by Lila Monroe
How good it feels to just be honest, say whatever’s in my head.
Well, I think to myself, sitting back in my seat and mentally peeling off his button-down, rucking up his undershirt, and tracing my tongue over the well-defined ridges of his abs—
Maybe not whatever’s in my head.
“Wait a sec,” Wes says as I finish my hot dog, gesturing to my face. “You’ve got a little—”
“Oh, crapwaffle. Where?” I ask, reaching for my chin, but Wes reaches across the table and gently nudges my hand out of the way before wiping the side of my lip with his thumb.
“Got it,” he promises, slipping his thumb into his mouth and licking it clean. “Mustard.”
“Um.” My tongue darts out instinctively to the place he touched; I imagine I can taste the salt of his fingers. I swallow hard. “Thanks.”
“What’s the deal with that, anyway?” he asks, gathering up our trash. “Crapwaffle?”
I laugh. “Back when I was in college, my roommates and I had a bet who could go longest without cursing. We got real imaginative in the end.”
“Did you win?”
I shook my head. “I got bad PMS, failed a pop quiz, and found out my boyfriend was cheating on me all in the same day. I worked blue, all right.”
He laughs and offers his hand, pulling me to my feet. “Ready for the next stop?”
“Lead the way.”
Wes doesn’t tell me where we’re going ahead of time, just gives me directions until we’re cruising a gorgeous stretch of highway, with the ocean on one side, sparkling in the sun. A sign welcomes us to Malibu, and soon the houses turn fancy, perched right on the water, blocking the view of the beach. “Just pull over and park anywhere up here,” he says, gesturing to the lowered curb by one of the properties.
“Isn’t that private?” I frown, squinting through the windshield. “I don’t want to get the car towed.”
He grins. “Trust me.”
I’m still not sure, but I do as he says. We get out of the car, and he leads me to what looks like a private gate—and then right through it, all the way to the sand. I’m still feeling like we’re trespassing, but my worries melt away as we emerge onto a stretch of the most perfect beach I’ve ever seen: a narrow strip of immaculate white sand and the endless clear blue of the ocean, private and secluded and perfect as a screensaver. The waves crash against the shore, loud and lazy. A pair of gulls circle slowly overhead.
“So, we can still go to the Hollywood sign if you’d rather,” Wes says with a smile, “but I thought you might like something a little further off the beaten path.”
“You thought right.” I shake my head in wonder, breathing in the fresh, salty breeze coming in off the water. Then I remember the gate and the fences, and I frown. “What is this place?” I ask him, suddenly nervous. We’re the only ones here, none of the sunbathers or frisbee players crowding every other LA beach for as far as I can see. “Are we breaking and entering right now?”
Wes looks amused. “Worried about getting in trouble with the law?” he teases. “Lucky you have a lawyer with you, huh?”
“Seriously?” I know there’s supposedly no such thing as bad publicity, but somehow, I can’t imagine Eliza would be too happy if I wound up getting arrested before I managed to finish my work with Selena and Ryder. “Wes, is this a private beach?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “We’re fine,” he promises. “Some billionaire tried to hide the public beach path with a fancy gate so that people would think it was part of his property and stay out.”
“Are you kidding?” My eyes widen. “That’s so mean! And also, like . . . kind of brilliant? Am I evil for saying that?”
Wes grins. “Maybe a little. But I still like you, so what does that make me?”
I raise my eyebrows, teasing. “I guess we’ll find out.”
I can see why the evil billionaire wanted to keep this place to himself: the sand is soft, the ocean clear and warm and blue—nothing like the murky, frigid water of the Atlantic back home. We slip our shoes off and take a walk in the surf, the water rushing around our ankles.
“This is like something out of a movie,” I admit.
“You mean the handsome leading man at your side?” Wes smirks, and I laugh.
“I don’t know, do you see him anywhere?” I pretend to scope the horizon, until Wes gives me a playful push, and I have to jump back to keep my balance—and to keep from reaching for him. He’s telling me about the craziness of life on a movie set, but I’m finding it hard to focus.
I just want to kiss the hell out of him, right now.
“. . . And then they had to reshoot the scene a dozen times over. It was good, but it’s no Goodfellas,” Wes adds.
I shrug. “I never really liked that movie.”
He stops. “Wait, what? You said it was your favorite!”
I wince. “Yeah . . . it was more that you said it was your favorite, and I just figured I’d agree with you. I thought you’d look down on me if I told you the truth.”
“Which is?”
“Pee-wee’s Big Adventure.”
He bursts out laughing. “Seriously?”
“Yup!” I grin. “And if you say anything bad about it, I’m going to take that fancy car and leave you here, and you can get back to Ojai on your own.”
“I would never,” he says solemnly, but I can tell he’s not convinced.
“It’s a classic road trip film.”
“I believe you.”
“You should watch it sometime.”
“I will.”
Something catches my eye in the sand. I reach down and pluck a smooth pink shell and tuck it into my pocket. A souvenir, to remember the day. Because soon—too soon—it’s time to head back to the ranch, but I can’t help wishing we could have made the day last forever, just the two of us.
“This was amazing,” I tell him as we’re headed back to the Porsche—which is, thankfully, right where we left it. “Seriously, Wes. It was the perfect LA day—even if I didn’t get to see any Real Housewives.”
“It doesn’t have to end yet,” Wes says, shooting me a sidelong glance. “We could stay in town for dinner, drive back later.”
I look down at my jeans, which are damp around the cuffs from our stroll in the ocean. “I mean, I could go for more hot dogs,” I joke, “but I’m not really dressed for anywhere nice.”
“Oh no?” Wes raises his eyebrows. “In that case, can I ask what’s in all those shopping bags you’ve got crammed in Selena’s car right now?”
“I . . . oh.” For a moment I’d forgotten about my mid-morning Pretty Woman-style shopping spree. “Good point.”
“C’mon,” Wes says, holding his hands out for the keys. “We can go change at my place. And this time, I get to drive.”
14
Katie
Wes lives in one of those quintessential LA apartment buildings, all stucco and Spanish tile and a courtyard in the center with a fountain burbling quietly away. I follow him up a set of tiled steps, waiting as he unlocks the arched wooden door and ushers me inside.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting, exactly. Back when we were together, we were both living in glorified dorm rooms with too many roommates, but this apartment is clean and homey: decorated in cool neutrals with plenty of sunlight streaming in. There’s a slightly cluttered desk pushed up against one window, looking out onto the leafy street below. Vintage movie posters line the hallway, colorful graphic art for Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo and the original Star Wars trilogy. “This is . . . really lovely,” I tell him, looking around.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Wes grins. “What were you expecting, a futon and some milk crate end tables?”
I laugh. “The Periodic Table of Mixology, maybe.”
“A single plate and cup, no bowls.”
“One of those lamps with all the different colored heads like Medusa.”
“Oh, I’ve got one of those next to my bed,” he says, then laughs.
“Bathroom’s that way, if you want to get changed,” he says, nodding down a short hallway.
The bathroom is immaculate—there’s even a candle on top of the toilet, for Pete’s sake—and I shimmy out of my play clothes and into a little black dress I picked up at a vintage boutique this afternoon. I can’t resist peeking in his medicine cabinet, looking for . . . what, exactly? Foot fungus cream? Rogaine? Some evidence that he isn’t as perfect as he seems. But all I find is a razor and deodorant, plus a bottle of face wash that smells like the woods. Plus floss.
That’s a good thing, at least.
I freshen up my hair and makeup, then head back out into the living room to find Wes standing at the bar cart in the living room, mixing cocktails. He’s wearing dark jeans and a starchy button-down, and he looks absolutely delicious.
He straightens up when he sees me, and he stares long enough to make me wonder if I left the tags on. “You . . . look amazing,” he says, his voice low.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling myself blush. “What are you making?”
“Old fashioneds,” he says—then promptly sets the cocktail shaker down on the bar, strides purposefully across the room, and pulls me into a sizzling kiss.
Mmmmm . . .
I lean closer instinctively, winding my arms around his neck as he nips lightly at my bottom lip and slides his tongue deep into my mouth. We stumble back until I hit the wall, arching against him eagerly to feel every inch of his hard, hot body.
Damn, he does this so well.
Wes’s hands slide over me as his mouth migrates down along my jawline, doing something amazing to my pulse point that makes me shiver under his touch. His palm brushes my breast, softly, then squeezing gently. I gasp as he finds my nipple through the fabric of my bra, stroking in gentle circles until I’m aching for him. “I want you so badly,” he tells me, voice hoarse and breathless in my ear. “I’ve wanted you since I saw you on the subway platform back in New York.”
Even through my haze of desire, I can’t help but laugh. “Covered in green goop?”
Wes grins. “What can I say? You wear blended kale better than any other woman I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, you’re smooth,” I tease, but he kisses me again and I stop laughing real quick. Because there’s nothing funny about the heat shooting through me, and how I’m already wet and aching for him. He picks me up, and half walks, half carries me to the couch. He’s laying me down, inching my dress higher when—
BEEP! BEEP!
We’re interrupted by the sound of his cell phone ringing in the back pocket of his jeans.
“Ignore it,” I mutter against his mouth.
“Ignore what?” he asks with a smile, bending back down to drop kisses on my neck and chest . . . but a second later mine goes off too.
I groan, pulling away and digging it out of my purse. “Is it—?” Wes asks.
“Selena,” I confirm, and he nods.
“I’ve got Ryder.”
“Uh-oh.” Desire is fizzing through my body, but I try to keep my voice even as I answer. “Selena!” I say, then clear my throat. “Hey there! How are you guys?”
“Incredible,” she says, sounding breathless and effervescent herself. “Amazing. The best I’ve ever been, maybe.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” I tell her. “What’s up?”
“We have the biggest surprise for you,” she replies giddily, “but we need to tell you in person. Can you make it back from LA tonight?”
“Tonight?” I echo, glancing at Wes, who’s having a similar conversation with Ryder across the room. His shirt is untucked, just the slightest bit wrinkled from where I was trying to pull it off. “Um—”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t super important,” she says.
“No, of course,” I tell her, closing my eyes briefly. Professional. Be professional. “We’ll be there ASAP.”
Wes hangs up a moment after I do, running a hand through his makeout-messy hair. “Raincheck on dinner?” he asks. Then, as his eyes trail up and down my body: “And . . . whatever else?”
I let out a breath of relief. “Raincheck for sure.”
Wes drives us back to Ojai, the car zipping up the highway as I watch the darkened landscape blur outside the window. He has one hand resting on my knee, tracing feather-light circles over my bare skin, and I can hardly think straight with him touching me like this.
What are we doing? I have zero clue. All I know is that my hormones are going crazy, and I’m panting to rip Wes’s clothes off—all the way off.
Maybe it’s a good thing Selena and Ryder interrupted us before we completely lost our minds. Before I did something I can’t take back. Isn’t that supposed to be my big breakup rule: no backsies?
Except the only back I can think of right now is the strong, muscular one under Wes’s shirt.
By the time we arrive back at the ranch, I’m more confused—and horny—than ever. We pull up in the driveway, and I follow Wes up the stone pathway to the main house, where lights are blazing in every window. “Hello?” Wes calls, opening the door. “Anybody home?”
“Where are they?” I ask, confused. “I thought there was some big surprise.”
“Beats me.”
I trail him through the empty kitchen and deserted dining room; we poke our heads into the media room and squint out at the abandoned pool. “Maybe it’s a surprise party,” Wes jokes, before he turns the corner into the den and lets out a strangled bark.
“What?” I ask, bumping into him from behind, and when I look over his shoulder I see why: Selena and Ryder are going at it with great enthusiasm on the massive leather sofa in what appears to be some new-school variation on reverse cowgirl—upside down and backwards cowgirl, maybe?
“Oh. Whoops!” I slap a hand over my eyes. “Sorry, guys!”
“No, come on in!” Selena calls breathlessly, looking up and waving. She hops off from Ryder and grabs a robe off the side of the couch. “We’re so glad you’re both here.”
“I—” For a moment, I wonder if they called us back here for some kind of glamorous Hollywood orgy, but then Selena holds out her left hand and waggles it, a diamond the size of a golf ball glinting in the light. “Surprise!” she calls gleefully. “We’re getting married!”
Holy . . . fuck.
Wes and I insist on giving the happy couple a moment to compose-slash-dress themselves, and the four of us meet in the kitchen a few minutes later, where Wes has already poured me a sizeable glass of wine. “Oh my gosh!” I manage, trying to keep the total and abject horror out of my voice as Selena holds out her newly bejeweled hand for my inspection one more time. “How . . . did this happen?”
“We have you to thank,” Ryder says, beaming at me. He’s pulled on a robe of his own by this point, though I try not to notice he hasn’t actually done a very good job of cinching it. “Almost losing Selena made me realize how important she is to me. The more I thought about it, the more certain I felt that it would be a huge mistake to let her go without doing everything I could. So I went to her and I got down on one knee and I said, baby, let’s get this show on the road once and for all.”
“And I said yes!” Selena exclaims.
I nod, trying to keep my eyes above Ryder’s belt. “Wow. That’s . . . wow!”
“You’re our guardian angel,” Selena says, wrapping me in a giddy hug. “We’d never have done it if you hadn’t made us have honest conversations with each other and finally confront the truth of our relationship.”
“I don’t know about that,” I manage, sitting down hard on a stool at the kitchen island and taking a big gulp of my wine. I’m torn. On one hand, this isn’t exactly good news for the Breakup Artist. On the other, I’ve come to really care about Selena in the last few days. I want her to be happy—even if Ryder isn’t the choice I’d make for her. “I really am so glad for you two.” I lift my glass in a toast. “I guess my work here is done.”
“What! No!” Selena shakes her head. “We want to make it
official ASAP, so we’re going to get married next Saturday. Will you stay—and be my maid of honor?”
I blink, even as Wes tries to smother a laugh. “Me?” I squeak, eyes wide. “Selena, I
don’t really think—”
“Of course you!” she says, taking my hand in both of hers. “I can’t think of anyone else
I’d trust enough to help me put this all together on such short notice. We’ll do wedding prep, we’ll go to the spa, we’ll hire those guys from Magic Mike to come over and let us rub oil all over them. It’ll be fun!”
It sounds completely nuts to me, but then I think about the time I’ve spent with her so far, and I realize all at once that Selena doesn’t actually seem to have that many real girlfriends. If not me, then who? “I’d be honored,” I tell her finally, and Selena grins.
“Well,” Ryder says, swinging an arm around Selena and pulling her close. “If you two don’t mind, I think my fiancée and I are going to head off to bed.” He leers. “And seal the marital deal, if you know what I mean.”
Somehow Wes keeps a straight face. “I think we do,” he says. “Don’t let us stop you.”
Selena gives me a hug before she goes. “I really can’t thank you enough,” she says happily. “For everything.” She skips out of the kitchen behind Ryder like a Disney princess headed to her enchanted castle boudoir, and what do I know? Maybe she is.
Once we’re alone Wes and I stare at each other. “I was . . . not expecting that,” he admits.
I finish off the last of my wine and set my glass down on the marble counter with a sigh. “Tell me about it.”