Our chemistry was undeniable. Between takes, we joked and bantered. We ate our lunches together and played pranks on each other. I put gummies inside Brett’s helmet and as revenge, he poured ice into my spacesuit. We talked about our families, touched on past relationships, mine with Peter, his with Kelly, a woman from his theater department at the University of Texas.

When our characters kissed for the first time, the cameras saw my skin flush and perspiration spring up on Brett’s neck and chest. What was happening between us was real. Dressed in our Mylar space suits (due to our PG rating there was no nudity), we acted out our love scenes authentically, discovering one another’s bodies. During the weightless scenes, we tumbled around together, gripping each other’s arms and legs, inhaling one another’s scent as we performed step-by-step, move-by-move, the choreography we’d rehearsed. No matter that a dozen crewmembers were looking on. The experience was intense, and I was left trembling long after Vilmar cut the scene.

Naturally, everyone assumed we were sleeping together. Our publicists advised us neither to confirm nor deny the rumors—the suspense over our personal relationship was great for the film. The studio was ecstatic. The tabloids were already running stories. Admittedly, I hoped the rumors would find their way to Peter Haskell, who still slaved away on Circle of Life. He had left the show briefly to do a film that turned out to be a giant flop. Now he was back on Daytime TV, and it wasn’t my imagination that he was getting pudgy.

But despite the rumors, the press releases, and tabloids, the truth was that Brett and I hadn’t gotten past first base.

“Use it, Jackie. Put it into the scene,” he said earnestly.

We were in his Winnebago, running lines. I had once again managed to inch my body almost on top of his, hoping to seduce him.

“Why?” There was a sour, needy tinge to my voice. I tried to disguise it with a joke. “You’re not secretly doing my stand-in, are you, Barney?” I ran my fingers up the slick fabric of his spacesuit.

Brett grinned, shook his head, and moved over to the captain’s chair opposite me.

“We don’t want to dissipate our chemistry.”

“Let’s just make out,” I offered sensibly.

“I’ll tell you what. When the movie is over, Jackie, I’ll take you away for a romantic weekend.”

“Swear it?”

I had been with a lot of different men, but this guy was a different breed. Brett was even-tempered, Texas-born, and Mormon-raised. To a girl who’d grown up in show business where everyone acted out and expressed every little feeling, all that repression was a turn-on.