Close to You (9 page)

“So what's he done that's got you doing this weird little ‘can't look, won't look, even though I really want to' thing?”
Kat picked up a pot of something brown, dipped her brush in it, then tested the color on her arm.

Allie gave in a little. “I don't know. We grate on each other. It's been that way since the moment he walked off the plane and opened his mouth. He's rude and arrogant and condescending and then I get a glimpse of something more and it just throws me.”

Kat compared two brushes in her hands. “So basically you have
Ten Things I Hate About You
chemistry. It's about time you had that with someone. I was beginning to worry you were only going to be good for a convent after Derek.”

Allie almost choked. “Firstly, we don't have that kind of chemistry. At all. Secondly, even if we did, I'm
married
.” She forced the last word out under her breath. Just having to say it brought all the shame and humiliation of her predicament rushing back.

Kat rolled her eyes. “C'mon, even you have to admit that's debatable. How have the courts not unmarried you yet anyway? Janine!” She stopped a passing assistant and handed her the brush and pot. “Use this one under Gandalf's eyes.”

Allie waited until the girl had moved on before she answered. “He keeps fighting me. Every single step of the way.” While she slaved away to pay off the tens of thousands of dollars of debt he'd somehow started racking up in her name before she'd even walked down the aisle. He'd especially outdone himself in the three months and five days between the day they'd pledged till death did them part and the day her entire world had publicly imploded.

“Eight tailor-made designer suits at over twenty grand.” She mumbled the words half to herself. Eight.
Eight.
Who
needed eight tailor-made suits when they didn't even have a real job?

“I still can't believe you didn't take a scissors to them.” Kat tightened and retied the black apron wrapped around her slender waist, its large pockets stuffed with the tools of her craft. “Anyway, I need to go back to turning your guy into an orc.”

“Uruk-hai.” She corrected Kat without even thinking about it.

Her friend rolled her brown eyes. “I know. I did work on hundreds of subtypes of the nasty things every day for three years of my life. I'm pretty sure I know the different nuances of pikemen, swordsmen, crossbow-men, berserkers, sappers, and scouts better than even you, Ms. Tolkien PhD.”

Allie winced. “Sorry.”

“I know, I know. You can't help it. At least you don't correct my grammar.”

No point telling her she used to be that annoying person too, until it resulted in an unfortunate run-in with a professor who started deducting marks every time she did it.

Her eyes followed Kat as her friend headed back to work on Jackson—who was looking less and less like himself and more like a hideous monster with every brushstroke. A change she was appreciating more with each passing minute.

* * *

J
ackson's face felt like it was coated in a combination of plaster of Paris and PVA glue. It was not a pleasant feeling. More than anything else, it itched like he'd been attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes. He clenched and opened his hands by his side, trying to distract himself from the irritation.

“Don't move.” The blond makeup artist was so close to his
face he could feel her breath on his cheek, even through all the layers of stuff they'd been piling on for the last couple of hours. At least it sounded like her, but he couldn't be sure since he could barely see a thing through the two minuscule slits they had left him for eyes.

“CanIhavesomewaterplease?” He tried to ask the question nicely while not moving his mouth, but the words all mashed together like a bad car wreck.

When they'd arrived, the rest of the group had been herded off to the café for coffee and refreshments, but he'd been whisked straight to this chair of torture. Now, after two hours in a warm room, he felt like he'd been lost in the Sahara for weeks.

Allie's unexpected fit of helpfulness hadn't extended so far as her warning him that being turned into an Uriki, or whatever it was, was going to be an experience only slightly more enjoyable than traversing Dante's nine circles of hell.

“Here you go.” A straw materialized against his lips and he gulped down the cold liquid. How she had interpreted his request, he had no idea, but he was grateful.

“Thanksh.”

Almost as if she had read his mind, the girl spoke. “After doing this for four years, you get to be an expert at deciphering what words sound like when people can't move their lips.”

Having emptied the vessel, he settled back in his chair and closed his eyes. He wasn't sure which was worse—the stuff being slapped on him or the interminably long time the whole exercise gave him to think. There was literally nothing else to do when you weren't allowed to move and couldn't even hold a conversation.

He wasn't a thinker, he was a doer. That was what had made him successful—doing. Not thinking about doing. The world rewarded the risk takers and the movers. The people who took chances. Until it didn't.

All this time to poke around in the cobwebby closets and dark corners in his own head—it wasn't his thing at all. It gave his subconscious way too much space to bring up things that weren't helpful, like how Nicole had constantly harped on at him about how she wanted to spend more time together. Or how, even when he was practically rolling in money and at the top of his game, there were moments when it all felt a little bit pointless. Or why flailing in the mud yesterday afternoon with some girl he couldn't stand had been the most fun he'd had in years.

“Make sure you keep your eyes closed.” Something prodded and scraped around them and another layer got added. He couldn't help flinching a little.

“No moving. If I hit your eyeball while I do this, you won't be having fun.” The edge of something pressed up against his eye socket while something sharp scraped across his eyelid. The sound of material flaking off and hitting the bottom of something else reached his ears.

“Okay, done. Open your eyes.”

He opened them up, then blinked at the burst of light when his lids lifted all the way for the first time in hours.

His vision cleared and he jumped at the sight of the blond makeup artist leaning down and peering at him so closely their noses almost touched. “Relax, I need to make sure there's nothing in your eyes. Blink again.”

He did and by the time he opened them again she was nodding. “Perfect. If I do say so myself. Now your mouth.”

Her gaze went to his lips and he found himself struggling not to lean back to create some distance as she got far more in his personal space than he was used to. Or comfortable with.

“Oh, for goodness' sake. Relax.” She poked his bottom lip with something. “If I thought you'd be as bad as Allie, I would've done your mouth first when you couldn't see.”

He wasn't sure what to make of that cryptic comment and didn't dare ask. The idea of having anything in common with her was not welcome. He was here for one thing, and one thing only. The money. The tour guide was only of use to him as a means to an end. She had to be.

Ten

F
INALLY, THEY WERE READY.
A
ND
with the exception of Hans, who was never going to look like an Elf without losing a hundred pounds and being blasted with the ray gun from
Honey, I Shrunk the Kids
,
they all looked like they'd stepped straight off the movie screen.

Especially Jackson, who looked so ferocious, Esther had let out an ear-piercing scream when she turned around and found him looming behind her.

Allie was also sure that the fact that he could barely talk through his restrictive mask and makeup was going to increase the enjoyment factor of the day a hundredfold—for her, at least. Between the makeup, the balmy late-summer temperatures, and his heavy costume laden with armor, he was going to be sweltering in his own personal sauna.

“Thanks. Your team did a great job as always.” Allie helped Kat fold up the director-style chairs everyone had been sitting on.

Kat smiled. “We don't exactly do it for free.”

“Well, the company is hardly about to go down the financial gurgler either.” Anything but, if the new Porsche the company's CEO had acquired recently was any indication.

“So, you going to give your handsome orc a chance?”

Allie shook her head. “At what? Even if I wanted to,
which I don't
, he's here for three weeks. The only thing I'm less interested in than a romance is some kind of stupid holiday fling.” She grimaced. “Wouldn't that be something for him to go home and brag to his frat-boy friends about? Got a trip to New Zealand and hooked up with the tour guide as a bonus. No, thank you.”

“I don't think he's like that.”

Allie raised her eyebrows. “And you know this from all of three hours with him during which the guy couldn't even talk?”

Kat shrugged her slender shoulders. “I'm just saying. Just because Derek turned out to be a lying, cheating scumbag, it doesn't mean you should consign every guy to that basket. One mistake in your entire life does not a destiny create.”

Easy for Kat to say. With her spotless romance record and perfect boyfriend. “Say hi to Dan for me.”

Kat snapped one of her large black makeup cases shut. “I know what you're doing. And we will be picking this up down south. I'd put money on you singing a different tune next week.”

Allie had forgotten for a second that Kat was joining them for the next leg of the tour. “Bet away, my friend, but get ready to lose.” Ha. Like anything could change that much in a week.

* * *

A
trickle of sweat dribbled down Jackson's back and joined the pool that had started at the waistband of his pants. And they hadn't even stepped outside yet.

“Okay, everyone, ready to go?” Allie had turned from her conversation with the makeup artist and addressed the group who milled around the room, half of them still enraptured with the images of themselves reflected in the full-length mirrors or busy posing for selfies.

He had to admit, they had done a great job. Allowing for things that couldn't be changed—like height and weight—­everyone looked remarkably Tolkienesque. Even him. Especially him. He'd even given himself a fright the first time he'd seen himself in full regalia. He hated to think of the effect he was going to have on any unsuspecting small children out roaming the place.

“I knew you'd look magnificent.” His uncle appeared beside him. Though only half the height of Gandalf, Louis had all the wizard's attitude.

“I'm not sure whether to thank you or maim you.” He kept his tone light as well as he could, given his restricted ability to speak.

Keep the eye on the prize, Jackson. Eye on the prize.

“Louis, could you help me tie this?” Spinster Two appeared in front of his uncle, dressed as some kind of villager and holding the ends of her apron strings.

His uncle gave a half bow. “It would be my pleasure, Mavis.”

The old lady, who up until this moment had been one of the whiniest people Jackson had ever met, giggled—
giggled
—as she turned around. And if he wasn't mistaken, his uncle took much longer than necessary to tie the two ends into a snug bow.

Louis finished tying the bow with a flourish, and Jackson's mask was the only thing that kept his jaw in place as the guy finished the move by giving her a pat much closer to her behind than to her waist. “Is that okay?”

Mavis turned back around. “Perfect. Thank you.” Oh man,
the lady was simpering as she fluttered her sparse eyelashes. Good thing he'd missed out on morning tea with the others, because old people flirting was a bit more than his usually ironclad stomach felt like it could handle.

Though maybe he should encourage anything that might have the potential to distract his uncle from him. They both watched as Mavis threw a glance back over her shoulder as she walked away. “What was that?”

The guy looked up at him with wide, innocent, geriatric eyes. “What?”

“Never mind.” There was no way he was going to have a conversation with an eighty-year-old about whether he was putting the moves on another retiree. As far as he was concerned, that sort of thing finished at fifty. Max.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him that while everyone else had been enjoying a leisurely coffee and morning tea, he hadn't eaten since the ridiculous predawn hour they had been evicted from their beds. The rooster had started crowing as they were eating breakfast. It wasn't right.

“Jackson!” The impatient voice cut through his culinary wishes. “Coming?”

He returned to Middle-earth to see that he was the only person left in the room and that Allie was holding the exit door open with a harried look on her face.

“Sure, sorry.” He lumbered toward her, feeling about twenty pounds heavier than usual.

Allie had already turned her attention back out the door. “What is she doing?” She muttered the question under her breath, then her whole body stiffened. “Esther, stop! Leave that letterbox alone!”

Jackson froze, ears hurting. For such a small person, she sure knew how to pack some serious volume.

“Catch up!” She flung the words at him over her shoulder as she took off at a run, her ugly floral dress and frizzy wig streaming out behind her like the plume behind a fighter jet. He watched with something akin to awe. It took skill to run in prosthetic feet about four sizes too big; even he could admit that.

Hopefully whatever the Arwen-wannabe had gotten up to would keep the group too distracted for a while for them to notice his prolonged absence. He certainly wasn't going to operate at anything faster than a very slow stroll to rejoin them.

Trudging outside, Jackson took in the vista. His eyes roved over the stone bridge, rolling hills, and pastureland that formed the basis for Hobbiton. Into the hills were dotted the familiar round colorful doors that even he recognized from the movies. In the midmorning sun, it looked like one of the magical lands that might have appeared at the top of
The Faraway Tree
, one of the Enid Blyton books he loved as a kid.

Sucking in the fresh country air, he let his gaze idle on the picturesque lake in front of him. He might have been here under false Hobbit-loving pretenses, but even he could admit this was pretty cool. It wasn't every day you got to spend hours roaming around a globally famous movie set. And being separated from the incessant chatter of his merry band of Tolkien lovers made the moment that much more enjoyable.

Speaking of which . . .
He looked around to see if he could spot them. He should probably at least keep track of where they were so he could find them if he needed to.

After a few seconds, he spied them across the bridge, gath
ered in front of a Hobbit house a couple of hundred feet or so away. Someone, who he assumed to be their official guide for the day, stood in front gesturing wildly. Allie stood a few feet back from the group, her hand up to her ear as if on a phone call. Perfect.

Movement in the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head back toward the lake. A child—or possibly a little person; he couldn't be sure from where he was—stood near the edge of the bank. Jackson looked around to see who the person was with, but there was no one else nearby.

The little person turned and he caught a glimpse of his face. Definitely a child. At a guess, around three or four. What was wrong with people? Where were his parents?

He lumbered down the hill and over the bridge as the boy started getting closer to the water than Jackson was comfortable with.

Then he broke into a run as the child slipped, his arms windmilling around as he tottered at the edge of the lake. Jackson reached out and grabbed the child's arm just as he started to fall toward the water. Digging his heels into the soft ground, he tipped backward to counterbalance the weight of the boy. He so wasn't going into the drink for a second day in a row.

He lifted the boy up in front of him and scanned him for any sign of injury. “Are you—”

His words were cut short by blue eyes bugging and a look of complete terror storming across the kid's chubby face. Then the boy opened his mouth and let loose the kind of bloodcurdling scream that would've done any D-class horror flick proud.

What was his problem? Then Jackson registered his own brown-black leathery-looking arm and remembered what he
looked like. Oh. No wonder the kid was howling like a hysterical banshee.

“It's okay. I'm not really a . . . a . . .” His mind went blank. For the love of all that was good, he couldn't remember what he was dressed up as. Meanwhile, the little banshee not only kept screaming but started thrashing around, arms and legs going everywhere.

“Hey!” The shout came from behind him. “What do you think you're doing? Get your hands off my son!” The last sentence was punctuated with a few words that weren't familiar, but which Jackson assumed to be a choice selection of the local cursing vernacular.

He dropped the boy back onto the ground and turned to the angry father. “I—” This time his sentence was cut off by a large fist barreling into his face and sending him flying backward.

* * *

A
llie had no sooner dealt with the fallout from her resident sticky-fingered tweenager attempting to steal Bilbo's mailbox as a Hobbiton memento when a gut-twisting child's scream split the air from down below.

The entire group turned toward the sound. Time seemed to pause as she realized Jackson had not, in fact, caught up.

In that split second she knew—
knew
—she was going to turn and find that the screaming somehow involved him. Lord, give her strength.

She stayed in position for the amount of time it took to take a breath and start counting to three. Except she never made it past two, as the entire group suddenly let out a collective gasp that had her spinning around faster than a grade-five tornado—
just in time to see some guy in a red T-shirt punch Jackson in his Uruk-hai face and send him flailing backward into the lake.

She took off running. Again. For the second time in ten minutes, she tried to outwit her stupid fake feet that threatened to send her face-first into the ground with every step.

First thing she was doing that evening was writing the stupid things up as a health and safety hazard. If she still had a job, that is. Because at this rate, it was entirely possible she might do bodily harm to at least one of her clients before it was time for lunch.

She made it about halfway down the hill before the inevitable happened. One fake foot snagged on the ground and she went down and over, and over a few more times, until she reached the bottom of the hill—her shoulders, behind, and pride all throbbing equally.

Staggering to her feet, she made it to the lakeside in time to see Jackson wading through the waist-deep water toward the bank like some kind of Middle-earth swamp monster.

His face was half gone. The browns and blacks Kat had meticulously painted on dripped off in patches, revealing pieces of rubber work underneath. A piece of lake weed was draped over his shoulder and across his torso like a pageant sash. His wig of matted black hair was gone; she caught a glimpse of it floating in the water a few feet behind him like a large water rat.

“What did he do?” She addressed her question to the shaggy-­haired guy who'd thrown the punch and was standing on the bank, one fist clenched, the other arm holding a young boy with dark hair and big blue eyes.

“He touched my boy, is what happened.” The man didn't
take his eyes off Jackson's slowly approaching form, his six-foot frame tensing as if readying himself to take another swing.

“I saved him from falling in the lake, you stupid idiot!” Jackson shot the words out, the visible portion of his face set in the grimace of the robot cop from
The Terminator
.

The guy's expression turned from menacing to something less certain.

“You stopped his son from falling in the lake?” Allie wanted to check what she was hearing.

“Yes.” Jackson splashed to a stop at the edge of the bank, as if reluctant to get out of the water. She couldn't blame him. “I was up there”—he gestured in the general direction of where she'd left him—“and I saw him down here by himself. And so I came down to tell him to stay away from the edge and find out who was supposed to be watching him. By the time I got here, he was about to go in.”

And for his trouble, he'd gotten smacked in the face. Now that he was closer, Allie could make out a trickle of blood tracing a path from beside his left eye down his cheek. Even through the remaining makeup, she could see his eye already starting to swell. Ouch.

“But he screamed.” The guy took a step back and shook his head.

“Of course he screamed.” Allie snapped the words at the errant father. “He's, what, four years old? One second he's falling into the lake and the next he's being grabbed by an Uruk-hai. I would've screamed too.”