Reality Jane

The address on his business card was 450 Beachfront Avenue. Beside it, he had scribbled the words: “BBQ @ 2pm. DNBL8! xxo Craig.”

Too cute: Don’t be late. More than the quip, it was the address that got me. Beachfront? I imagined some dilapidated beach shack he shared with six other surfer dudes, precariously held together by rotting posts poised to crumble into the ocean. But I’d passed the previously rustic part of Malibu beachfront, and it had graduated to swanky. No chance of a surf shack amidst these sand castles. After a left, then a right turn at a mini-mall, I found myself on Beachfront Avenue, idling in front of number 450.

Oh. . . my. . . God! As my hand whacked the steering wheel, every bolt in my 15-year old Volvo sedan convulsed. It was beachfront, all right, but more like a Trumpian mansion, with O.C.-style intimidation tossed in for good measure. The walls oozed money—new money, celebrity money—and fabulous good times. A far cry from the prairies where my life began, tumbling down a grassy hillside like Laura Ingalls. There, “good times” meant a hot summer night playing kick the can, and “celebrity” meant getting an autograph from the captain of the local hockey farm team.

Large Mercedes and Porche SUVs littered the street. I shrank, suddenly feeling humiliated. Previous to LA, I’d always loved my car. But that Saturday afternoon, I circled the block enough times to make the neighbors call the police. I ended up parking a half mile away, embarrassed that my Volvo wasn’t shiny or new enough, or even remotely cool.

“Are you lost?” asked an older woman who poked her head into my window as I dotted pink lip gloss on my lips.

“No, just, just meeting a friend.” I felt sweat collecting between my breasts.

“Oh, at the party.” She shook her head and turned away, murmuring under her breath. “This place is going to the birds. . .”

“Okay, then, see you later,” I said, now feeling doubly uncomfortable.

To my surprise, I somehow made it to the front entrance. A large white stucco wall with a frosted glass door and a silver intercom placed neatly at eye level stood before me. Behind that, sheer glory! Three stories of white stone, brushed steel, and glass set on powdery yellow sand and the most coveted view in the world.

First thought? Gorgeous AND rich?

Second thought? Go home, before a bucket of pig’s blood falls on your head!

It sucked that I had no LA friends to share this with or to help drag me through the door, although technically Toni and I were now starter friends. After our 24-hour party binge in San Diego, I was now indebted to her for life. It’s how I met him— Craig—the man who lived in this incredible house.

It’s just a barbeque, I told myself as I timidly reached up to press the silver intercom button. I couldn’t wait to call my mother—if I could make it inside. My hands shook nervously. I fought the urge to run. Every cell of my body told me I was out of my league.

Go back to the stereo shop and give that cute salesman Ramone your phone number. He’s your type, not fancy Mr. Hollywood. Craig and his slithering harem will just laugh at you.

Indeed, the odds of a gaggle of bikini-clad models on the other side of the glittering glass threshold were as great as my thighs rubbing together. As I turned to skulk away, the door swung open. In front of me stood a lion of a man: broad-shouldered, with angular masculine features and bronzed bare chest, and wearing red surf shorts. I kicked myself for eating a bagel and cream cheese for breakfast instead of doing crunches. He was flawless, like Superman, only dreamier, as he stood surrounded by a sea-foam blue moat that straddled the white-tiled walkway.

He leaned in and kissed me on one cheek, then the other, barely making contact but sweeping his face against mine, oh so satisfyingly. “Hi, babe. Glad you could make it.”

And just like that, the air-kiss was redeemed. Go Europe and all your funky Euro traditions!

“Thanks,” I whispered, sounding unintentionally sultry as I held my breath and tried not to look impressed, as if stumbling into 20 million dollar beach houses was a daily habit of mine.

Craig grabbed my hand, leading me through a clear-glass door that revealed an idyllic view of the ocean lapping bubbly-licks inches from a wall of marble and glass. I did a quick scan of the room searching for six-foot Swedish supermodels in shiny gold string bikinis and anything else that might signal “abort mission.”

Nope, not her. Nope, not her, either. She’s pretty—oh, she just smiled at me. Obviously cool. That girl’s a little goth. Crap, is my dress too frilly? Nope. She’s got a cute dress on, too—and she just smiled. Woo hoo—they’re nice! I can breathe now. Cerveza, please!

“I brought a fruit salad,” I said, pointing to the entrance where I’d left a box overflowing with mangos, watermelons, and strawberries I’d picked up at a corner stand. Being Canadian, the idea of fresh, locally grown produce in February was a complete novelty—so much so I’d forgotten to bring beer. “Do you have a knife and a cutting board? It’s not quite a salad yet.”

“You bet. This way,” Craig said as I followed him into the kitchen, delighting in his back muscles and perfect symmetry. He turned to make sure I was behind him. “What’s this on your face?” he said, wiping something off my cheek. “Dirt?” He smiled, but not as if he was making fun of me. He’d done it in an endearing way.

“Huh?” My cheeks turned hot. “I went for a ride this afternoon,” I said. “You know, in one of the canyons. I was sort of rushing to get here.”

“You mountain bike?” He looked impressed. “Beautiful and sporty. I like that.”

My knees went limp. Beautiful? Had someone paid this Viking to flirt with me? This guy should have been knee deep in Giselle Bundchen, not slumming with me. At that moment, I vowed that even if he never called me again, and even if he ravished me and tossed me out on my keister, I would cherish this day forever—as the most spectacular day of my life.

Craig and I talked and sipped yummy blender drinks all day. Welcome to Princess World, starring me. I had him all to myself. But, like Cinderella, I couldn’t kick the reality that I’d crashed the ball. The house was too much. He was too gorgeous. The friends were too nice. It was all too extravagant. Then, adding to the fairy tale, came the kiss.

The sun’s final rays beamed across a restless ocean, and the music of Jack Johnson purred in the background. Craig and I emerged from the break, waves lapping at our knees, salt water dripping from our bodies. Craig hurled the kayak onto his shoulder and swiftly wrapped his other hand around my waist, leaning in, his body draping mine, his mouth millimeters away, breathing sweet, soft breath. Then, just as my lips began to quiver, contact. The perfect kiss: gentle, fresh, powerful. The soothing touch of a real life Adonis.

Screw the job! I can die now. This is really why I came to LA. The best part? It was real and I deserved it.

Three weeks later, we were like tenured lovers swooning over each other every spare moment. We went to movies, walks on the beach, and late-night dinners, and anytime we did anything together, he got the door, he got the check, he pampered me. “Put your wallet away,” he would say as if I was a lunatic for suggesting otherwise.

Such a gentleman. All man. My man!





“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” I said to my cameraman, the sound of jet engines roaring in the background. “I’m so excited!”

“Sorry I had to charge the company for your last cancellation,” Joe said. “But this shoot has been so on-again off-again, I missed two paid days on another show.”

“I know. His majesty, MC Toke, scratched three times. He had us running in circles in the office.” I laughed. “Anyway, he’s coming today for sure.”

“Yeah, three weeks later. But are you sure?” he joked.

“His manager put him on his private jet this morning,” I said, feeling suddenly nervous something unexpected might still happen.

“Want me to get some pick-up shots while we wait?”

“Sure, grab some generic shots of planes coming in and taking off while I wait for the girls to arrive.”

The day was finally here: Little old Jane was directing her first big LA shoot with America’s hottest rap star. I felt important, but not the “I’m a pain in the ass” important, just the “I’m doing it, I can handle it, it’s all good” important. As I drifted into my dreamscape of funky new producer with gorgeous, totally loaded boyfriend, I heard my name being paged: “Jane Kaufman to Reception.”

I ran to the front desk, where an older woman with bouffant hair was waiting impatiently. “Jane Kaufman?”

I nodded.

“MC Toke’s plane is landing in 10 minutes,” she said painfully.

“Thank you,” I said, my heart rate jumping. “The limo’s here. Got to run.”

“Oh, Miss?”

But it was too late. Couldn’t keep Lucy waiting. I was already out the door to meet the girls. Seemed my cool and collected persona went out the door with me. My hands began to shake as I self-consciously sucked in my stomach in preparation for America’s sexiest T&A thoroughbreds. I put on my freshest smile and hurried toward the limo, curious to meet Lucy’s team of fem-bot-babes.

The limo driver, decorously exiting the vehicle, placed his hand on the door handle, white gloves firmly in place.

“This is so exciting,” I whispered to him as a shiver ran through my body. “Word of the day—exciting,” I nattered on, seemingly to myself.

“Indeed,” he nodded, remaining stoic.

Lucy slinked out first in signature stilettos, a pink bustier, and ultra low-rise jeans. I was tempted to brush my hand against her rump just to make sure it wasn’t actually paint. Two additional and equally risqué women exited the limo as I held my hand out to shake for a formal hello, then quickly retreated.

No stuffy old-man handshakes here, I thought proudly. I do proper air-kisses! I leaned in to Lucy’s freshly powdered cheek.

“This tin-can is a piece of shit,” Lucy squealed.

“Pardon me?”

“We can’t ride in this limo. We’re models! And I’m the host!” Her arms flailed, Triple-D knockers not budging an inch. “It’s embarrassing. And MC Toke won’t go near it. Are you kidding? He’s a star!”

“Okay, well, um. . . nice to meet you, girls. I’m Jane,” I said politely, hoping to calm them with kindness.

Lucy launched right back into her rant. “Look, Ms. Producer, we need a proper limo. Like now!”

“But I don’t understand,” I said, the sweat starting to bead on my forehead.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“First, it’s white. You see? Shit-box white. What are we, the construction crew?”

“Yeah,” said the other two models, nodding in unison and cocking their heads sideways.

I turned to the limo. “Sort of retro cool, don’t you think?” I said, afraid they might smother me in a triple D sandwich.

“No, not cool,” she continued. “And, it’s a piece of shit. It sputters uphill.”

Just then an airport security guard tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss. You can’t set up your cameras here.”

“What?! You must be mistaken.”

“This is a private airstrip. You need a permit.”

“But. . . I. . . Wait. I, I, I have a permit. See, right here,” I stuttered, completely flustered. This isn’t happening. I’m always so organized!

Before I could think, my cameraman hurried to my side with his camera/tripod ensemble in tow. “Should I shoot this? Is this part of the story?”

“Jane!” Lucy growled. “What are you going to do about the limo?”

“Eight hundred an hour,” said the security guard, joining the chorus. “Your permit allows you on the airport common grounds. You need another permit to be on this private strip. It’s what the studios pay.”

It was all too much! As if swallowing a marshmallow whole, I felt my throat tighten to pea-size, and my face flush, glowing like a beacon. Then, the lump. The dreaded lump, threatening a wash of tears.

“One more thing,” the guard grumbled to our motley bunch, “you here for MC Toke?”

I nodded pathetically.

“He’s landing now.” He pointed to the sky.

Lord, please hit us with the big one right now. Or a flash flood of Biblical proportions. Something. Anything! Please! I even prayed that I’d been “punked.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I begged my body, but the thrust toward full-blown blubbering seemed out of my control.

Then, suddenly, as if coming from the clouds, the Love Boat theme rang in the distance, superceding the sound of jet engines. That’s it. I’ve totally lost it!

My cameraman snapped his fingers across my glazed-over eyes. “Jane, is that your phone? Jane, your phone. It’s ringing. Jane?”

I glanced down at my phone, which was blinking with an urgent message, and I hit “read”:

Hi Hon-E,

KOTL —ILU.

Craig.

My eyes locked onto the little rectangular screen in front of my face.

“Quick, some net lingo here. What does KOTL mean?” I gently nudged one of the model girls beside me, suggesting the matter was both important and secret.

“Kiss on the lips,” she whispered, peering over my shoulder.

“Of course,” I nodded. “And ILU?”

“I love you, silly,” she giggled. “How sweet!”

Love? Could I be sure? Yes, true love. Chaos swirled around me while I connected deeply to invisible bits and bytes traveling through the ether, sent from his mobile device to mine. Sweeter acronyms had never been typed or transmitted.

When I finally lifted my head, I felt a rush of elation, the earth had changed colors, and the menacing people who seemed to be placed on this earth to destroy me were suddenly soft, fawn-like, and precious. I loved every one of them! For a split second, I might even have reached enlightenment, sitting on that great big puffy cloud in the sky—just me and the Maharishi! Pure, pristine, love. I began to glow. I felt unstoppable.

Back to consciousness. “Right, Lucy, sorry, but it’s too late. The limo will have to do. End of discussion. Joe, set up for the landing. Girls, follow him and stand behind the camera until I get there, which will be in a minute.” I motioned to the security guard. “Sir, here’s my credit card. Give it to whomever and charge it. And I’d like a receipt, please.”

I smiled the deepest smile my face could muster and watched things fall into place. With barely a second to spare, MC Toke and his fellow gangstas were rumbling down the stairs of the private jet, arms in the air, saying “holla!” for all the world to hear. Joe recorded everything, with me directing in the background. Like Leopold Stokowski with his 200-piece symphony orchestra, I was expertly performing my own free-form Fantasia.

“Just me and the Kittens,” said MC, wrapping his arms around the girls and slapping their asses as they loaded into our fancy white limo. Smiling widely for the cameras, he showed off a gold-plated grill. “Gonna be a good day,” he declared.

Joe and I ducked into the limo, delicately stepping over legs, extra-large designer purses, high-top running shoes, and stiletto heels. Joe set himself up neatly in the front of the limo and pointed his camera to the back, where MC Toke had sandwiched himself between the girls. His bodyguard sat on the long side-seat, stretching out his tree-trunk sized arms and legs, oblivious to the fact my TV crew might have needed a little more room. I sat on one butt-cheek, squashed between a tripod, sound gear, and some serious gangsta legs, making log notes of the conversation.

Time Code 1:05:03: Lucy: “MC, you are so sexy.”

MC Toke: “Holla, babe.”

Tasha: “Can I feel your arms?”

Lucy: “Yeah, take off your shirt!”

MC: “Now that’s how we do.”

TC 1:05:22 – ***MC Toke removes shirt, girls rub his chest, Lucy kisses his nipple, girls laugh, MC Toke barks like a dog.

I’d triple-starred the entry, thinking this was exactly the kind of stuff CRP-TV audiences wanted to see. As for their smoking a big fat dube and clouding up the limo, probably not usable, but Joe rolled on it just in case we wanted to use the audio.

After two hours of cruising up and down Sunset Boulevard, we landed at the newly redesigned Mondrian Hotel Sky Bar. Koi, an established A-list hang-out, I’d since learned, wouldn’t let us shoot there, though they did invite us to camp out front with the paparazzi. As far as I was concerned, the Mondrian, with its chic interior, luminescent marble, bamboo-lined exteriors, and crisp white furniture, was a true get. The manager allowed Joe to set up a rather obstructive light fixture beside MC’s table for a little quality control—video footage in a dimly lit bar would, according to Joe, end up unacceptably grainy and look totally amateurish. The club even dimmed its music for us. Satisfied and still aflutter from my “ILU” text, I was about to order myself a celebratory drink when Lucy grabbed my arm.

“We’ve got to shut the lights off,” she commanded. “MC doesn’t like the bright lights on him. He says it’s harshin’ him.”

“But there’s not enough ambient light,” I said politely. “If we shut the lights off, we can’t shoot you.”

“It works in the movies,” Lucy said bluntly.

“But that’s film. Video will look grainy, assuming we get a picture at all.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to figure it out,” she said with a huff, the music now full bore. “Just turn the lights off or we’re out.”

“You realize,” I said, “that this is your show.” As in you, the host, your gig, your series, your future, make it or break it.

Lucy waved her hand in the air, as if to say “later,” and strutted irritably toward the bathroom.

The only hope I had of getting any decent footage in the club was to sweet-talk MC Toke. As I walked toward the table, I wondered how he could possibly be interested in anything I might have to say while surrounded by uber-girls with impossibly low body fat, humongous breasticles, sparkling white chompers, and flawless complexions. A small part of me was hoping that, up close, these nudie models would look plastic, maybe even slightly inhuman, like creatures from Jupiter, such that I might look fresh and natural next to them, but I knew that was wishful thinking.

I took a deep breath. “Um, MC? I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m just wondering if—”

“Baby Sugar, I’m with the ladies and I need some privacy,” he said, not making eye contact or even bothering to look up.

“I know you probably don’t care, but this is like my first shoot in LA. I mean, I’m experienced; I’ve just never worked for CRP-TV before. Look, I’ve got to get more footage of you or I won’t have a segment to cut together. I really need this.” I knew I sounded pathetic, but I was hoping he had a heart.

He finally looked at me, totally confused. “You a kitten, too? You want in on dis action?”

“Huh? No, I’m not a kitten, I’m the—”

“Here, baby, this’ll make it better.” He tucked a tiny plastic bag into my palm and turned away, back to the action.

My jeans slid against the leather bench as I joined the crew at the table. Feeling defeated, I uncurled the baggy in my hand. Joe leaned over and burst out laughing.

“Well, I guess when Karl asks for today’s tapes, you can hand him a bag of ganja instead!”

“Great,” I said, sighing. “Just fabulous.”

So Joe, the soundman, and I sat patiently, a few tables away, considering whether we should just get it over with and roll a fat one with our new stash of presumably primo West Coast weed. We opted not to, if for no other reason than that Karl might suddenly show up.

After passing an hour with some rather mindless crew banter, our precious host finally gave us the green light to film, lights and all. “We’re ready, Toke’s ready now, you can film us, but only for, like, two songs.”

“Lucy, first I just need you to deliver your lines for the segment,” I said, handing her a copy of the text I’d written to close the piece. She’d received the script at the office. It had also been e-mailed to her, and delivered personally to her house, with a fourth copy given to her when she arrived on set in the morning, leaving little excuse for not memorizing lines—or so I’d hoped.

She looked down, appeared to review the text as if it was the first time she’d ever laid eyes on it, then crumpled my script into a ball. “What is this garbage?” she said.

“Pardon me?”

“What the hell is this?”

“Your lines. Karl approved it. You approved it.” I was bewildered.

“It’s crap.” She then turned and smiled at Joe as if I didn’t exist. “You rolling?”

“Hold on. We’ve got to turn your microphone on,” said Joe, lurching forward to appease her and shooting me a pitying look.

“Joe, you can’t expect me to deliver this dung. I’m going to wing it. My way.” She glared at me as she shimmied her breasts higher in her corset-breast-platter device. “Thanks for joining the party, y’all. We’ve had one helluva ride with MC Toke, the man, my man, the rap-man of all time. Keep partying with us pussies—oops, I mean kittens.” She winked to the camera. “That would be me and my party gals. Find out which lucky Tom-cat gets to hang with da kittens next week. Meow!” She reached her hand up and made a kitty claw, then licked the back of her hand and rubbed it on her butt cheek.

“Oh, lord,” I said, dumping my head into my hands. “Let’s, uh, let’s just try that again.”

Lucy ignored me and yanked her mike off as she grabbed Toke. “Yo, MC, let’s shake it!”

Like a complete reality TV pro, Joe pulled the camera off the tripod and moved onto the dance floor to catch MC Toke lifting his t-shirt, again, while the girls slithered all over him, tongues wagging and body parts jiggling. Joe knew this would be fleeting. Swiftly, I moved the lights to the dance floor. All eyes were on Lucy and the gang, with a crowd of hotel onlookers whispering, “Who’s that?” A few people recognized MC Toke. But nobody asked for an autograph. After a single song, MC again pushed away the camera lens.

“I’m out!” he said, linking his arm with Lucy’s and the other girls’ as they made their way into a private room and slammed the door firmly behind them. A bouncer immediately parked himself in front.

“Guess that’s a wrap.” I turned to my crew. “Good shooting,” I said, hoping we had enough to build a segment.

“Thanks, Jane.” Joe had already collapsed the tripod and was wrapping cable. “And, hey, you did well—all things considered. There aren’t many like her. She’s one tough cookie.”

“If by cookie you mean totally insane,” I said, spinning my finger around my temple, “I couldn’t agree more.”

The bill came to eighteen hundred dollars, and was put on my credit card, which I’m pretty sure let out a wail when they first swiped it. After three more equally noisy (and unsuccessful) swipes, the charge was denied. Thankfully, our production manager was reachable and supplied her card info over the phone. So, for eighteen hundred smackers, we got to film a grand total of ten minutes of our stars downing ridiculously expensive champagne, and a measly three and a half minutes of mostly x-rated grinding on the dance floor.

About 1 a.m., I arrived at my quaint one-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica, seven blocks from the beach—picked it up from Craigslist a few weeks prior as a sublet. The air was warm and smelled of jasmine. I could hear crickets chirping in the distance. I nearly stepped on a couple of avocados from a neighbor’s tree, so plump and ripe that they were dropping to the ground. That nature had adapted so well to the plethora of beachside concrete was comforting. Maybe Planet Earth isn’t going to hell after all, I thought. I’d concluded otherwise a few hours earlier.

Something about getting paid to spend eight hours watching other people get wasted made me question my usefulness. I mean, it was interesting, even fun, minus Lucy, and I liked the chi-chi Sunset Strip bar, and the trendy outfits, and even rubbing elbows with Hollywood hipsters. But for all the glamour and intrigue, it was beyond strange. Were people really going to tune into what might be described as a PG-13 orgy? With my name rolling in the credits?

But all the work craziness aside, I was in love, for the first time in five years, which catapulted me into a surreal mix of near-elation and quasi-confusion.

Moments later, Craig pulled up in his Jeep. My heart skipped a beat. Back to elation.

“Hi, babe,” I said suggestively, anticipating Craig hauling me into his arms and throwing me on the bed, repeating the words he’d typed only hours ago—“I love you, I love you, I love you”—and pasting my body with kisses.

“How’d it go?” he said disinterestedly as I led him through the door and into my apartment.

“Huh?”

“Your shoot. You were all nervous about it. Was it good?” He chucked his jacket onto the floor and unbuttoned his jeans.

“Um, well. . . um.” I’d been taken off-guard. Where were the diamond tennis bracelet, the flowers, the barrage of love poems? “Yeah, it was good. Actually a little weird. Are you sure this is what you want to talk about?”

“Just curious,” he said, already naked and sliding into bed. “Hop in. Let’s talk.” He perked his eyebrows and patted the mattress playfully, as if I might jump up on all fours. “Was there a cat fight? Meow.”

“Very funny. No. Well, I mean, ok, aside from the fact that Lucy treats me like crap, which I’m beginning to think is part of my job description, and which at two G’s a week, I’ll take, no questions asked.” I realized I needed to vent.

Actually, the day’s events called for a full-blown decompression, or at least a five-minute diatribe. “You know,” I continued, “after an eight-hour shoot, we got two 30-minute tapes, and the second tape has maybe five minutes on it. And, well, there’s no story. Whatever happened to story? Three hot babes on a date with a megastar rapper, and they booze and make small talk for eight hours—oh, and some smarmy foreplay. The girls get a thousand bucks a day. Plus, everything’s paid for. Cush! I’d love to get a thousand bucks to look fabulous and party. Not sure what Mr. Rap Star gets. Free promotion? A boner? I guess I expected a storyline or something. Imagine that—story. What’s so hard about that? Girl meets boy, girl dry-humps boy, boy grinds girl, girl and boy ride off into sunset in white-pimp-limo with hot-tub. Come on!”

“Shhh.” Craig put his finger up to my lips and pulled me onto the bed. “Enough talk. Let’s you and I grind.”

And just as I was getting into my harangue, it was over, which was probably for the best. Every minute with Craig was like a nosh of heaven. I didn’t want Lucy infecting that too. It was bad enough that my career, my very future, revolved around her neuroses. No sense bringing her, or them, back to the bedroom with me.

I waited, hoping that during sex he might bring it up while staring romantically into my eyes. No such luck—it was a sprint of a session. Then, nearly asleep, my body fitting neatly inside his chest cavity and our legs intertwined, he squeezed me softly as I prepared for some lovey-dovey talk.

“Hey, babe?”

“Yeah?” I nuzzled even closer, smiling sweetly.

“Just wondering,” Craig hesitated. “Can you help me write this pitch for North Face tomorrow?” He sounded almost businesslike.

“Uh. . . okay.” I tried to be enthusiastic. “I mean, sure.”

“About five pages.” He stroked my hair. “You know, my bio, and some kind of storyline for filming my expedition—the usual. They want it end of day.”

“Oh. . . um. . . sounds good.”

“Good night, babe.” He squeezed me.

Ten minutes passed. I was nearly asleep when he pulled me toward him a second time. “I wha oon.”

“What?” I whispered. “Craig, did you say something?”

Nothing.

“Hey, did you say something?” I repeated.

“Um-hmm,” he sighed deeply. “I lugoo.”

“What?” His face was stuck in my hair and he was half asleep. I turned to him. “What did you say?”

“I love you.” He sounded irritated, or at the very least, unromantic. “Yeesh.”

“Oh, yeah, me too,” I whispered carefully, not wanting to upset him. My heart pounded as I felt a sudden gush of emotion. “I love you, too.”

Craig released his Samson-like arms from my naked chest, rolled onto his back, and let out a giant sigh.