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Kendall
Snowflake is walking me. Seriously. She is the leader and I’m the girl being pulled by her leash. It’s crazy how strong she is. Determined. Even at ten o’clock at night. You’d think she’d do her business and be ready for bed, but no. Not Snow. She struts up the sidewalk like she’s on a mission to save the neighborhood from nocturnal wrongdoings.
Her tenacity is a great Friday night distraction even though over the past week I’ve graduated from thoughts about my future to thoughts about the present.
And a certain guy next door.
When the sidewalk meets the end of his driveway, Snowflake’s body shakes with excitement. She tugs harder on the leash, eager, it seems, to race to his front door. I look up the sloped drive to see if someone’s home and find Vaughn walking toward us.
“Hey, neighbor,” he says. He’s wearing white-washed jeans, a black T-shirt that hugs his chest and biceps, and no shoes. And I think he’s been drinking.
“You’re back from Paris.”
“Either that or I’m a hologram.” He smiles. It’s a slightly lopsided smile—as if his lips aren’t fully on board with the command from his brain—and incredibly endearing.
I look around for signs of what’s going on, but his house is quiet. Thankfully I don’t hear the clanking of keys or see any in his hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He comes to a stop in front of me and Snow. She goes berserk, twisting the leash so that I let go. “Hey, Snowflake.” He bends to pet her and falls back onto his butt. She climbs into his lap and smothers his angular jawline in kisses.
“Were you going somewhere?” I ask.
He looks up at me, tired, and oddly vulnerable. “I was headed to your house,” he says quietly.
Oh. I sit down on the ground next to him, lift Snow off his lap, and put her on the other side of me. “Stay.” She huffs but drops to her belly, her little face atop her front paws. “What for?”
“For better company than another beer could provide.” He lays back, eyes to the sky, hands laced behind his head, his knees bent.
“I’m better company than twelve ounces of fermented hops?”
The question pulls a laugh out of him. “It was imported, if that helps.”
Now I laugh. “That makes all the difference.” I lie down beside him. The ground is a little cool, but the air is warm, a slight breeze upping the humidity and carrying the scent of jasmine. The sky is overrun with stars hanging out with a half moon.
“Here.” He sits up, reaches behind his neck to pull off his shirt, then balls it up to tuck under my head as a pillow. Dead. I’m dead. His muscles flex as he resumes his position. I try not to stare at his ripped abs.
“Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
We stay like that, side by side in comfortable silence, for a minute or two. In the distance, I hear the faint sounds of traffic on Sunset.
“Can I trust you?” he finally says, like it’s taken Herculean effort to get the words out.
“You can.”
He doesn’t move or speak.
“I promise.”
“A story in Variety came out today about me being one of the people the America Rocks producers are considering to take over as host.”
“Oh my God!” I turn my face toward him. “That’s a really big deal. Congratulations.” America Rocks is my favorite reality show.
“It’s not mine yet, and according to Hollywood insiders the producers would be idiots to give me the gig.”
“Why?”
