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Reed’s eyes met mine, and I refused to give him an opportunity to talk me in circles again. I mean, I had already thanked him. What would happen if I sat through dinner? Would I end up paying the bill and offering him a ride home on my bike, too?
My wallet and Daisy couldn’t handle that kind of strain.
Yeah, fuck the apps. I’ll binge on the to-go boxes when I get home.
“Okay…well…” I scooted my seat back and stood up. “I’m going to head out.”
Reed stood and picked my bike helmet up off the floor. His tall frame dwarfed mine as he placed the helmet gently on my head, his long fingers whispering across my chin as he locked the strap in place.
And I didn’t just feel his touch. I felt his touch—static, that rare crackling in the air that happens between two people who are drawn to one another. I was an annoyed and pissed-off woman, and he was the world’s most irritating human being—there should have been nothing.
But there was something.
I felt it, I saw it, I fucking tasted it. It was enough to make the baby hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I’d always known to look out for the devil in angel’s clothing, but I had never expected him to be so damn appealing in his own. This guy was himself, evil and intrigue and undisputable confidence in one condensed package.
I had the instant urge, no, need, to haul ass out of that restaurant.
A guy like Reed Luca was dangerous. He was bad news.
Attraction, huh? Yeah, I was attracted to this asshole like a fucking magnet. My body wanted to blast off into orbit and rotate around his gravitational pull.
But I hated him.
And I’d keep on hating him, no matter how strong his appeal.
I stepped back and put some much-needed distance between us. “Er…thanks,” I muttered, and the chinstrap of my helmet strained against the movement of my jaw.
He grinned down at me. “You’re welcome.”
“So…I guess we’ve settled on a truce then, right?”
He held out both arms. “I, Reed Luca, solemnly promise that I will post no more YouTube videos about Lola Sexton or her column, Sex Says.”
“Thanks.” For fuck’s sake, how many times was I going to thank this guy?
My mind screamed abort abort abort, and I started to fidget on my feet. I knew I needed to nip this little powwow in the bud, but I had a proclivity for being really awkward and weird when it came to good-byes. Handshake? Hug? Just a simple see ya later? I never knew what the fuck to do.
So I did what any weirdo wearing a bike helmet adorned in sparkly pink paint would do; I held out my hand and offered an awkward shake and patted him on the shoulder with the other.
His smile grew wider as he took my hand into his.
“Friends?” he asked.
That forced a shocked laugh from my lungs. “Um…thanks, but no thanks,” I responded immediately. “Your little YouTube video is still gaining like one hundred views a freaking second as we speak. You and I—” I gestured to him and then to myself “—will never be friends.”
“Are you saying—” he started to say, but I instantly cut him off. There was absolutely no way in hell I would give this guy another opening to take me on another merry-go-round of crazy that was a conversation with him.
“Have a nice life, Reed Luca.”
And with that, I strode out of the restaurant and out toward Daisy while I silently prayed to every god out there to let me go the rest of my life without having to have another conversation, much less interaction, with that guy. Hell, I was going to make it my life’s mission to avoid him at all costs.
It wasn’t until I had gotten home, and my stomach started rumbling its needs, that I realized I had forgotten to stop at the bar and get my to-go boxes.
God, he even made me forget about food.
I never forgot about food.
Yeah, Reed Luca was bad fucking news.
Chilly morning air filled my lungs as I unscrewed the top of my thermos, pulled the cup from its resting place between my legs, and poured myself a steaming serving of wake the fuck up.
I inhaled the smell before taking a swig.
Life had been busy for the last three weeks, and I’d worked more hours than the nine-to-fivers I so often mourned for.
But I was living a dream, one I’d had for ages, and it didn’t get much better than that.
The fog looked segregated from up here, two stark lines forming along the banks of the channel as if an invisible wall kept it from settling over the water.
“Reed!”
I looked down about forty feet, along the sweet sweep of one of the magnificent cables on the Golden Gate Bridge to find the caller of my name, my coworker, Kenny.
“Yeah, Ken?” I asked innocently, swinging my feet back and forth as I took another sip of steaming sustenance.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Coffee break,” I offered on a yell. I could see him shake his head despite the distance, completely unimpressed with my casual attitude. I got it, even though I might not show it. This was a short stint for me, a hobby, for all intents and purposes, but it wasn’t for Kenny. This was his everyday reality, his bread and butter, and the very thing he relied on to support his family.
When I looked back, he looked mad.
“Get back to work!”
I sighed and looked back out over the view.
I’d actually considered climbing to the top of this particular hill illegally numerous times in the past, but I came to the same conclusion each and every time: it was too risky.
I liked to live my life pretty freely, but I wasn’t dumb enough not to weigh actions by their cost in consequences. These days, with everything going on in the world, doing something as nefarious as climbing the Golden Gate Bridge without permission wouldn’t be seen as a simple misdemeanor. And being sentenced to spend the rest of my natural life behind bars for suspected terrorism would put a certain kind of hitch in my lifestyle.
Instead, I’d bided my time with day-to-day diverse jobs, changing it up when I grew bored or disinterested, until the right connection fell into my lap. Of course, it only fell after I’d shoved it by spending countless hours searching for the right people and the proper vetting. But then, yeah, it’d just fallen in my lap. The perfect job to get me where I needed to be—Golden Gate Bridge Touch-Up Painter. It’s a fancy title, but don’t let that fool you into thinking it’s dumb. It’s not. It’s the coolest fucking job on the planet—or, it had been for the last three weeks anyway.
But it was about to come to a close, and I needed to find something else to occupy my time. I wasn’t consistent, but I was consistently busy and intended to keep it that way. I wasn’t the kind of man who liked to be idle. I needed to be out, doing, seeing, learning new things.
And that was even more true now that I’d met Lola Sexton, fallen completely in lust with her personality, and then lost her.
Zero communication.
I’d tried sending her an email about a week after our date at Bitters, Bock & Rye, but she never replied.
“Reed!” Kenny yelled again, this time a lot closer.
I looked to him with a smile and a wave and packed up my picnic. Time to work. Despite how it may seem, I wasn’t lazy. I worked hard from day-to-day to accomplish the goals set forth—they just weren’t long-term.
In fact, we were rounding the finish line on this particular venture today. Painting this bridge was a routine necessity, thanks to the foggy microclimate and its destructive effects on paint, and as I found out, they didn’t fuck around. They used a huge crew so that the time wasn’t wasted and the work got done as quickly as possible. It didn’t do all that much good to get one end of the bridge done, move to the other, only to have to do the first end all over again.
So I got down to work for the last time on this particular task and basked in the glory that lived about 750 feet above the water.
I’d spent my entire life in San Francisco, but I’d only once had a view as interesting as this—and I’d only had my first experience with it three weeks ago.
My apartment was dark thanks to the drawn curtains as I let the door slam shut behind me and tossed my keys onto the table right beside it. The flash of the light on my answering machine—an honest to God machine circa the 1990s—sporadically illuminated the cozy space.
I hit the button as I crossed the room, headed to open the curtains and window so I could smoke a cigarette before hitting the shower.
Okay—and check my email. I’d become goddamn compulsive about it.
I’d honestly never had a woman pique my interest as much as Lola Sexton. I wasn’t a traditional kind of guy when it came to my tastes in the opposite sex. Big tits, curvy asses, long legs, those weren’t what drew me in. Sure, I occasionally appreciated—I wasn’t a fucking monk. But it wasn’t the physicality of a woman that excited me. It took an intelligent, rare, free-spirit type who had a natural confidence about her that had nothing to do with the size of her bra or external beauty.
A woman like Lo-la. God, even her name trips off my tongue in two perfect syllables.
Sure, I dated, spent the occasional night enjoying the company of a woman, but I’d yet to find someone who actually intrigued me like the eccentric and beautiful little conundrum that was the dating columnist who rode a bicycle with pink wheels and a basket.
