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“I’m sorry I wasted money on these stupid trips,” Valerie mutters then snorts bitterly. “Long-distance never works. Never mind, I keep picking the man version of low-budget cling wrap—the ones who claim they’ll hold on tight but then slip and slide away the second you relax enough to let go.”
I laugh, but a niggle of doubt creeps over my skin. Am I a female version of cheap cellophane? I never try to hold on to a lover. I always find an excuse to let go, get away: they weren’t right for me, fatally flawed in some way, I was too busy, I didn’t need them. Looking back on my various attempts at relationships, I can’t say I missed anyone or regretted ending things. But it still bothers me. Because the fault can’t all have been with them. Part of the problem has to be with me.
Doesn’t it?
Why is it so hard for me to find someone I want to stick to?
Unbidden, Rye’s face rises up in my mind. He’s full-on smirking, one brow quirked like he thinks I’m full of it. Annoyed, I bat the image away. It doesn’t silence his voice in my head, telling me that I can lie to myself all I want, but I’m still running.
I’m not running this time. It’s a legitimate trip. A trip to see if I’ll take a job that moves me out of his life.
Because Valerie is right; long distance never works. If I give up Kill John, I’ll have to give up…God, am I really thinking of quitting my boys? Quitting Rye? I can’t. I cannot.
Crap. What I cannot do is think about this anymore. I won’t be able to function.
“I’m asking for some champagne,” I say to Valerie. “Do you want one?”
She perks up. “Sure. Why not?”
By the time the plane lands, and I’m in the back of the town car I hired, I’m fairly buzzed and overly warm—because champagne is evil that way. My head aches, and I hate all the traffic.
New York has horrible traffic. I’m fairly certain it makes most visitors cry in panic. But LA is a different kind of hell. In New York, you can bail and walk, take the subway. Here, you’re stuck in the car until you get where you need to go.
The sun is too bright and hot. I have no idea how anyone would voluntarily want to walk down the overly exposed sidewalks. When the car begins to snake up Benedict Canyon, the movement making my stomach roil, I’m cursing LA and wishing I were back in New York.
I swallow thickly, breathing through the pounding pain in my temples. My period is knocking on the door, and I am regretting the timing of this trip already. I should have waited.
The car pulls up in front of a gate that must be twenty feet high, and the driver stops. “Is there someone to buzz you in, miss?”
“I got it.” I’m already tapping the code into the app Rye sent me. The gate slides open, and the car makes its way up a long drive that hooks around a sharp bend. Mature olive trees with lacy little silver-green leaves flank the drive and provide both welcome shade and privacy.
The house doesn’t appear until we round the bend. Low-slung and L-shaped, it’s a massive modern structure of steel, expansive windows, and honed wood.
Finally, the car stops, which is a blessing. I’m not going to make it another minute. I grab my bags, wave the driver off, and head toward the house.
The front door is fifteen feet high and made of wood stained a rich, warm brown. It opens with surprising ease, and I find myself inside the soaring space that’s both cool and light filled.
Leaving my bags in the hall, I head toward the back where glimpses of a pool beckons. My heels echo in the silence. It’s a beautiful house if you like modern, but I don’t see what would cause that secretive little smile that I’d seen in Rye’s eyes when he spoke of it.
All of the main rooms face the back of the house with expansive canyon views. It takes me a minute, but I finally figure out how to operate the window walls. They slide back without a sound, opening the house up to the outside courtyard and garden. As soon as I step out, a sweetly scented breeze lifts my hair and kisses my overheated skin.
This is why people deal with the traffic and the ugly sidewalks that stretch for miles without succor. This lovely weather, the gentle rustle of palm trees, and the sweet scent of jasmine and chamomile dancing in the air. I breathe in deep and let it out slowly.
The pool stretches along the side of the house and is flanked by an orderly row of loungers. A pavilion has groups of low-slung couches, a fire pit, and what appears to be an outdoor screening area. There are a few outbuildings, little guest houses if I had to guess. They’re well hidden, surrounded by more olive trees and potted lemon trees. Each house has a pretty patio set up.
