Chapter 19 Take Me to the Beach
Take Me to the Beach
HARMONY
If I hear the word “showmance” one more time I’m going to scream. And I think my PR team feels the same (although it only hurts because it’s true).
Because of all the negative speculation, the label puts a brief hold on the production of “Hate to Love,” which is great because I’ve been avoiding it like day-old sushi anyway.
But then Stefanie briefs me on a new plan, and suddenly I’m longing for last week when the worst part of my day was trying to come up with loving lyrics about Riff that didn’t reek of the embarrassing truth of what I’ve begun to feel.
“So far, you’ve only appeared together in public, at big events,” she tells me.
“That’s part of what makes the whole thing look suspicious.
It looks like you’re specifically targeting opportunities where there will be a lot of witnesses.
Also, some people are saying that the kiss at daXx’s birthday was too abrupt and dramatic to be real. ”
Her mention of that kiss makes my insides churn. As if it wasn’t bad enough being a prop to make Mikayla jealous, everyone else within viewing distance saw it too.
“I don’t know what they want,” I argue. “If we’re not touchy enough, we must be faking it; if we PDA, we must be faking it. There’s no winning here.”
Likewise, when I’m not touching him, it’s torture, I think. When I am touching him, it’s also torture.
“Right,” Stefanie says. “Which means we need to pivot. The obvious solution is to stage a date that looks like it was intended to be private. PR has made arrangements with one of Glambam’s executives who owns a private strip of beach in Malibu—the perfect spot for a romantic afternoon—and it just so happens to be situated below some very non-private bluffs overlooking the water. ”
“‘Non-private’ as in … a photographer with a telephoto lens could conveniently get shots of us doing—”
“Doing whatever it is a real couple would be doing, yes. I mean, within reason, of course. Not that that’s been an issue.
” She scoffs. “It’s been like pulling teeth to get you two to do anything.
I figured your little public makeout session would have broken the ice, but I swear you two are worse than before. ”
Not sure I’d call it a makeout session, although I struggle not to think about the long first part of the kiss, then the brief give-and-take that happened after. Or the way he touched his forehead to mine for an instant at the end.
I shudder and take a deep breath, which I’m sure comes off as disgust.
Stefanie clicks her tongue. “God, you’re so melodramatic. ‘Oh no, I have to kiss and canoodle a handsome, famous man—how repulsive!’”
“It’s not like that,” I snap.
“What—you mean you truly, honestly hate him? Come on.”
I don’t hate him. That’s the problem.
“It’s complicated.”
“Well, that’s show business. The beach date is on your calendar. It’s happening this Friday at four p.m. Wear your favorite swimsuit under a cute spring outfit; PR will provide the rest.”
It turns out “the rest” means beach chairs, an umbrella, a YETI cooler full of drinks and appetizers, blankets, a portable campfire, full wetsuits, a pair of surfboards waxed and ready to go—this makes me nervous because I’ve never surfed once in my life, but I’m guessing it will only be for show—and a photographer hired by the label.
I thought they were just going to tip off the paparazzi, but maybe it gives us better media control to use someone close to us. The tabloids won’t know the difference when the guy sells them the photos, and the fans definitely won’t have any clue.
The label has also hired a car to deliver me. When I step out onto the bluff, Riff is already there, his own transportation backing away as he glances over and gives me a nod of solidarity.
He wears Ralph Lauren board shorts, a crisp white t-shirt that makes him look tan, Ray-Ban aviators, and Olukai Mea Ola sandals.
Under my denim shorts and flowy top, I’m wearing a one-piece swimsuit.
I’m not trying to hide my body, exactly, but, 1) I’m not in the mood to be even more half naked in front of Riff today, and 2) I’m also not in the mood to have tabloids picking at my belly fat because my waistband is pressing against my hips or because I bend while sitting and get a roll at the waist. Like, God forbid I be human.
Our phones buzz simultaneously and we both read what I assume is the same message from the PR group chat.
JARED: Please complete this list before sunset …
1. Walk along the shore holding hands
2. Harmony puts sunscreen on Riff’s shoulders
3. Riff tucks Harmony’s breeze-blown hair behind her ear
4. Riff gives Harmony a surfing lesson
5. Have a splash fight
6. Wrap up together in the same beach blanket
7. Listen to a song using the same pair of headphones
8. Have a drink together
9. Roast marshmallows
10. Snuggle next to the fire
Feel free to elaborate on any of these or come up with your own. Have fun!
I stare at the list for a long moment before I can force myself to meet Riff’s eyes again. How the hell am I supposed to do all this with him and not lose my mind?
And they want me to actually learn to surf??
I’m starting to consider calling my legal team right now.
My driver leaves too. There’s no one else here because, just in case anyone happens to find out about the date, we can’t be seen taking direction as though we’re shooting a movie.
Riff gestures at a trail leading down to the sand, where all our paraphernalia awaits. “Ready for me to take-take-take-take-take you to the beach?”
Dammit. Why does he have to be funny?
I roll my eyes as I walk past him to start my descent.
By the time we get to the bottom, we have more instructions.
We have about five minutes to get comfortable before the photographer arrives, and then it’s full speed ahead on the list. No “dilly-dallying” (yes, PR uses that exact term) between tasks; they know it’s awkward and they don’t care.
We are to avoid looking in the direction of the bluffs.
And of course we are to “act natural” at all times.
Our prep period ends too soon and I can practically hear Stef saying, “Ready? Action!”
Riff extends a hand to me. “Shall we?”
I take a deep breath and nod.
The camera will be to our backs from here, getting shots of us walking away down the water line. We’ll go a certain distance, then turn around and come back for shots from the front.
I’m stiff as I hold Riff’s hand. If I clasp it too tightly, that’ll make it seem like I like this, but if I try to keep a loose hold, it’s going to seem like I’m cold and unyielding.
Meanwhile I’m certain he can feel every odd twitch of my palm or my fingers and he’ll think I’m having a mini meltdown—and I kind of am.
“Why don’t we talk about something?” he suggests.
Like I can think of anything to say right now.
“Um,” I start. “Okay. I bet you … think you could land a plane in an emergency if you had to.”
Riff shakes his head. “Not toxic traits.”
“Oh.”
“Although, I probably could.”
I scowl at his baseless confidence.
“You forget,” he adds, “that I’d probably be able to communicate with air traffic controllers and flight instructors over the radio, so with proper guidance it wouldn’t be that hard to—”
“Fine, what should we talk about, then?”
Riff tightens his grip a little, which almost makes me shiver. “I don’t know. Something real. If we need this to look real then we have to make some of it real, right?” He pauses like he’s considering. “How has your week been?”
“How has my week been? You want to know about my week?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. We haven’t seen each other since the daXx party. What have you been up to?”
I guess I should just be glad we’re glossing over the kiss situation. His text about it right after was plenty for me and he seems to think so too. Great.
“I’ve been working on a song called ‘Take Up Space,’” I offer.
“Recording some rough demos at my home studio to iron it out before I send it to my producer. I also met with Elizabeth Arden’s people to talk about partnering on a perfume deal, which was wild because I’d never thought about designing my own scent before.
Then I did a photo shoot for my album. Then I invited some girls over for a movie night—that’s when I watched Make Your Move.
And … that’s pretty much it. What about you? I heard you went to a convention.”
I saw the online banner ads for West Coast Country Con, some of which specifically mentioned Riff Hurley as a celebrity guest. No doubt the algorithm has adapted to show my more recent interests.
“I did,” he says. “I was invited to be on a couple of panels and to introduce a speaker. It was a … good experience.” He hesitates. “Well, some of it. They ask tough questions on those panels. But I got to meet ACKER at a mixer.”
“The country trap artist?” I ask. Also brought to me by the algorithm recently.
I listened to a whole album the other night and all I could think was, “If more country sounded like this, I’d listen to more country.
” Not that I haven’t been listening to country left and right between hanging out with Daisy and trying to get a sense of Riff’s career as a whole.
Riff nods. “He was great to talk to. Really got me thinking.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“About fighting harder to do things my way.” Riff sort of laughs pensively to himself, then looks over at me and suddenly gets all serious. “Please tell me you’ve figured out by now that country wasn’t actually the plan I had for myself.”
I chew my lip. “It has come to my attention, yes.”
He huffs. “Oh good.”
“But … how, exactly, did you end up in country, if that’s not what you wanted?”
We reach the end of our way and Riff leads me into a turn so that we’re headed back to where we started. I catch a glimpse of the photographer up on the bluff.