Nice to see you. Doorman will lock up. Take care.
“Nice to see me,” I echoed quietly, deflating as I looked around at what was intended to be temporary housing: the rustic loft on the bay with the sweeping views. It was supposed to be our weekend getaway, our cosmopolitan, city-hopping, hipster pied-a-terre. It was not supposed to be the far end of a tin can telephone line. It was definitely not supposed to be that.
I saluted the city view and the exposed beams and slid my feet back into the garish heels that looked so cute when I hopped onto the commuter flight yesterday afternoon, all blooming with possibilities.
“Over and out,” I muttered under my breath and yanked open the carved mahogany door, letting it close solidly behind me.
CHAPTER 2
I HANDED THE cab driver my last twenty and wobbled briskly through the sliding glass doors to the airfield terminal, looking all around for the “buffest mofos you ever saw,” as Bridget had described them to me. After a few aimless turns in a circle, I headed for a small bank of benches and hoped she had given them a more accurate description so they could find me, rather than me standing there like a hooker looking for a ride back to LA.
My dress was an embarrassing glare of cantaloupe-colored shame and I wished desperately that I had thought to pack an overnight bag before heading up to see Kevin yesterday. What was I thinking? Was not bringing a bag supposed to be somehow demure?
You didn’t even book a return flight, I reminded myself. That’s just how not-demure you are.
Sighing, I dumped myself onto an empty bench and reached down to fiddle with the strap of my shoe. Something was wrong with it; it kept coming loose but my head throbbed dangerously every time I tried to get a better look. Finally I gave up and sat up straight, tucking my hair behind my ears with my fingers and grinning apologetically as the man across from me glanced up at me over the screen of his notebook.
“It’s, uh… broken or something,” I explained pointlessly. He nodded with a small smile, his eyes flickering over my cleavage, disheveled hair, and trashy, half-wrecked shoes. My belly churned with shame. I wanted to swaddle myself in a beach towel or muumuu or something dignified like that.
“You look like a woman in need of reading material,” he suggested. His blue eyes danced with genuine mirth and I found myself feeling not quite as shy under his gaze. Some voice in the back of my mind reminded me how trampy I looked as I tried to sit in a way that said Yes I dress like this because I’m an artist, not a desperately clingy ex-girlfriend.
It’s amazing what “artist” will let you get away with.
“Do I?” I answered, not sure what else to say but curious if he was playing out a comedic bit. For that square jaw and those wide, strong hands I figured I was willing to play his straight man.
“Well, that’s my guess,” he said affably, snapping his notebook closed and zippering open a beautiful mocha-colored crocodile bag.
Geez, Hermes, I noted with awe. That bag costs more than my car.
“OK, I’ve got… let’s see,” he murmured as he rummaged through the bag contents. I watched his eyes crinkle and couldn’t help but smile as well. He was enjoying himself and the feeling was contagious.
“You like espionage thrillers?” He glanced back at me. I stared at him like a deer in headlights, afraid to shake my head too quickly during the opening gambit of his bit.
“Pssh. Of course you don’t like espionage thrillers,” he snorted, continuing his search. “True crime?”
“You have true crime in there?” I asked, curious.
“Yeah, well… let’s call that a guilty pleasure. Biography? Fiction? Fictionalized biography?”
“Like who?” I asked. Curiosity overwhelmed me and I switched my seat, peering over his shoulder as he rifled through his belongings. I felt like I was poking through his dresser drawers and politely averted my eyes to his strong, ropy forearms.
Fitness guru? I wondered. Racecar driver? Longshoreman-and-hair-care-product-heir?
“No, wait… wait, I’ve got it,” he said, plunging his hand to the bottom and digging for something. He pulled a tattered paperback copy of Zac Attack from the bag and held it up with a grin.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I chuckled. “You know that’s a biography of Zac Efron?”
“Precisely.”
“So you’re really into High School Musical then?”
“Well…” he sighed. “I read. It’s an addiction. Sometimes I get stuck in airfield terminals and people, you know… they leave things.”
My mouth dropped open and I gasped in melodramatic horror. “You scavenge for paperbacks in airport terminals?”