Chapter 4: The Getaway
The resort sprawled like a fever dream of emerald and turquoise, a stark contrast to the sterile soundstage still vibrating in Gracie’s memory. Two weeks since The Kiss. Since her world tilted. She’d buried herself in work, in Finn’s easy affection, in the comforting lie that it was just acting. But the echo of Chester’s groan, the possessive grip of his hand on her hip, the terrifying honesty in her own whispered ‘I can’t’ – they clung like humidity. Now, sent to this secluded paradise with him for a sleek Modern Escapism photoshoot? It felt like cosmic irony. Or punishment.
The storm hit just as the stylist was fussing with Gracie’s hair. One minute, blinding sun; the next, the sky cracked open. Torrential rain hammered the infinity pool terrace where the shoot was set, turning the pristine scene into a chaotic wash. Wind whipped palm fronds into frantic dancers. Marty’s frantic shouts were swallowed by the downpour. "Everyone inside! Pack it up! Reschedule tomorrow!"
Relief warred with dread. No forced proximity under the lens today. But stranded. With him.
Gracie retreated to the cool, echoing lobby. Marble floors stretched endlessly, the air thick with the scent of plumeria and damp money. Guests clustered, murmuring about ruined excursions. Chester leaned against a giant potted fern, scrolling his phone. He didn’t look up. Since the kiss, a deliberate distance had settled. Professional. Cordial. Utterly agonizing.
Needing space, needing to breathe away from the watchful eyes of the crew and the brooding presence by the fern, Gracie slipped out a side door. The air outside was thick, warm, and smelled of ozone and crushed leaves. Rain still fell, but softer now, a tropical curtain veiling the manicured paths. She wandered, drawn by the rhythmic crash of waves she could hear beyond the dense foliage. Lush gardens unfolded – vibrant heliconias, dripping orchids, the gnarled roots of ancient banyan trees forming natural archways. It was beautiful. Isolating.
She found a secluded overlook, the ocean a churning gray expanse below. For a moment, she just breathed, the rain cool on her skin, the roar of the surf a welcome distraction from the roar inside her head. Finn would love this view, she thought, guilt pricking sharp and familiar. She pulled out her phone, trying to get a signal to text him. Nothing. Dead zone.
Then, a different sound cut through the rain’s hush. A rustle behind her. Too close. She spun.
A man, rain plastering cheap nylon to his skinny frame, stood ten feet away. Not a guest. Recognition flared – the predatory glint, the telephoto lens already raised. Paparazzi. How? The resort was supposed to be locked down.
"Gracie! Hey, Gracie Lane! Over here! Smile for us!" Another voice, off to her left. Then a third. They emerged from the dripping foliage like cockroaches, lenses pointed, flashes exploding despite the gloom.
Panic, cold and sudden, seized her. The garden path, moments ago serene, became a trap. She bolted, heels sinking into muddy grass, rain stinging her eyes. "Leave me alone!"
"Come on, Gracie! Just one shot! Where’s Chester, huh? Working on some chemistry?" The taunts chased her. She ducked under a low-hanging branch, slipped on wet leaves, barely catching herself. Her silk blouse clung, soaked and cold. They were gaining. She could hear their heavy breathing, the squelch of their shoes.
A hand grabbed her arm. She yelped, wrenching away.
"Hey!" A different voice, sharp, commanding. Familiar.
Chester.
He materialized from a side path, water streaming down his face, his expression thunderous. He shoved the closest photographer bodily. "Back off! Now!"
"Whoa, easy, Heartland! Just getting the shot!" the man protested, scrambling back.
"Get off this property!" Chester snarled. He didn’t wait. He grabbed Gracie’s hand, his grip firm, urgent. "This way. Run."
He didn’t need to tell her twice. They sprinted together, crashing through dripping ferns, skidding on wet tiles, Chester leading her down paths he seemed to know instinctively. The shouts and flashes faded slightly, muffled by the storm and the dense greenery. He pulled her around a corner, through a service door she’d never have noticed, and into a blessedly dry, carpeted corridor. The sudden quiet was jarring.
"Elevator," he panted, hitting the call button repeatedly. He kept glancing back down the corridor. "Didn’t think they’d breach the perimeter. Security here is supposed to be tight."
Gracie leaned against the wall, trembling, gasping for air. Rainwater streamed from her hair, her clothes were plastered to her skin, cold and heavy. Mud streaked her legs. She felt wretched. Exposed. "H-how did they find us?"
He ran a hand through his soaked hair, flicking water away. "Someone on staff sold them access. Happens." The elevator dinged. He hustled her inside. "Your room or mine?" The question was pragmatic, devoid of inflection.
"Mine's… the other tower," she managed through chattering teeth. "Far."
"Mine's closer. Two floors up." He pressed the button. The doors slid shut, enclosing them in mirrored silence. Gracie avoided looking at their reflections – a drenched, disheveled pair, his hand still loosely holding hers from their frantic run. She pulled it back, folding her arms across her chest, suddenly hyper-aware of her transparent blouse. He seemed to notice too, his gaze flicking down then quickly away, a muscle tightening in his jaw.
The elevator opened onto a quieter corridor. He led her to a suite door, swiped his keycard. Inside, it was spacious, modern, cool. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a blurred view of the storm-lashed ocean. Tasteful furniture, a king bed, the scent of expensive wood polish and faintly, his cologne.
"Jesus, you're frozen," he muttered, taking in her shivering form. He grabbed a thick, white robe from the bathroom door and tossed it to her. It landed heavy and soft in her arms. "Get out of those wet things. Shower's through there. Hot water'll help."
She hesitated, clutching the robe. Standing dripping on his pristine rug felt wildly intimate. Vulnerable. "I… I shouldn't…"
"Gracie," he said, his voice low but firm. "You look like you just swam the Pacific. Shower. Warm up. Don't argue." He turned his back, walking towards the minibar. "Towels are in there. Make yourself at home." It wasn't an invitation; it was an instruction.
The dismissal was oddly freeing. The need for warmth overpowered awkwardness. She retreated into the bathroom, a luxurious space of marble and chrome. She stripped off the ruined clothes, peeling cold silk from her skin, leaving them in a soggy heap. The hot water was a benediction. She stood under the spray, letting it pound the chill from her bones, the panic from her nerves. The scent of his expensive sandalwood soap filled the steamy air. It enveloped her, a disconcerting intimacy. She scrubbed, trying to wash away the feel of the paparazzi's near-grab, the image of Chester appearing like some storm-sent rescue, the lingering phantom sensation of his hand holding hers as they ran.
Wrapped in the thick robe, her fiery hair a damp halo, she emerged feeling marginally more human. The robe swam on her petite frame, the belt cinched tight. She padded barefoot into the main room.
Chester wasn't at the minibar. He stood near the windows, his back to her, phone pressed to his ear. He’d changed too. Gone was his soaked shirt. He wore only low-slung sweatpants, the grey fabric clinging to his hips. His torso was bare.
Gracie stopped dead.
She’d seen him shirtless on screen, in countless magazine spreads. But this was different. This was real. Unposed. The muscles of his back shifted as he gestured with his free hand, talking low and fast – probably to security or his publicist. Defined shoulders tapered down to a lean waist, the sculpted lines of his lats and obliques visible even from behind. A faint scar, pale against the tan skin, traced a line across one shoulder blade. Water droplets from his own recent shower still glistened in the contours of his spine. He moved with a contained power, the kind built for action roles and suddenly, terrifyingly real.
He turned slightly, sensing her presence. His eyes met hers over his shoulder. He didn’t pause his conversation, but his gaze held hers for a loaded second – taking in her drowned-rat transformation into someone swallowed by his robe, her damp hair, her wide eyes. She saw the flicker of something unreadable in his blue eyes before he deliberately turned away again, refocusing on the call. "Yeah, handle it. Press release is already drafted. No comment from anyone on our end."
Gracie stood frozen, rooted to the plush carpet. The storm raged against the windows, a chaotic counterpoint to the sudden, suffocating quiet inside the room. The scent of his soap mingled with the rain-salt air. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the sudden, visceral awareness of him – the raw physicality of his bare back, the heat radiating from him even across the room, the memory of their hands clasped in flight, and the devastating echo of a kiss that had felt like truth. The robe suddenly felt too thin. Too revealing. The air crackled, thick with everything unsaid, everything felt. He lowered the phone, ending the call, but didn't turn around immediately. The space between them stretched, taut and humming. Waiting.
The silence stretched, thick and electric, broken only by the drumming rain on glass. Chester lowered the phone slowly, his knuckles white on the plastic casing. He still didn’t turn. The muscles across his bare back tightened, a ripple of tension beneath the damp skin. Gracie stood rooted, the plush carpet fibers tickling her bare feet, absurdly aware of the oversized robe slipping slightly off one pale shoulder.
Finally, he moved. Not towards her, but to the sleek minibar fridge. The soft hum as it opened was jarringly loud. "Security’s handling the paps," he said, his voice rough, pitched low. He pulled out two bottles of water. "They’ve been escorted off the grounds. Should be clear now." He still avoided her eyes, placing the bottles on the counter with deliberate care.
Gracie swallowed. Her throat felt scratchy. "Good. That's... good." The words sounded stupid, inadequate. She tightened the robe's belt, pulling the soft terrycloth tighter around her, seeking armor. "Thanks. For… you know. Back there."
He finally turned then, leaning his hips against the counter, arms loosely folded. The movement brought the defined planes of his chest and abdomen into sharp relief – the sculpted ridges, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the low waistband of his sweatpants. Water droplets still clung near his collarbone. His gaze landed on her, swept from her damp, tangled hair down to her bare toes peeking out, then back up. It wasn't leering. It was an assessment. Intense. Unreadable. "Don't mention it." A pause. His jaw worked. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she lied, forcing a shaky breath. "Just… startled. And soaked." She gestured vaguely at herself, encompassed in his robe. The gesture felt foolish. The scent of his sandalwood soap, mingling with the clean dampness of the room and the storm outside, was dizzying. It wrapped around her, intimate and inescapable.
He nodded, his eyes lingering on the way the robe dwarfed her frame. "Your clothes are probably ruined." He pushed off the counter, the motion fluid, predatory grace even in sweatpants. He crossed to a large, sleek wardrobe against the wall, opened it. "I've got stuff. Might be big, but…" He rifled through hangars, pulling out a soft-looking black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. "These'll swallow you less than the robe. Towels are in the bathroom if you want to dry your hair properly."
He held the clothes out, not stepping closer. An offering. A boundary. Gracie hesitated for a heartbeat, the memory of his hands on her wrist, his mouth claiming hers on set, flashing unbidden. The robe suddenly felt like a flimsy shield. She crossed the few feet, the space between them crackling with unspoken words, the ghost of that desperate kiss. She reached for the clothes. Her fingers brushed his.
The contact was brief. Fleeting. Static, or something hotter, zipped up her arm. She flinched, snatching the bundle. His hand retracted just as quickly, flexing at his side. Their eyes locked. His were a turbulent blue, darker than the storm-lashed ocean outside. She saw the same frantic pulse she felt hammering in her own throat jumping in the hollow of his neck. He looked… hunted. Or like the hunter holding back.
"Bathroom's free," he said, his voice scraping lower than before. An obvious statement. An escape route offered.
Right. Gracie clutched the clothes to her chest, a barrier against the sudden, overwhelming heat flooding her cheeks. "Thanks," she mumbled again, the word tasting like ash. She turned too quickly, fleeing back into the relative safety of the steamy bathroom, the scent of him clinging to the borrowed clothes in her arms, the phantom touch of his skin against hers burning long after the door clicked shut behind her. Leaving them both stranded on opposite sides of the wood, the roar of the rain outside a constant, demanding rhythm against the fragile silence.
The rain hammered Chester’s hotel window like frantic fists, a relentless percussion underscoring the fragile silence inside the bathroom. Gracie leaned her forehead against the cool wood, Chester’s soft black t-shirt and grey sweatpants clutched tight against the thick robe. His scent – sandalwood, salt air, and something uniquely him – clung to the fabric, invading her senses. She could still feel the electric jolt where her fingers had brushed his. Don’t be an idiot, Lane. Get dressed.
She shed the robe, the humid bathroom air raising goosebumps on her skin. Pulling on his clothes was an intimate violation. The t-shirt fell past her hips, the sweatpants required rolling several times at the waist and ankles. She felt swallowed whole by him. Using a plush towel, she rubbed her hair vigorously, trying to erase the phantom sensation of his gaze, the stark image of his bare torso burned onto her retinas. Taking a shaky breath, she opened the door.
He was sitting sideways on the large, cream-colored sectional sofa, one bare foot planted on the floor, the other knee drawn up. He’d pulled on a thin, dark blue henley shirt, unzipped halfway, sleeves pushed up his forearms. A half-empty bottle of water sat beside him. He stared at the storm-lashed window, rain streaking the glass like tears. The tension in the room hadn’t dissipated; it had thickened, settling like fog.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice low, not looking away from the storm. The casual question felt weighted.
Gracie hovered near the bathroom door, suddenly unsure where to put herself. "Yeah. Mostly dry." She gestured uselessly at the borrowed clothes. "Thanks for these. They’re… roomy."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips before vanishing. "Looks better on you than me." He finally turned his head. His eyes traveled over her drowned-rat hair, the oversized clothes, lingering for a heartbeat on where her hands nervously twisted the hem of the t-shirt. "Sit. Please." He gestured to the other end of the couch. "Rain’s not letting up anytime soon."
She perched on the very edge of the sofa, putting as much distance between them as possible. The silence stretched, filled only by the drumming rain. Gracie focused on the intricate pattern of the rug beneath the coffee table. "Security really got rid of them?"
"Apparently. They’ll try again tomorrow, probably. Parasites." He took a long swig of water. The muscles in his throat worked. "Finn texted me earlier. Asked how the shoot was going." He glanced at her, his blue eyes unreadable. "Told him it got rained out."
Guilt, sharp and cold, pricked Gracie. Finn. Trusting Finn. "Right. Good. That’s… good." Liar. She felt suffocated by the unspoken things crowding the space between them – the frantic run, his bare back, the echo of that devastating soundstage kiss that hadn’t felt like acting at all. "It was intense out there. With the paps. Thanks again. Seriously."
He waved it off, a dismissive flick of his hand. "Couldn’t leave you to them." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying the floor. His knuckles were white where he gripped the water bottle. The air crackled. He seemed coiled, restless. "This waiting… it’s brutal." He looked up, his gaze locking onto hers. "We should run lines."
Gracie blinked. "Lines? Now?"
"Scene 92. The… confrontation. Post-coital angst." His mouth twisted wryly. "We haven’t nailed it yet. Could use the work. Distraction." His eyes held hers, challenging. A dare.
It was the worst idea. The best idea. Gracie’s pulse skittered. Scene 92 was raw. Messy. Full of accusation and desire spilling over. "Here?" Her voice sounded thin.
"Where better? Private. No crew." He stood, suddenly radiating restless energy. "Come on. Let’s block it. Start from the bed."
He walked towards the king-sized bed dominating the room, its crisp white duvet stark against the stormy backdrop. Gracie stood, her legs feeling shaky. This was reckless. Dangerous. She followed anyway, stopping at the foot of the bed. Chester kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the mattress, sitting back against the headboard, legs stretched out. He patted the space beside him. "Elara’s spot."
Gracie hesitated for only a second before climbing up, mirroring his position a careful foot away. The mattress dipped beneath her. She could feel the heat radiating from him. The scent of his soap was stronger here. "Okay. From the top? After Rylan says, ‘Was it just the fight?'"
Chester closed his eyes for a second, summoning Rylan’s simmering anger, the hurt beneath. When he opened them, they were darker, intense. "‘Was it just the fight? Or was it him? Did you think of him when you were with me?’" His voice was low, rough, scraping against Gracie’s nerves. Too close to the bone.
Gracie swallowed, forcing herself into Elara’s defiant guilt. "‘Don’t. Don’t cheapen this.’" She turned her head away, the scripted movement feeling painfully real. "‘You know it wasn’t like that.’"
He shifted abruptly, turning towards her. The distance between them vanished. His thigh pressed against hers through the thin fabric of their sweatpants. Heat flared. His hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her gaze back to his. The script called for it. It felt like an invasion. "‘Then look at me and tell me!’" Chester’s voice was a growl, his thumb brushing her jawline. "‘Tell me that kiss wasn’t just… acting.’"
That kiss. The soundstage. The desperate moan vibrating against her lips. The dam breaking. Gracie’s breath hitched. This wasn’t Elara. This was pure Gracie. Trapped. Exposed. "I…" The script evaporated. "Chester…"
His eyes blazed, holding hers captive. His thumb moved from her jaw to trace her lower lip. A tremor ran through her, sharp and undeniable. The air left the room. The storm outside faded to a distant hum. He wasn’t Rylan anymore. The raw need in his expression was terrifyingly familiar. It mirrored her own.
He didn’t wait for a line. His mouth crashed down on hers.
It wasn’t tentative. It was a claim. Hot, demanding, stripping away any pretense of rehearsal. Gracie gasped against his lips, a sound swallowed instantly by his kiss. Her hands, frozen at her sides, moved of their own volition. One tangled in the hair at his nape, pulling him closer. The other flattened against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the thin cotton, the frantic beat of his heart beneath her palm.
A low groan tore from his chest. He deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking hers with a hunger that matched her own. His hand slid from her face down her neck, over the collar of his own borrowed t-shirt, skimming the curve of her shoulder, coming to rest possessively on her waist. His touch burned through the layers of fabric.
He pulled back just enough to wrench the zipper of his henley down the rest of the way. With a swift, impatient shrug, he tore the shirt off, flinging it aside. His chest was bare, sculpted and gleaming faintly in the storm-dimmed light, the faint scar on his shoulder a pale slash. Gracie’s gaze dropped, drawn irresistibly to the defined planes of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair leading down.
Her hand, still on his chest, slid lower, tracing the ridges of muscle. Her fingertips skimmed his skin, exploring the hard contours, the warm, smooth expanse. She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the muscles tense beneath her touch. It wasn't Elara touching Rylan. It was Gracie, touching Chester, finally surrendering to the pull that had haunted her since the moment he’d appeared, storm-drenched and furious, chasing off the paps.
He moved with sudden, predatory grace. His hands gripped her hips, lifting her effortlessly, shifting them both. In one fluid motion, he rolled her onto her back, coming down over her, his weight settling between her thighs. His knees pressed hers apart. The heavy feel of him, the heat radiating from his bare skin, the scent of him flooding her senses – it was overwhelming. Electrifying.
Gracie arched against him, a moan escaping her lips as their bodies aligned. Her hands slid up his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift as he braced himself above her. He lowered his head, his mouth finding hers again with bruising intensity. His hands were everywhere – sliding beneath the hem of her t-shirt, pushing it up, his rough palms skimming the bare skin of her waist, her ribs. His touch was desperate, possessive, mapping her.
He broke the kiss, his breath ragged against her throat. "Gracie..." Her name was a rough plea, a confession.
She couldn't speak. She pulled his face back to hers, answering with another frantic kiss, her hips lifting instinctively against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his sweatpants. It felt inevitable. The tension of weeks, the stolen moments, the forbidden attraction, all snapping like over-taut wire.
His hand slid down, fingers hooking into the waistband of her sweatpants and the thin cotton underwear beneath, pushing them down her hips. She kicked them off frantically. His own sweatpants followed, shoved down just enough. There was no hesitation, no gentle exploration. He positioned himself, his eyes locking onto hers, burning with a need that mirrored the frantic pulse between her own legs.
He thrust into her. Hard. Deep. A single, devastating stroke that stole her breath and drew a sharp cry from her lips. It wasn't gentle. It was raw, primal, a claiming born of weeks of suppressed desire and the dangerous intimacy of their forced isolation. He filled her completely, the sudden fullness exquisite, overwhelming.
He stilled for a fraction of a second, buried deep, his face inches from hers, eyes wide with the intensity of the connection. Then he began to move. Long, powerful strokes that dragged against her sensitive walls, building friction, building heat. Gracie cried out again, wrapping her legs high around his hips, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back, nails scraping skin.
His rhythm was relentless, driving into her with a fierce urgency that matched the pounding rain outside. Moans spilled from her lips, uncontrolled, echoing his own guttural groans. He kissed her again, messy and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues tangling. He shifted, angling his hips, hitting a spot deep inside that made her back arch off the bed, a keening sound tearing from her throat.
"Christ, Gracie..." he gasped against her mouth, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, losing all semblance of rhythm, driven purely by instinct. "Fuck... so good..."
She was unraveling, the coil of tension in her belly tightening unbearably with each deep plunge. Her world narrowed to the feel of him inside her, the scrape of his chest against her sensitive nipples through the thin shirt, the sound of skin slapping skin mingling with the storm and their ragged breaths. His name became a broken chant on her lips. "Chester... Chester..."
He groaned, a sound ripped from the depths of him, his hips pistoning erratically. "Look at me," he demanded, his voice thick, strained. "Look at me."
She forced her eyes open, meeting his turbulent, drowning blue gaze. The intensity there, the raw, unguarded need, shattered the last of her control. Pleasure detonated through her, a white-hot wave that crashed over her, stealing her breath, making her body convulse around his. She cried out, a sound sharp and pure against the drumming rain.
Feeling her climax, his own control snapped. With a final, deep, shuddering thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his body locking rigid above her. A hoarse shout tore from his throat as he emptied himself inside her, heat flooding her core. He collapsed onto her, his full weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps against her damp skin.
They lay entwined, slick with sweat, the only sounds their harsh breathing and the relentless rain hammering the window. The storm raged on, indifferent. Inside the room, a different tempest had found its devastating release, leaving only the wreckage of crossed lines and the terrifying silence of what came next. Gracie stared up at the ceiling, her heart pounding against his, the scent of sex and Chester thick in the air, reality crashing back in with the weight of his body on hers. Finn’s name hung unspoken, a cold shadow in the aftermath. Chester didn't move, his breath still ragged against her neck, his body heavy and spent. Outside, the storm finally began to ease, the pounding rain softening to a steady, relentless whisper against the glass.