintain eye contact as we clink glasses.
Andrew peeks inside the picnic basket. “I picked the right date to crash!” He takes out finger sandwiches, fruits, more cheese, fancy gourmet nuts, and chocolates. “The only thing we’re missing is the live band to serenade us.”
I sit up in horror. “That’s not going to happen, is it?”
Andrew points behind me. I turn to see two men and a woman walking toward us, carrying instruments.
“What? Why?” I say, already cringing.
“They do it all the time on reality shows.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Andrew looks entertained by my discomfort as the band sets up to do an acoustic performance, a mere twenty feet away from us. I give them a small wave. “Hi.” Then I turn to Andrew and whisper, “This is so awkward.”
“Pretend they’re not here,” he whispers back.
“But they’re right there,” I say through clenched teeth. “I feel like I have to make nervous small talk.”
He grins. “Make nervous small talk with me instead. Okay, so where were we? You’re an underdog who saves other underdogs, and you were sad about dodos and mammoths but not dinosaurs. Then what?”
I smile back at him and try not to look at the musicians tuning their instruments just beyond his right shoulder. Luckily, Andrew’s handsome face easily captures my attention.
I sigh and shrug. “Well, after my existential crisis about dodos, I told my kindergarten teacher that I wanted to save animals, so that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.”
“You knew exactly what you wanted to be when you grew up, and then you made it happen. Makes me feel like a slacker that I never became a professional basketball player.”
“Oh, are you good at basketball?”
“Nope.” He laughs. “Turns out that’s a prerequisite to going pro.”
After all our bickering these past few days, it feels good to laugh with him. “Maybe there’s still time for you. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on hot-air balloon rides, though. You should be bouncing a ball or whatever it is basketball players do.”
He stretches and leans back. “I’m good here. Tell me more.”
I lean back too, feeling that familiar tingle of electricity when our arms touch. His closeness momentarily distracts me as I search my brain for more to tell.
“I think I was the only ten-year-old with pictures of Jane Goodall and Wangari Maathai on their bedroom wall. I used to ask my family to make donations to the World Wildlife Fund instead of getting me birthday or Christmas presents.”
His eyes open wide, like I’ve impressed him. “It would’ve been hard for me to give up baseball cards and video games. But I did adopt a manatee when we went to Florida one year. I got a certificate and everything.”
“Nice. What’d you name it?”
He smiles. “Michael Jordan.”
“Ah yes, I’ve heard of him.”
The musicians begin playing some sort of twangy country song, but it’s hard to pay attention to anything other than Andrew.
I want to know everything about him. Which is jarring.
I’m about to ask him a barrage of questions when he says, “You know, for someone who claims to hate social media, your accounts looked pretty robust to me.” He grins mischievously.
“I especially liked the picture of you holding the falcon.”
I groan. “That was all my brother’s idea, and it’s a Swainson’s hawk.
It’s a threatened species in California.
They had a huge population decline in the seventies because farmers were using DDT in Argentina where they winter and—” I stop, realizing I’m doing the thing my family warned me about.
“Sorry, I tend to ramble about work. I know it’s boring. ”
Andrew raises his eyebrows. “Who told you it was boring? I think it’s fascinating,” Andrew says, tilting his head. “Being passionate about what you believe in is sexy.”
I feel myself blush. “I can’t believe you stalked my Instagram.”
“I had to—for background checks, remember? It was for purely professional purposes.” Except the glint in his eye says otherwise. “I also saw you’ve recently added a fundraiser for your wildlife center. That doesn’t have anything to do with why you’re on the show, does it?”
My stomach bottoms out. Shit. If Andrew knows, does that mean the producers know? I nod slowly, then ask, “Does that mean I’ll be kicked off the show?”
He shakes his head. “Everyone on Love Shack has an ulterior motive. Yours is just more altruistic than most.”
“What about the right reasons?”
“As long as the audience thinks you’re here to find love, you’re fine.” He smiles at me. “I knew there had to be a reason you came on the show.”
“I told you it wasn’t to become famous.”
He nods, conceding. “That’s what it usually is. Or to launch modeling and acting careers . . .” His eyes get stony. “Or get laid.”
I know he’s thinking of Scott, and I laugh. “You’re doing it again. Being all heroic and protective.”
“And jealous,” he admits quietly, looking at me, as his thumb rubs the back of my hand. “I hated that he got to touch you.”
“Oh.” My body suddenly feels like it’s being heated by the world’s largest Bunsen burner.
It’s the same heat I felt when we kissed, but unlike when he walked me back to my shack, we’re not alone.
It feels scandalous to be turned on in front of the band.
And Bruce. Although when I turn to look, Bruce is sleeping.
When I turn back to Andrew, he’s watching me with those knowing eyes, as if he’s aware of the decision I’m struggling with. He raises his eyebrows in a silent challenge. So I raise mine back and quote him. “Fuck it.”
I grab him by the shirt and tug him toward me.
I feel him smile as his lips touch mine, but his amusement quickly turns into desire when I remember what he likes.
I bite his bottom lip, and he squeezes my hip possessively.
We pick right back up where we left off outside the shack.
He meets me kiss for kiss, tongue for tongue, as if we’re still trying to one-up each other.
I roll onto my back and pull him on top of me. “I really liked this position when we were on the beach,” I whisper to him.
He kisses my neck until his lips reach my ear, and he whispers back, “Hell yes.” Then he lowers all of his weight onto me. My back arches involuntarily when I feel the press of his arousal.
Andrew is even sexier when he’s making out with me—that perfect fucking stubble of his rubbing against me, tickling my neck as he sucks and licks.
I don’t even realize that at some point I’ve wrapped my legs around him.
There’s not even a centimeter between us, but I still can’t get him close enough.
I don’t have time to be smug that he’s just as turned on as I am because I crave the friction of him too much.
I bite his earlobe, earning a groan from Andrew, when suddenly, we’re interrupted by a voice calling out, “Hey, Grace.” It jars me from my Andrew trance.
We turn to see Bruce walking toward us. He holds up his camera and says, “Kristina called, I need the footage of you drinking alone and looking sad.” He looks at Andrew pointedly.
Andrew and I, breathing heavily, share an exasperated look.
But before I can ask Bruce to give us a minute or preferably a couple hours, Andrew discreetly adjusts himself and rolls off of me.
Normally I’d be embarrassed being caught getting all hot and heavy, but I’m feeling more frustrated than embarrassed at the moment.
Andrew hands me my champagne flute. “You don’t look very sad,” he says with a self-satisfied grin. I fake a frown, and he laughs before walking off toward the hot-air balloon. Dammit, Bruce!
I just barely have time to fix my hair and put my glasses back on before the camera promptly blinks on.
“I guess it’s showtime,” I sigh. I don’t know what to do other than sit awkwardly on the blanket, sip my champagne, and wish I were still kissing Andrew.
I distract myself from how pathetic this one-on-none close-up must be by watching the band.
The guitarist gives me a pitying look, and I’m tempted to tell him I’m a scientist in the real world.
After a couple minutes, Bruce says, “That should do it. That was depressing as shit.”
“Glad I could be of service,” I say, standing to stretch my legs.