Until now.
A walk on the beach…
The gorgeous white sand beach beckoned from the moment I arrived. Artists with easels sat on their portable stools painting all day and even continued after the sun went down.
I’ve ventured to the beach exactly twice for classes, ordering a quick sandwich and throwing a few strokes on canvas, until that niggling on the back of my neck got unbearable, and I left. I’ve painted mostly from my lanai. I haven’t taken advantage of this beautiful place, but I have my reasons.
One reason, actually.
A reason that wants me back in LA. Either back in LA, at his side…
Or dead.
Damn! Where is that easy relaxation I felt only hours ago sitting at the bar with Scotty?
“You going to answer me?” he finally says.
I inhale. The beach. I’m here, at the colony. Who wouldn’t want to walk on the beach? I could feign illness, but he just watched me eat. Besides, I like Scotty. I don’t want to tell him a little white lie, especially after my first one blew up in my face.
I don’t want to tell him any lies, which is why I shouldn’t talk to him at all.
“I’m kind of tired,” I say. A little white lie after all. So much for that plan.
“It’s seven o’clock.”
“Yeah, but I’m still on LA time. We’re five hours behind here. Plus, jet lag and all.”
“Didn’t you get here three days ago? Or was it four?”
I let out a huff. “For God’s sake, Scotty. I’m not interested. Okay?” Yeah, the lies are just rolling out of my mouth now.
“I call bullshit,” he says.
“Call it whatever you want. I didn’t come here to hook up. I came here to—”
“To hide,” he finishes for me.
“To paint. I came here to paint.”
“Then why’d you show up at the beach bar?” he asks.
I don’t have an answer. At least not one that makes sense.
“Just felt like a drink.” I shrug.
“And then you accepted my invitation to dinner.”
“A girl’s got to eat.”
“I see.” He sighs. “Okay, I get it.”
I nod. “Thanks for dinner. And the drink.” Though he didn’t pay for either. The art colony is all-inclusive.
“No sweat off my back.”
“Yeah. I suppose not. So I’ll see you around?”
“I’m sure you will. I work here.”
I’ve upset him. And the truth is, I really do want to go on a walk with him. I like this guy. I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to like a guy again, but Scotty wormed his way under my skin in record time.
And boy, is he good-looking. The best-looking guy I’ve seen in a while, and I’m used to LA beach boys. They don’t come hotter than that.
Except here on Billionaire Island, apparently.
“You know what?” I say. “Let’s live in the moment.”
“Baby, that’s what I always do.”
“Let’s take that walk. It’s just a walk, right?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be.”
I cock my head. “You’ll be okay if it’s just a walk?”
“Em, listen to me. You’re beautiful. If I tell you I’m not attracted to you, you won’t believe me. Would I love to watch the sunrise with you? Hell, yeah. I’m human. But I’m also not a damned rapist. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Sometimes a walk is just a walk.”
Crap. Now I’ve pissed him off.
“Freud,” I say.
“What about him?”
“Your cigar comment. It’s attributed to Sigmund Freud.”
He nods. “I majored in psychology.”
I stifle my surprise. “You went to college?”
“What? You think a beach bum like me is automatically not educated?”
“No. I didn’t mean—”
“That’s exactly what you meant.”
I sigh. He’s right. I can’t get out of this. “I’m sorry I misjudged you.”
“University of Hawaii,” he says. “Magna cum laude, even.”
“Did you ever consider…”
“Doing something besides bartending? Of course I did. But I love what I do. I can live on the beach, make some great dough. Plus, I invested in a buddy’s tech startup back in school. It gives me a nice little side income.”
“Cool.” Cool? Really, Em? He just told you he’s not a beach bum loser, and you say cool?
“How about you? How’d you end up here, pretty girl?”
“I told you. A fellowship.”
“I don’t want the canned response. I want the truth.”
My mouth drops open.
I want to tell him. I want to tell him everything. Dare I?
“Art school,” I finally reply. “Art school at UCLA. I’ve sold a few pieces, but it takes a while to get a name in art, even in LA, where up-and-coming celebrities throw money at art—and new artists—just to look like they’re cultured. So I wait tables on the side.”
Not a total lie. That was my life before Lucifer.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-six. You?”
“Twenty-five.” He smiles. “That makes me your cub.”
I smile despite myself. This man makes me feel good. Really good.
And boy, it’s been a while since I’ve felt good.
“Sometimes a walk is just a walk,” I say.