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 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 voice mail in there, were you?” I asked, arching my eyebrow at him as I sipped. Cold and delicious.
“Nope. I promised. No e-mail, 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 two hundred miles off the coast of Africa, and two hundred 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 was 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 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 grinned widely.
“Holy shit,” I breathed.
“And, of course, the kicker is . . . they want you too, Grace.”
So, my life was about to become unreal.
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 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 atolls 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. He promised to be in full relaxation mode by the time we landed at our destination, though. 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. Even though we were excited, we were positively dragging by this point. 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.
When we pulled up to the house, we both gasped. He’d seen pictures but apparently they didn’t do it justice, because we both stood there, mouths agape.
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 at 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 now, and I snapped out of my reverie. We’d been here for three days, with 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 Year’s 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 new piece of jewelry.
Before I opened the box from Harry Winston, the thought naturally flitted through my mind that it was . . . well . . . a ring. 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 marriage. 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.
His gift was so much better.
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 thin circular platinum charm a little bigger than a dime. Engraved on the side that faced my heart were the words George Loves Gracie. And on the side that faced the world?
Schmaltz.
No one would understand it, which was what made it perfect. It was just about him and me—our own little private joke.
I felt the weight of it against my skin, and my fingers slipped up toward my collarbone, 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 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.
“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, managed to get out of his grasp, and dashed toward the steps. I got halfway up before I felt his hands grab my waist and begin to undo the knot in my sarong.
From People magazine, press date December thirty-first:
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.
Stories have been percolating since late summer about the possibility of Jack being involved with an older woman—a redhead he was spotted with in L.A. on numerous occasions. This woman, eventually revealed to be stage actress Grace Sheridan, 33, shares Jack’s manager, Holly Newman. Although the entire management team has denied claims that Jack is romantically linked to her, the Internet has been flooded with pictures of them together. After Sheridan attended the Time premiere in Los Angeles, the rumor resurfaced, along with pictures of the pair in New York City, where the two looked cozy as they walked in Central Park.
When asked for comment, Newman said, “They’re great friends. They met at a party I hosted for several of my clients months ago. They’re thrown together a lot. They’re not a couple.”
Nevertheless, for many fans, whether he’s disappeared with Grace or not, the question still remains: Where have you gone, Jack Hamilton?