The Redhead Revealed Read online

  “Yep, call me in the morning…Not too early, though.”

  Jack slipped his arm around my waist and tucked me into his side.

  “Deal,” she said, and gave me a hug.

  She and Lane walked to their cars, and he opened her door for her.

  “Olive juice, Holly!” I called as she started her car.

  She leaned out the window. “Olive juice too, ya little fruitcake!”

  The two cars left the driveway, and I noticed they both went the same direction, even though I knew for a fact Lane lived the other way…

  Jack and I walked back into the house and surveyed the damage: board games all over the room, wine glasses and half-eaten pie covering the coffee table. I yawned against him as he started turning out lights.

  “You want to do this now or tomorrow morning, Crazy?” he asked, returning to my side and slipping his arms around my waist.

  “We should do it now, but I don’t want to,” I admitted, leaning into him and relaxing my head against his chest. We looked at the tree. The twinkle of the lights and the patterns they made bouncing off the ornaments made the room very cozy. Lane and Jack (with a lot of surreptitious help from Michael) had managed to worry a fire together, and it crackled merrily in the background.

  I’d switched the music a little while ago, and my favorite Christmas carols now played.

  “Hey, we still need to do our presents!” I exclaimed, sliding out of his embrace and starting for the coat closet in the hallway where I’d hidden his.

  “You want to do those now? Christmas isn’t for a few days, Gracie.”

  “Yes, but the spirit is moving me now. Come on, George. Didn’t you get me anything?” I teased.

  “Oh, I did, and when you see it you’re going to let me do that thing to you you said I could never, ever do.” He disappeared into the bedroom.

  “Get over it, George. Never means never. I don’t care what you get me. Not going to happen.” I laughed.

  He came back to the living room. If he’d retrieved anything, I couldn’t see it.

  My present for him was big, so I made him sit on the couch and close his eyes. I removed it from the closet and set it in front of him.

  “Okay, open,” I said. He complied, and then his eyes widened in surprise. It took him a few minutes to realize what it was.

  “Grace, you really shouldn’t have done this,” he breathed, staring at my present.

  Sitting in front of him was a brand new Breedlove Revival OM-M acoustic guitar. He picked it up like a father with a new baby: gently and with reverence. His hands explored the smooth lines, the curved planes, and with exquisite dexterity, he strummed. A beautiful tone came forth from the wood, and a wondrous smile broke across his face.

  “Oh, love. This is too much.” He smiled and made no move to set it down.

  I sat quietly next to him on the couch and listened to him play for a few minutes, losing himself in the music.

  “This is extraordinary. Thank you so much,” he whispered, setting the guitar carefully beside him and turning to me. He placed his hands on either side of my face, with the same care he’d used to hold my present, and stared into my eyes for what seemed like hours. He leaned in and kissed me softly, barely pressing his lips to mine.

  We kissed gently and sweetly, my hands coming up to cover his own as he held my face.

  He leaned his forehead in to rest on mine. “I love you so much,” he whispered.

  I smiled at him. “I love you too.”

  He pulled away and put both hands behind his back. “Okay, your presents. Pick a hand,” he instructed.

  “Presents? You got me two things? Not fair,” I said, wrinkling my nose.

  “Gracie, shut the fuck up and enjoy this. Now pick a hand, please,” he said, his eyes dancing.

  I sat back and looked at him, the beautiful man in front of me. I pointed to his left hand, then looked at him expectantly.

  “Okay, close your eyes,” he said.

  I raised an eyebrow, but did as I was told.

  “Put out your hand, love.”

  I stuck my hand out, and into it was placed what felt like a small velvet box.

  What?

  My eyes fluttered open and stared at the box from Harry Winston.

  What? And I say again, what?

  “George, what did you do?” I asked, my heart beating against my chest.

  “Just open it, Nuts Girl,” he said, nudging me with his knee.

  Carefully, I opened the box and stared. It took me about thirty seconds to fully comprehend what was inside, and then I threw myself into his lap. The tears began immediately. “Jesus, George, I love you so much!” I choked through my tears and maniacal laughing. I was having a full-on breakdown.

  He laughed with me, both of us falling backward on the couch. I kissed him repeatedly, my kisses mixing with tears as I kissed his eyes, his temples, his cheeks, his chin, and finally his mouth. Actually, I tried to kiss his mouth, but he was grinning too wide to let me, so I ended up kissing his teeth.

  “You know we are totally crazy, right?” he asked me, brushing my hair back so he could look at me.

  “Well, you don’t call me Nuts Girl for nothing. You wanted a crazy girl, and you sure got one.”

  “I sure did, and how lucky am I?” he said, still smiling.

  “No one will understand this. You know that, right?” I said, still trying to kiss him.

  “They don’t have to. This is about you and me.” He kissed me deeply, and I melted. I actually melted into his arms as I started to cry again.

  “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He chuckled.

  “What the hell did you think was gonna happen, Hamilton?” I screeched, looking at it again.

  We looked together, both smiling hugely.

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I asked you to move in, huh?” I teased, then I remembered something. “Hey, where’s my other present?” I asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “See, now to most girls, that would be enough,” he answered, sitting us back up with a stern look.

  “I am not most girls,” I explained, sitting primly on the edge of the couch, admiring my first present.

  “You are ruddy well right about that,” he scoffed, and told me to close my eyes again.

  “Jesus, George just give it to me.”

  “That’s what she said,” he said, laughing the high-pitched laugh he reserved for when he cracked himself up. Which was often.

  I rolled, then closed, my eyes once more.

  “Put your hand out,” he instructed.

  This time, when I did, I felt something paper.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Open, please,” he said.

  I looked down at my hand.

  It was a plane ticket. A plane ticket!

  “A plane ticket? What? Am I going on a trip? Where am I going?” I squealed, my voice climbing so high that he clapped his hands over his ears in defense.

  “Jesus, Sheridan, just look at the bloody ticket.” He sighed, but he was smiling.

  I tore it open and read the destination. “Shut up,” I breathed, and looked at him incredulously.

  He smiled.

  “I’m going here? Here? Are you kidding me?” I asked, the tears starting again.

  “Yep, you and me. Fancy a trip?” he asked, eyebrows waggling devilishly.

  I stood up and set everything down on the coffee table. I straddled his lap and wrapped my arms around him. His hands went to the small of my back and held me to him.

  “George, you’re going to get so lucky tonight,” I said, laying my head on his shoulder and letting him hold me.

  “I’m already lucky, sweet girl,” he whispered in my ear.

  We clung to each other, in the light from the Christmas tree and the fireplace, with the music enveloping us, in my home. In our home.

  Later that night, when he slipped into me, we were wrapped around each other as tightly as two people could be. I could feel his hea
rt beating against mine, and it was perfect.

  We’d gone through hell and back, and he stuck with me. My life was a sum of all its parts. Everything I’d been through, everything I’d done had brought me to this place with Jack.

  We were solid. We were strong. And we were moving forward together.

  ~ ~ ~

  He stirred in his sleep, clutching me closer. I scratched his scalp, feeling the silky strands of hair slip between my fingers. I felt the weight of his body press against mine. I rubbed my present back and forth between my fingers again, feeling it against my skin.

  He came awake momentarily and rolled me onto my side, snuggling in behind me.

  “Love you, Grace,” he mumbled, and slipped back to sleep.

  “Love you too,” I whispered.

  And his hands?

  Please. Where else would they be?

  Chapter 22

  I closed my eyes and let the sun wash over me. It was so strong that even with my eyes shut, the world was bright.

  I felt the sand between my toes, warm through the thin bamboo mat I was curled on. I smelled the tang of the ocean, rolling in only a few feet away. I tasted the salt in the air, and the afternoon heat was thick and lazy on my tongue. I heard the waves knocking against the sand, and the call of a seagull overhead—careful there, bird.

  Then I heard the door swing shut, and I turned and saw. I saw the most beautiful man in the world. He trotted down the porch steps holding two beers and headed my way. He wore a pair of loose jeans rolled up at the bottom, no shoes, and, God, no shirt.

  “Hey,” he called, shuffling through the sand.

  I leaned up on my elbows, exposing myself to him. What was the point of a private beach if you couldn’t sunbathe topless?

  “Hey yourself,” I answered, rolling a handful of sugar sand between my fingers. His eyes widened when he saw I was topless, and his mouth stretched into that grin I loved so damn much.

  He sank down on the mat next to me and handed me my beer.

  “You weren’t checking your voicemail in there, were you?” I asked, arching my eyebrow at him as I sipped. Cold and delicious.

  “Nope. I promised. No email, no cell phone, no messages. Holly has the house phone, but she knows it’s only for emergencies.”

  I sighed happily and sat up. I scooted over and tucked myself into his side so we could both stare out at the ocean. I pretended not to notice that he was sneaking peeks at my boobies. We smiled and sipped and watched.

  When I’d opened the plane ticket at Christmas, I couldn’t believe what I read. I had to look on a map to make sure I knew where I was going. The Seychelles were a tiny chain of islands in the middle of the Indian Ocean. We were about 200 miles off the coast of Africa, and 200 million miles away from anything Hollywood. When I realized what he’d planned and how we were going to ring in the new year, you could have knocked me over with a feather. And the hits just kept on rolling.

  The day after our Christmas party, I’d met Michael for coffee as planned, and he told me why he’d been in L.A.

  “So, interesting story,” he said, sipping his latte. “When the show was running in New York, a producer friend of mine saw it, and he really enjoyed it. When he heard it hadn’t been picked up, he gave me a call. He said he thought it was a great concept for TV, and he wondered if I was interested in adapting it for the small screen.”

  “Are you kidding me? That’s fantastic news, Michael!” I shouted, throwing my arms around his neck.

  He laughed and hugged me back. “So I flew out here, met with some of the other producers, and worked up some different ideas. They want to shoot a pilot and position it for cable.”

  “Like TNT? USA?” I asked.

  “Like HBO,” he said, winking at me.

  “Holy shit,” I breathed.

  “And, of course, the kicker is…they want you too, Grace.”

  So, unreal my life was about to become.

  I spent Christmas in L.A. with Holly while Jack flew home to London. He needed to spend some time with his family, and after the Premiere Implosion, it wasn’t really the best time for me to come along. There would be plenty of time for that, and I wanted him to have some time with them by himself.

  So after Christmas, I flew across the Atlantic and met up with him in Paris. We spent almost an entire twenty-four hours changing flights and flying in progressively smaller planes—not to mention watching three movies, rehashing the holidays, and talking about all kinds of things—until we were finally over the Indian Ocean.

  As the archipelago began to appear, and tiny islands and atoll began to dot the water, I clutched Jack’s hand in excitement, startling him out of his novel. He was interested in producing one day, and was cramming in a last little bit of work by reading books he was considering optioning. However, he promised to be in full relaxation mode by the time we landed at our destination. We were both exhausted, but ready for a vacation.

  We changed planes one last time, picking up a puddle jumper for our last island hop. When we landed at the tiny airport, Jack had arranged for a car to pick us up. We were positively dragging by this point, but very excited. The early-evening sun was just beginning to dip as we drove along the quiet roads. The island Jack had chosen was almost uninhabited—just a few vacation homes, one small store, and miles and miles of peace.

  We pulled up to the house, and we both gasped. He’d seen pictures. I hadn’t. But apparently the pictures didn’t do it justice because we both stood there, mouths agape.

  Pure beach house. It was huge and secluded and private and gorgeous.

  As we explored we found the caretaker had already brought in a supply of food, wine, beer, and everything we would need. As we walked through the house, the ocean breeze billowed through the gauzy white curtains that lined every window. The back of the house opened completely onto a huge deck, and there was the ocean. In our backyard.

  Too exhausted to do anything, we’d snuggled into the giant bed, pulled up the covers, turned out the lights, and let the ocean lull us to sleep.

  Jack nudged me, and I snapped out of my reverie. We’d been here three days now, and had almost another two weeks to go. I was turning a pleasant shade of tan. Jack had burned a little, but was now bronzing and becoming even more beautiful.

  So, while I sunned my buns in the middle of the ocean, Michael was hard at work in L.A., writing the pilot. We were due to begin shooting in March.

  How the hell was this my life?

  New Years Eve we sat on our deck, sipping wine and watching the fireworks someone was setting off on the other side of the island. It really doesn’t get better than that.

  And my other present? I smiled as I sipped my beer, feeling Jack’s hand gently rubbing my back. I’d been wearing nothing but a sarong and bikini top (sometimes not even that much) for the last few days, plus my one new piece of jewelry.

  Before I opened the box from Harry Winston, of course for a second the thought flitted through my mind that it was…well…a ring. I’m a girl, and that’s how our minds work sometimes. But he was twenty-four, and neither of us was in any position to get married. We’d barely been together six months, and it was way too early to be thinking it. We hadn’t even managed to move all his stuff into my house yet. Would I like to get married someday? Yep, absolutely. And hopefully to this man. But we both had some growing up to do, and things were pretty freaking awesome the way they were. So a ring? Nope.

  It was so much better.

  There in the box was proof not only that Jack loved me, but that he got me. He got me and understood everything I needed.

  On a platinum chain was a small, circular platinum charm—a little bigger than a dime, but smaller than a nickel. Thin. Engraved on one side, the side that faced my heart, were the words George Loves Gracie. And engraved on the side that faced the world?

  schmaltz

  No one would understand it, and that’s what made it perfect. It was just about him and me—our own little platinum privat
e joke.

  I felt the weight of it against my skin, and my fingers slipped up toward my collarbone, traveling along the chain and coming to rest against the charm. I could feel the engraving, and I rubbed it constantly. Each time Jack saw me do it, he grinned.

  As we sat and watched the end of another day, I snuggled deeper into his side. Here we were just another couple relaxing on the beach.

  “You getting hungry, Nuts Girl?” he asked, kissing the top of my head.

  “Yeah, a little. We still have some of the shrimp from last night. You okay with that?”

  “Sounds good to me,” he replied, standing and draining the last of his beer. He shuffled around in the sand a little, not really walking away, just dragging his feet.

  I watched the last of the sun as it dropped below the horizon, making everything glow yellow and red and orange. The lights from the house cast an inviting warmth behind me, and I stood slowly, tying my bikini top back on. He frowned as I covered up the girls, but took my hand when I extended it to him. As we walked back to the house, he tugged my arm, turning me back around. His eyes were twinkling mischievously.

  “What’s up, George?” I asked, smiling back at him. He was up to something. He nodded back toward the beach.

  There, in the sand, he had written me a little message with his feet:

  GRAND GESTURE

  “What the hell?” I asked, laughing as he swept me into a hug.

  “I know you don’t like big grand gestures, but I thought that one was perfectly sized.” He chuckled as he kissed on my neck.

  “You know me way too well, Hamilton. It’s a little frightening sometimes.” I squealed as his kisses became more and more persistent.

  “I do know you, Sheridan, and I love you.”

  “I know.” I winked and managed to get out of his grasp. I got halfway up the steps before I felt his hands grab my waist again and begin to work at the knot in my sarong.

  I turned and looked into his eyes. The green was getting darker by the second.

  That green belonged to me.

  ~ ~ ~

  From StarTracks magazine, press date December 31:

  Rumors continue to swirl regarding the whereabouts of popular Time actor Jack Hamilton. Last seen in London’s Heathrow Airport just before the holidays, he has since fallen completely off the radar. Fans want to know where he is—and they’re getting desperate.