Tenerife was a lovely vacation spot, or so they said. Jenna had to take them on faith, because she was (as usual) run off her feet on set, working, and when she had a moment of free time it was spent running lines with Peter and not sightseeing. They went back to the hotel from the set and immediately went up to his room to continue working on the next scene between them. They ran more lines then rehearsed a bit of business he wanted to do with circling each other before he leaned in and said the key lines. Then it was all a relaxed bickering over room service about which one of them should grab the other and shake first.
“Let’s do it both ways,” Peter said, “and see which he likes.”
It was a good solution to the problem, Jenna had to admit. Don’t decide; make the director decide. That’s what directors were for. Jenna was getting along with him well enough, though she was looking forward to working with Rachel again later. They hadn’t seen anything of those scripts, though. No idea where things were going. One thing was sure, the Doctor was out of his mind about Clara. Or maybe Peter was just playing him that way. She stretched herself out diagonally across his bed and stared at the ceiling. The poor Beeb. They were the stars, and they had flown economy down here, and the hotel was nothing to write home about. Comfortable enough, and the sangria Peter had ordered with their room service had been delicious. Jenna yawned.
When next she opened her eyes, the lights were low and there was a head on her shoulder and an arm over her waist and somebody next to her was snoring faintly. Peter, by the scent of his aftershave. He was warm against her in the air-conditioned cool of the room. Sod it. Jenna tugged at the blanket until it came free from the corner of the bed and pulled it over the both of them. They had an ungodly early makeup call and she wasn’t going to lose sleep by bothering to relocate. It was only Peter.
Only Peter. Well, nobody else needed to know what a lie that was. Especially not the man himself.