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“Then why aren’t you staying in LA with your sister? Why are you staying here, in Orange County? And don’t say it’s because you’re fated to be with Lexi, because we both know that isn’t it.”
She’s right. I didn’t come here for Lexi. I didn’t expect to see Lexi, much less feel my high school crush rushing back to me when I did.
I came here for another woman.
Grandma.
Her cancer is back.
Of course, Ida Beau isn’t interested in anyone’s opinion on how she should pursue treatment.
I’m sworn to silence.
Maybe it is fate. That’s what I would have said, in any other situation.
With Grandma being sick?
If that’s fate, I don’t accept it.
I won’t.
…
We trade stories about exes. Funny stories, too. But they don’t have the gravity to pull my thoughts to the moment.
There’s too much in my head.
Deanna is gorgeous here, under the strange purple lights, the steady electronic beat punctuating her sentences.
The story about an ex who planned a romantic picnic at the beach, only to stare at a babe on a surfboard the entire time.
The other ex who attempted a romantic weekend at Big Bear, as a surprise. Without the warning to take extra motion sickness medicine, Deanna spent the entire drive ill and threw up on his expensive seats.
The time Stephan’s parents called right as she slipped into her leather catsuit.
I’m not proud that the mental image of Deanna in skintight leather is what finally grabs my attention, but I am a man. I feel the same base impulses as other men. And this one is strong enough I want to savor it. To enjoy a million hours of imagination. A thousand of the real thing.
Deanna Huntington, in some fancy hotel room, unzipping her catsuit, climbing onto the bed, riding someone like a stallion.
She notices the light in my eyes, tilts her head to one side, studies me carefully.
This time, she’s not looking through me. She’s looking at me like she’s imagining what she wants to do with me.
“What’s that look?” She swallows the last drop of liquor. “You’re thinking something.”
Too many things. “I’m always thinking something. The same as you.”
“Not the same as me.”
“No?”
“You think sweet, romantic things.”
Not always.
“I think of devious things,” she says.
“Catsuits and whips?”
