Never in a thousand years would I have dreamed of someone as gorgeous as Zane sitting on my bed. Ever.
I lock my arms around my knees and peek up at his smiling face. "I'm really sorry about—what happened. I had no idea..."
"No, I'm the one who's sorry," he says. "I shouldn't be bringing my dates home. Not while you're staying with me. I put you in an awkward situation, and I apologize for it."
I shake my head. "No, it's your place and I'm the one that intruded. And I'm not a little kid," I point out. "If you want to bring a different girl home every night, go for it. Maybe we could work out some kind of system...I could put a sock on the bathroom door when I’m using it, or something."
Zane starts chuckling as he rubs his chin. "Hey. I wouldn't say I'm with a different girl every night."
"Right" I roll my eyes. "I've been here almost a week, and so far I've seen you with five—no, Naked Girl makes six—different girls."
"Yeah, well, I like variety." He shrugs adorably.
"Really? Because they all seem kind of interchangeable."
"And by interchangeable, you're saying...?"
"They were all slutty. And dumb."
Zane bursts out laughing. He reaches over and taps my knee. "Hey, Anna is a Yale grad."
I don't say anything. The spot where he touched is still tingling. I struggle to keep a neutral expression.
Zane grins and nudges me again. "She does have a nice ass, though."
"Oh, god!" I groan, dropping my head into my knees. "I can't believe I said that! I should go apologize."
"You'll have to catch her on the road. She's on her way back to L.A. right now."
My head shoots up. "Because of what I said? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin your date!"
"Nah, forget it," he reassures me, waving it away. "It was me she was pissed at."
I frown slightly. "You? Why?"
Zane glances at me sideways, eyes crinkling in amusement. "After you left, I wouldn't stop laughing."
"Oh," I say. “Umm…”
Helplessly, I start laughing and he joins in. We chuckle together for a few seconds. In that moment, I can literally feel my little crush on Zane grow exponentially.
So not good.
He stands up and arches his back, stretching. I try not to notice how his gray shirt molds to his stomach to show off his ripped abs.
"You wanna get something to eat?" he asks, looking down at me. "My treat. You can tell me all about how work was."
I should have said no, made up some kind of excuse—I'm too tired, or something. Because I could sense the danger of remaining in his presence, the overwhelming temptation to say yes to him.
I'm balancing on the edge of something here, and when I agree to go with Zane, I can feel myself falling...
Chapter 10
We go in his sleek gray car. I don't know what kind of car it is—I don't care about that kind of thing—but it's totally luxurious. I sink into the seat and inhale the heady scent of leather and rich boy. The ride is ridiculously smooth. Not anything like my old Toyota, where you can feel every bump on the road.
And even the way Zane drives is sexy, the casual confident way he leans back in the seat, one hand on the steering wheel. In control. Hot.
I have to admit, I'm not immune to these superficial pleasures. Riding in this incredible car with this amazing-looking guy, I kind of feel like a celebrity. It's a glamorous decadent sensation. I could totally live like this. We cruise along, listening to a classic rock station, smiling at each other, and talking about what kind of music we like. Zane says he listens to old rock, like Metallica and Led Zeppelin; I tell him I like mostly anything, from songs in the Top 100, to Broadway musicals. He doesn’t even make fun of me for liking the McPigs, a folksy little L.A. band. I play one of their quirkier songs for him on my phone, and he asks to hear more.
We end up at a cool little restaurant right across the street from the beach. It's decorated to look like an old beach house, with bright yellow shutters. I love the circle windows everywhere.
"This place has the best cinnamon rolls," Zane says as I slide into the booth. He waits until I'm seated, then sits on the other side.
"Really? How's their clam chowder?" I pick up one of the colorful menus and look it over.
Yikes! Their prices are crazy! Over twenty bucks for a dinner plate—please!
"I don't know, I don't like seafood. The pasta is good, though." He leans forward and taps the pasta section on the menu.
I squint at the choices, then my eyes widen. "One hundred and eighty-one dollars for a plate of spaghetti?!"
"What? That can't be right."