Page 29

I throw my hands up. “Do whatever people normally do when they get a day off.”

His lips press tight. “They normally sit at the DMV for hours getting a license renewed, or grocery shop. I have you for all that.”

I prod the inside of my cheek with my tongue, wondering if he has a point. When I have a day off…I work. But if I didn’t work, I’d be doing laundry or running errands or jogging while thinking about work. Maybe we need to pull an actual fun person into this conversation, one who enjoys her life.

“Then hike. Or surf. Though I can only picture you doing those things in a suit.”

“Well, obviously,” he says. “I’m not a savage. But I’m not interested in hiking or surfing. I’m interested in making money.”

I exhale wearily. “You live in LA, for Christ’s sake. The things you could do are endless. Drive up the coast. Visit a museum.”

He gives a slow, exaggerated blink, as if he’s been roused from deep sleep. “Sorry, I think I dozed off there. You excel at making leisure time sound dull.”

I’ve got to admit—I bored myself there too. I cycle through memories of times when I was still fun, but only childhood comes to mind: hide and seek or ghost in the graveyard on a summer night, playing badminton with my sisters while my dad worked the grill, cheering us on. All of my happy memories involve other people, which is, perhaps, why I haven’t had a lot of good memories over the past year.

“Go to an amusement park,” I offer, more out of desperation than anything else. I picture him standing in a long line, wearing a suit, texting me to demand I explain Dippin’ Dots to him. “Roller coasters, funnel cake, arcade games. Hard to get more exciting than that.” I try to sound enthusiastic but I think I’m failing.

He sips his drink. “I wonder, when I hear you say these things, how limited your life experience must actually be. But fine. We’ll go. You and me. Make the arrangements.”

I stare at him in dismay. Sure, I love amusement parks, but I didn’t intend to go with him. “Why would you take me? You’ve got half the females in this city eating out of your hand.”

“Because amusement parks are filthy, and I don’t want to be lured into having sex at one.” He holds his empty glass up to the waitress. “What’s the problem? You seem like the sort of gal who would appreciate funnel cake and Simpsons-themed paraphernalia.”

“Wow,” I reply. “So, you want me there because I’m tacky and not attractive enough to fuck. You’ve crafted quite the persuasive argument.”

“Are you denying you like funnel cake?” he challenges, folding his arms across his chest.

“You’d have to be born without a soul to dislike funnel cake,” I mutter.

“Then it’s settled,” he says. He’s smiling as if he’s won something.

* * *

On Friday, I arrive at Hayes’s house an hour later than normal. He’s already up and dressed, wearing khaki shorts and a T-shirt from some London pub. I freeze, completely struck by the visual before me.

I’m not used to seeing him in regular clothes, and if I’d thought it would normalize him somehow, I was wrong. Now all I see are gloriously fit legs and surprisingly muscular arms, his shirt clinging just enough to his chest and stomach to assure me they’re as taut and nicely built as the rest of him.

I, on the other hand, am not much to look at right now. Barefaced, sunglasses, shorts, and a tank top. No jewelry or lash extensions anywhere to be seen, as different from the women he dates as I could possibly be. The closest thing to perfume is the tang of my sunscreen.

I hold my arms out. “You’re welcome. I went the extra mile to make sure you wouldn’t be lured into having sex.”

“Is that a high school track team shirt?” he asks, alarmed.

“Not fancy enough for you, milord? My Gucci amusement-park wear is all at the cleaners.”

He blows out a breath. “My problem isn’t your lack of style. My problem is you look sixteen. The kind of sixteen that is the definition of jailbait, and the shirt isn’t helping. I’m worried I’ll get arrested. Those shorts barely cover your ass and that tank isn’t exactly loose.”

I glance down. I guess I’m covering up a lot less than normal. “This is just what I run in.”

His eyes sweep over me. “Clearly I should be spending more time in Santa Monica. But that doesn’t negate the fact that you’re as fresh-faced as a teenage girl and wearing her clothes today too.”

I shrug and start for the door. “Try not to act creepy in public.”

He follows. “I generally try not to act creepy as a rule.”

“I would not have guessed that.”

His mouth twitches, and I feel oddly...victorious spying that unwilling smile of his. I suddenly realize how glad I am he’s spending this rare day off with me. Along with the more troubling realization that I wouldn’t want anyone here in my place.