At least three or four girls stare at him as they walk past. He doesn’t seem to notice. Is he for real?
Crumpling wrappers, I start cleaning up the table. I need to focus on something other than him. I walk over to the trash can to throw everything away then stop to admire the sun as it starts to set in the horizon. It’s breathtaking.
His arm stretches out around me with my new margarita and I take it from him. “Thank you. And I’m sorry if I seem paranoid. I have issues with trust.”
His eyes darken as he gazes down into my eyes. “Trust has to be earned. I don’t trust many people either.”
“Oh really?” I ask, taking a sip from my drink. “Who do you trust?”
He ponders my question for a moment as he takes a drink and faces the setting sun. “I trust my mom, my younger brother, my best friend Chloe, and . . . my dog.”
“That’s a good list,” I say with a smile.
“What about you?” he asks, leaning on a rail. “Who do you trust?”
I shrug my shoulders and let minutes of silence pass us by.
“How many of those margaritas will it take to get you to tell me about yourself?”
I shrug again.
“How about a walk on the beach?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not a fan of sand.”
“Oh, come on. It’s just your toes. I promise I won’t let you get knocked over by anyone. I’ll protect you from dirt and non-observant runners. I’ll even carry you if you’d like.”
I snicker as he starts to walk around the railing and motions with his head for me to follow him. “Come on, Greer. Take a chance.”
I sing “Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA in my head as I watch him. My apprehension seems to be fleeting. Fisher is so carefree and light, like nothing bothers him. He’s a positivity magnet. He also seems to be daring me by the “take a chance” comment. Greer Hanson might be nervous, but Macy Greer, author extraordinaire, would never shy away from a dare. I summon her silently and laugh at myself.
Maybe this sunburn is poisoning my usually impeccable judgement. Or maybe the alcohol I rarely drink is making me more carefree. For once, I don’t think. I simply slide off my flip-flops and follow him. Part of me feels that tonight, I might just follow him anywhere.
We walk in silence. It’s . . . nice. I like the quiet. I especially like not having to answer questions. The cool breeze feels amazing on my skin. The waves wash over my toes, making me forget we’re in sand at all. Every once in a while I bend over to pick up a sea shell. He starts pointing them out to me after he notices my fascination with them. I begin collecting them and when my cup-less hand gets full, he takes them from me and places them in his pocket.
After I finish my drink, he takes my empty cup from me and runs them to the trash can nearby. He makes jogging on the beach look effortless. I can barely walk in deep sand without stumbling. “Having fun?” he asks as he returns to me.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
“Good. So, can I hold your hand?” he asks, reaching out to me and looking adorably unsure.
I shrug as I place my hand in his and he smiles like he won a prize. It makes me feel good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. His hand wrapped around mine doesn’t suck either. I haven’t held a man’s hand in ages. I forgot how good it feels. I imagine a crack forming in the wall I’ve built around myself. It slowly crumbles more and more the longer we walk.
He limits his questions to things like, “How about this shell?” or “Have you ever seen anything like it?” It’s comforting. Those are questions I can and want to answer.
It’s getting darker by the minute. I can almost make out his face by the light from the hotels nearby, but he has to face me in a certain direction and I really have to focus to see him. I’m not sure how far we’ve walked, but it’s got to be getting late. I could check my phone for the time, but it’s tucked inside my bra and I don’t want to reach for it. I turn and gaze back to see just how far we are from the hotel. I can’t tell.
“Do you need to go?” he asks.
“Yeah. I probably should. I have a morning flight home tomorrow and I still need to pack.”
“Where’s home?”
“California.”
He nods. Is that sadness I see? My heart flutters in my chest. I think I feel it too.
He squeezes my hand as we turn. Is it just me or are we both walking slower? He doesn’t say another word for several minutes. I shiver as a new gust of air hits my warm skin.
“Are you cold?”
“I’m okay. I got a little too much sun today.” I wrap my free arm around myself.
“I’m a furnace. I’d be okay, if you wanted to lean against me while we walk. I did say I’d protect you. That means protection from wind as well.”
I stop abruptly and he takes a step forward before he notices, never letting go of my hand. I glance down at our hands outstretched in front of us and it looks . . . right. I suddenly feel like I’ve known him forever and that my hand belongs in his.
“What is it?” he asks, facing me.
“I don’t know. I . . . I don’t want this night to end.”
He gazes out at the line of hotels in the distance then his eyes meet mine. He moves in a little closer to me and the gap between us shrinks. When I don’t react, he inches forward slightly more. Then more. I smile. “Testing the waters?”
“I don’t want to push my luck.”
I sigh. “There’s only room for one more step between us and I haven’t backed away yet. That should be a sign.”
He lifts his hand and brushes the hair away from my face. He holds out the piece of tomato in his hand. “Did you still want this?”
I laugh. “Oh my God. Have I had that in my hair the entire time? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you seem to be extremely fond of tomatoes?”
He poses it like a question. I take it from his hand and pop it in my mouth. “Still yummy.”
He laughs hardily and I have to steady myself. It affects me to my core.
“That’s one lucky tomato.”
“Huh?” I question.
“I’d give anything to be in your mouth.”
I swallow hard as he lessens the little space between us and his face inches closer to mine. Oh shit. He wants to be in my mouth. Does he mean his tongue? His finger? His dick? I wonder what his dick would taste like. Oh hell. Am I really considering that as an option? Do I want this? Him?
His lips are almost touching mine. I quickly run my tongue over my mouth. That’s what I’m supposed to do, right? That’s what girls do in my stories. No one likes a dry lip. Oh damn, this is taking forever. This kiss scene would be exactly how I’d write it in my books, slow and building. But living it versus writing it is torture. It’s taking too long. Kiss me already. Please.
When his lips finally touch mine I think I see fireworks behind my eyelids. Oh dear Lord in heaven, have mercy on my soul. Is this what I’ve been missing? Do all men other than Oliver kiss this way or is he a professional? What if he is a professional? What if he’s a male hooker? Oh shit. I don’t care. I want that tongue.
I open my mouth and slide my tongue against his. He pulls me closer to his chest and I feel my entire body relax into him. His hand sifts through my hair and he tugs on it lightly to bend my head back. His mouth leaves mine and moves to my neck. He plants soft kisses from my ear to my collarbone and then back up again before his lips meet mine once more.
I don’t know how long we stand with our toes in the water making out. It must be a while, because a wave almost knocks us to the ground. As we stumble, we laugh. The water crashes again, higher this time, and hits my shorts. As if I weren’t wet enough.
“Shit!” I scream.
“Don’t worry, my lady! I’ll save you.”
I don’t have time to do anything other than gasp as he lifts me into his arms and starts to run us away from the water.
“Fisher!” I want to protest his carrying me, but I
laugh instead. He runs me away from the shore, then back toward the water, teasing me as waves hit him in the knees.
He does this repeatedly until I’m laughing so hard, I can’t catch my breath. A wave hits him at the waist and he stops in the water. I loosen myself from his grip until I’m in the water too. The waves soak us both, but I don’t care.
“You’re getting wet,” he says, running his fingers through his hair.
“I was wet the moment I saw you.”
He grips his hair in his hands and sighs before smiling down at me. “You can’t say things like that to a man. It does things to me I can’t control.”
I blink my eyes repeatedly. “I think I’d like to see what it’s doing to you.”
His eyebrows lift and he gives me a gaze I could only describe as smoldering. He takes my hand and places it on his wet shorts. I feel the bulge in his pants and I do what any sane woman would do. I grab ahold.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“No, but I wouldn’t be against letting you feel the inside of my mouth.”
“It’s a beautiful mouth. But there are other lips I’d like to taste as well. It’s only fair.”
Oh damn. He’s good. Am I really about to do this? Yes. Yes, I am.
I glance back and forth along the beach. There’s no one in sight. I start to unzip his shorts as another wave crashes against us. I reach my hand inside and move the material away to reach him.
He’s hard and thick. I swallow hard. What’s gotten into me? I run my fingers over his length as he slowly trails his fingers up my thigh and under the material of my short shorts. His middle finger finds me immediately and he plunges it inside me. I moan. The water continues to crash against us as we stroke each other purposefully. His mouth crashes against mine and I lift my leg slightly, holding on to him for balance. He doesn’t disappoint. It doesn’t take long for my toes to curl as the waves of the ocean combine with my waves of orgasm. I increase my grip as well as my stride until I feel the warmth of his cum in my hand.
It’s a brief feeling. The water quickly rushes it away, but it’s enough to make me feel accomplished. He zips his zipper and touches my cheek with his palm.
He kisses me deeply and pulls me tightly to him. Placing my arms around his neck, he lifts me up until I’m straddling him.
He walks us out of the water and places me on the ground.
“Stay with me tonight?” he asks.
I shake my head. “That’s an amazing offer, but . . .”
“But?”
“I can’t.” I close my eyes. What in the world did I just do? This isn’t me. Greer Hanson doesn’t fondle strangers on the beach. It was definitely liquid courage. The effects of the margaritas begin to slide away.
He leans in closer to me. “But I’m not done with you.”
“Oh God, Fisher . . . Patrick. That was amazing. But I’m leaving tomorrow and we’ll probably never see each other again. Maybe we should just let this be what it was and not . . . what did you say before? Push our luck?”
He nods reluctantly. “The little I know about you tells me that pleading will get me nowhere.”
“You’re a smart man.”
“But what if I want to see you again?”
Ugh. Walking away from him, I ponder telling him what a hot mess I am and how he should run away from me.
I turn and notice he hasn’t kept walking with me. He’s still where I left him staring at me. I feel bad and walk back toward him. “I’m a mess, okay?” I shout over the sound of the waves. “I just went through an ugly divorce. My career is in shambles and I don’t even know who I am right now. Trust me when I say you’d be better off remembering me this way.”
“What way is that?” he asks. “Like this hot chick who played me?”
I laugh.
“You think that’s funny, huh?” he says as he treads toward me.
“I think the fact you think I’m hot is funny. And me, playing anyone, isn’t even remotely close to the truth. I don’t know how to play anything, Fisher. And if you knew me, you’d know just how accurate that is.”
“Let me get to know you then. At least give me your number.”
He’s not going to let this go. “Okay. That’s doable.”
He smiles as if he’s won. He’s everything I’d ever write a man to be. But men like him don’t really exist. If I got to know him, I’d probably discover he really is a male prostitute. Or maybe he just escaped from prison. Or he has a wife and three kids at home. Oh damn, I hope not. I decide what I’m going to do as we walk back to the hotel. Some things are best left as perfect short stories with perfect endings. This is one of them.
I’m going to give him a number. Little does he know, it just won’t be mine.
Six months later
I sip my coffee and curl my legs under me as I stare out the window of Luna’s office. I’m early as usual, but her secretary, Brenna, let me in. I noticed she had my new release folded open on her desk as she unlocked Luna’s door. I asked her if she’d finished and her eyes bulged.
“Not yet. I’m taking my time and savoring every syllable. I’m such a huge fan,” she said. “Is that weird that I said that? I know I see you all the time.”
“Not at all,” I replied with a soft grin.
I made myself comfortable in the window seat and am currently watching people scatter around on the street below while I wait for Luna to arrive. I love San Francisco. I love everything about it from the people to the hills. I especially love Luna’s view of the ocean from this window. Every once in a while I stand and walk past the open door to see Brenna reading. Her reactions are food for my soul. One second she smiles, then she frowns. The next minute her hand is over her mouth, then she’s fanning herself. I can’t help but feel proud.
I think back to sitting in the Florida airport six months ago. It was about 7:00 a.m. by the time I made it through security and to my gate. There was a small part of me that was worried Fisher would follow me and an even bigger part of me that was sad he didn’t. After a few minutes of sulking, I started thinking about him knocking me over on the beach. It made me laugh. It was a great story. I wanted to remember every second of our time together, so I opened my laptop and started typing what I remembered. My fingers flew across the keys effortlessly. There was so much I wanted to say. Then it hit me. This story needed an ending and I was going to create it. That’s when the words really began to flow.
“Hey. Am I late or are you early?” Luna asks as she saunters into her office and pulls the scarf from around her neck.
“What do you think?” I reply as I take another sip of my coffee.
She drops her messenger bag by the side of her desk and walks over to me. She seizes the cup from my hands and takes a long drink. I smile up at her and run my fingers through my now long black hair, pulling at a small tangle.
“Oh, that’s better.” She sighs as she hands the cup back to me.
“Long night?”
She rolls her eyes. “Um, yeah! I couldn’t sleep. I’m too excited. You look rested. How is that even possible? Why am I more nervous than you are?”
I take another sip. “Maybe because you’ll make more money off of it than I will?”
“Ha! You’re a riot.” Luna plops down in her chair and shuffles some papers on her desk. I rotate the cup in my hands and watch her gaze at the clock on the wall. A slow smile spreads across my lips when she lifts the phone to her ear to check if there’s a dial tone. She huffs as she carefully places it down and jiggles it to make sure it’s in place.
“You’re getting your hopes up for nothing,” I tell her. “You and I both know that movie deals rarely work out. It’s probably some small wannabe producer who’s going to need a GoFundMe account just to buy a camera.”
“Stop!” she says, spinning in her chair and holding out her finger to scold me. “Law of Attraction, remember? In the four months since Book Boyfriend released, you’ve had over thirty-six thousand reviews. You’ve been on the be
st seller list for months and we’re starting to get interview requests. This is going to blow up just like I told you it would after I read the first chapter.”
Her lips twist into a smug grin as she spins in circles in her chair. I shrug my shoulders like I don’t care and gaze back out the window. I know it’ll drive her nuts. I’m right.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Did you just shrug your shoulders?”
I laugh. “I’m just joking. You know I’m freaking out on the inside. This book has done more for my career than I ever imagined. Who knew so many people fantasized about a Penn Fitzgerald of their own?”
Luna twirls around in her chair slowly this time. “Ahh, Penn . . . I want a Penn. He’s seriously the perfect man and obviously, by your phenomenal sales, everyone thinks so too. Who doesn’t dream of meeting a sexy stranger on the beach, never exchanging names, and then having him read your book and track you down, wooing the shit out of you?”
I shrug again.
“Oh and having him be a billionaire playboy didn’t hurt either.”
There’s a knock on the door. Brenna is leaning on the frame. “Please tell me Penn is real! Please!”
I wrinkle my nose. She’s almost sobbing. “Sorry. He doesn’t exist.”
Brenna moans in pain and returns to her desk in the hall.
Luna stares at me, her eyes narrowing.
“What?” I ask, placing my coffee mug on the bench next to me.
“You and I both know he sort of does.”
I shake my head. “Nope! Don’t go there. We agreed that we would never, ever discuss this.”
“I wish you’d just tell me his name again. I know his first name was Fisher. But Fisher what?”
“I honestly don’t remember.”
“You’re a horrible liar. And can I just say that you’re the only woman in the history of women who got fondled by the perfect man and then didn’t even bother to Google him.”
“My imagination is always better than reality. Why do you think so many women cling to their books? It’s because we want a man like Penn to exist and to want us. I’d rather have my fabulous fiction over a disappointing reality any day.”
Book Boyfriend Page 3