Chapter 12: Not My Type on Paper
So much for no lingering looks.
Jamie let his eyes slide over Cora's form. She stood in profile with the sun high in the sky above her. The light gleamed against her hair and cast undulating shadows on the sand. She wore a bottle-green one-piece bathing suit today. A halter neckline with cut-outs in the midsection that nipped in her waist and emphasized the boneless lushness of her hips.
Jamie dipped the outer rim of his left hand into the green paint. He carved her outline onto his canvas, recalling how he had traced that sinuous shape with the same part of his hand last night.
The blasted TV crew couldn't have devised a more ruinous activity for the two of them. Jamie could almost laugh at the irony, if not for the foreboding knowledge of what was to come. Today's game had been entitled: "Not My Type on Paper." An art contest, finger-painting each other's portraits, with a very special prize to the winner.
Never mind that that winner had already been predetermined by production. Mel and Robbie had pulled him aside after lunch and explained the prize that he would win.
Jamie hadn't seen the plot twist coming, fool that he was. He'd taken production at their word when they said he and his co-star would be together for the full month of taping, but the writers had decided to replace her with someone they deemed more camera-worthy. His "prize" would be a new lovely co-star, hand selected by the all-knowing matchmakers. It turned out all his careful scheming had been for naught.
Ah, well, no surprise there. Why should this show be any different from every other job he'd ever done? Every photoshoot involved the same unspoken battle. Model versus photographer. Subject versus artist. The battle for control over what story the finished piece would tell—what version of his soul the camera would capture.
He ought to know by now, he didn't stand a chance of winning that war. The model always lost. He was little more than a lump of clay to be molded. An object to be posed. That was the role he'd chosen for himself early on in life. No point raising a fuss about it now.
So Jamie held his peace and went along with the producers' plans for this so-called competition. He didn't allow himself to think about the outcome.
He looked up from his work and caught Cora's eyes on him. She stood at her own easel twenty feet away, and Jamie called to her across the sand. "How's it going over there?"
"Stop changing positions, you cheater!"
The sea breeze tugged at her hair, swirling it about her shoulders. She raised an arm to brush it away from her face, then emitted a high-pitched yelp as she realized she had purple paint up to her forearm. The color stained her cheek and streaked the curtain of hair beside her face.
"Stop changing colors!" Jamie shouted back.
He dabbed his pinkie in his own pot of purple paint and added a splotch to the area he'd designated for her head.
He heard the tinkle of her laughter carrying on the breeze, and he felt a pang.
Jamie shoved the feeling aside. He wouldn't dignify that emotion by assigning it a name. It didn't matter what he felt. It was out of his control. He wasn't the master of his fate, or hers, as much as he liked to play make-believe.
No point fighting the inevitable. In any case, it was probably for the best.
Last night, he'd ventured close to the point of no return. He'd been sorely tempted by those curves now painted on his canvas. Her questions and her movements had grown increasingly insistent as the night wore on. He'd only stopped himself when he realized she'd fallen asleep in his arms.
That was probably for the best as well. Less complicated this way. Far less messy. Purple paint stains would wash away more easily than memories and regrets.
Jamie nodded firmly to himself. Relief. That was the name of the emotion he must be feeling.
But Jamie lacked the gift of lying to himself, as good as he was at play-acting for others. He watched the bottle-green fabric stretch and strain as Cora struggled with her easel, and he felt that nameless pang again.
He'd used nearly every color on his palette now, and he was pleased with the crude portrait he'd created. He'd captured his version of Cora Glass's soul the way he would remember her: all laughter and light and vibrant color.
Only one shade of paint remained untouched. The black. Jamie had reserved it for the end. He dipped his index finger in it now, and with a flourish, signed his own name in the bottom corner.
***
"That's time!" Cora called across the beach to her opponent. She'd been designated as the timekeeper in this battle for artistic dominance. She eyed her own canvas with satisfaction.
Jamie would be pleased with her. He'd left her bedroom this morning with his orders ringing in her ears. No lingering looks. Remember, we're still enemies in the light of day.
She had played her part as directed. She bit her lip to keep from laughing at the messy image she had depicted on her canvas.
She heard footsteps coming up behind her and turned, expecting to see Cameron the cameraman. But it was Mel instead. The producer wore a pair of cut-offs and a loud Hawaiian print shirt. Unlike Cora, she wasn't required by the reality gods to spend every moment of daylight in a swimsuit.
Mel let out a guffaw when she saw what Cora had painted. "Wow! Is that what I think it is?"
Cora smiled. She'd only used three colors for her masterpiece. Blue, purple, and black. Somehow, she'd managed to get her arms covered in paint up to her elbows. She'd gotten some of it in her hair as well. The strands stuck to the side of her face, and the sensation had been irritating her for the past quarter hour.
"Can I go wash up?" she asked the producer. "Or do I have to wait until the judges deliberate?"
Mel handed her a towel. "You can take ten, but don't wander off too far. Danna Morton will be doing the judging herself."
"Who?" Cora was only half-listening. She toweled off her hands and attempted to address the sticky area on her cheek, but she only succeeded in smearing the paint further.
"The host of the show!"
"I didn't realize we had a host."
"She tapes voiceover from the studio most of the time. She should be arriving by motorboat any minute now." Mel's gaze drifted out to sea, but the horizon remained vast and undisturbed.
Cora turned to look the same direction. All this time in Cozumel, and she'd yet to have a proper swim in the ocean. It beckoned to her now. Might as well put all that water to use. "I'm just going to wash up for a sec," she told Mel, gesturing a purple arm toward the surf.
"OK, but remember you're wearing a mic pack around your waist," Mel replied. "Don't go in too deep!"
Too late, Cora thought. She was in too deep already. She had been, ever since she left her apartment in New York City, and the water only seemed to grow deeper by the day.
She'd made a concerted effort not to look in the direction of her co-star for the duration of the contest, but he was never far from her mind. He dipped in and out of her thoughts, the way his hands had moved last night. Pushing and pulling. Never still. She wondered now if Jamie had been given a 10-minute reprieve from camera duties as well. Would he come talk to her?
A warmth tingled in her chest, and Cora fought the urge to seek him out herself.
There was no doubt about it. The sands had shifted since her night in Jamie's bed. The sensation welling up inside her could only be described as one thing: a crush.
Cora sought out the edge of the water and watched it eddy around her ankles. "So I have a crush," she muttered to her feet. "Is that a bad thing?"
Only if she allowed it to turn into something more... or if it turned out he didn't return the sentiment.
She would find out tonight. After the cameras left. The warmth in her chest flamed hotter at the thought of being alone with him again.
How funny, Cora thought, that the crew had named this contest "Not My Type on Paper." It was the same expression she'd heard Jamie use last night. He claimed it was the worst insult he'd said about her thus far, but it wasn't really an insult. Just the truth. As a couple, they were hopelessly mismatched.
But they weren't trying to be a couple. They were just passing the time.
There's no shortage of physical attraction, he had whispered in her ear. Was that the truth? She wanted to believe so. She couldn't imagine he would touch her the way he had if he wasn't attracted to her, at least a little.
The ocean wheezed and gurgled, and Cora took it as an invitation. She ventured in up to her knees and bent down to wet her hands. The paint left a residue around her fingernails, but otherwise washed clean away. She scooped some water in her hands and splashed her face and hair, squeezing her eyes shut to protect them from the sting of saltwater.
She never saw the white-capped wave speeding in her direction. It crashed its way to shore and would have bowled her off her feet, if not for the sudden appearance of an arm around her waist to steady her.
"Oi!" said the owner of the rainbow-colored arm. "Look out!"
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