Totally and Completely Fine(3)

This time she was just sitting over to the side, quietly, ruining nothing but her own general mood. I missed chasing her around. At least it would have given me something to do. As it turned out, being on a film set and having no job or real reason to be there was actually quite boring.

I was starting to think about things. About people. Feelings.

I didn’t like that.

Maybe I should have brought the sock to Philadelphia and tried to fix it again.

Instead, I watched the center of this entire production: Ollie.

I wasn’t about to tell Gabe, but I was pretty sure the main reason I’d been able to coax Lena to come on this trip was because of Uncle Oliver. He was her favorite person. I wasn’t sure if it was his British accent or fondness for weird, expensive gifts or the fact that he wasn’t related to her by blood that made him so appealing. It didn’t matter. The feelings of love were entirely mutual.

He’d also essentially saved Gabe’s life. Well, he and Gabe’s ex-wife, Jacinda. They were the ones who called when the drinking got dangerously bad.

Spencer had been alive back then—during that first storm—and we’d weathered it all together.

And then when Spencer died, Ollie had done everything he could to keep the hurricane of press away from our family. He wasn’t always successful, but I knew that he’d pulled some strings and done a few interviews he might not have if the distraction hadn’t been needed.

That’s when we’d learned firsthand that to some members of the media, nothing in Gabe’s life was off-limits.

Ollie had tried his best, and I loved him for it.

I liked watching him work. We’d had barely enough time for a greeting and a couple of cheek kisses when we arrived, but there was something very comforting about the way he ran things. Smart. Fast. Efficient.

He knew where everyone was and what they should be doing. It reminded me of when I’d gone to visit Spencer at the hardware store when he was manager. They’d all loved him because he’d been the same—on top of things. Getting shit done.

It had taken a while for me to realize that he’d been depressed underneath the productivity.

I hated to think of the other things I might have missed.

“Those should go to costuming,” Ollie said, handing something to a person with a notebook. “We need them by the end of the week.” He waved another person over. “Check on Mackenzie, okay?” They were wearing a headset. “If she needs more time, that’s fine, we can do a few pickups without her.”

Even after all these years, a lot of the terms were still foreign to me. It was like some weird Hollywood Mad Libs where I had to pretend to understand what an “apple box” or “crossing sight lines” meant.

In between giving direction, Ollie caught my eye and gave me a wink.

I smiled at him and watched his gaze shift to my offspring.

“Oi, Lena,” he called. “I need your help.”

She was on her feet immediately, rushing to his side. He put his arm around her and the two of them huddled in a private conversation that made Lena laugh. Really laugh.

It was the best thing I’d seen in weeks.

Two shadows fell across my lap. I hadn’t even noticed Gabe’s approach.

“Here she is,” he said. “Lauren, this is Ben. Walsh, this is my sister, Lauren.”

My mouth dropped open.

A revision to my previous thought was required. The man standing in front of me was possibly the best thing I’d seen in months. Maybe even years.

The magazine shoots and paparazzi photos hardly did him justice. But it was more than just standard movie star gorgeousness. I’d become somewhat accustomed to that.

It was the zing I felt. That forward lurch of my heart. A long-forgotten hello.

Chemistry.

If my libido was Sleeping Beauty, she was waking up. Right. Now.

As if my body had finally come online and reconnected to my brain. And both were suddenly screaming for everything I’d denied them over these past three years. Touch. Connection. Intimacy.

Reality.

The feeling was disorienting and thrilling and extremely inconvenient.

I got up carefully from the rickety director’s-style chair that I was certain was always one wrong move from flipping me face-first onto the ground. My own knees trembled a bit.

“Hello,” I said to Benjamin Walsh once I was upright and steady. Ish.

I held out my hand. He took it between both of his. His palms were warm. A little rough.

Much had been made about his looks—news outlets always finding new and indirect ways to reference his Hawaiian mother, talking about his “exotic” cheekbones and “tanned” skin.

All I could see was his smile. His eyes.

God, his eyes. It wasn’t the color of them—brown—but rather the way he looked at me. His attention completely, utterly focused. I felt pinned by his gaze. And I liked it.

I wondered if he felt the same way. Because all I could do was stare at him, unblinking, like I was trying to see into his soul. Which could be seen as either flattering or creepy as hell.

From the ever-growing smile on his face, it seemed that Ben didn’t mind the unwavering attention.

“Gabe talks about you all the time,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His Irish accent—attributed to his Irish father—was, at the moment, barely perceptible.