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“I’ve got one question,” he asks, wrapping his hands around me in my mini sundress and pulling me near. My stomach flips, feeling his cock happy to see me too. “Do you need a nap, or can I start spoiling you now?”
Jet lag ceases to exist in his arms. “I’m wide awake and ready.”
He opens the car door for me, seeming far more at home here than he ever did in Hilton Head. California suits him. He looks like their surfer king ambassador.
I’ve only been to LA a few times, which was forever ago, flying in and out as a teen for photoshoots with my dad as my chaperone. I’m certainly not that teen anymore. Not with the thrill between my thighs at the sight of him, at the silver rings on his tan fingers clicking against the steering wheel as we wind through traffic.
He points out the sights, telling me about his show, and I’m trying to listen, but I pinch my thigh, not believing I’m here. The sign we pass after a while reading “Malibu: 21 Miles of Scenic Beauty” isn’t bluffing.
I kick off my sandals and put my feet on his dashboard.
“How long have you lived here?”
“I got this place when I went into rehab. It became my way to start over. My old house had too many fucked up memories.”
“So you moved in once you got out?”
“Yeah, I worked with a designer to get it ready. I went right back to work too. I was fucking lucky I still had a job. But the showrunner is a friend of mine—Lorraine Morris. She’s from Savannah, actually, near us. We met out here when I was starting out, and she said she’d write a show for me, and she did.”
“That’s The Band, right?”
I catch his eyes lingering up my legs, at how my white dress skims high up my bare thighs.
“Yeah. Lorraine held the production for me until I got my shit together. I’d do anything for her now.”
“How much longer until you wrap this season?”
I hope it’s not long. At this rate, I’ll burn through all my vacation weeks trying to see him. I already feel guilty for taking days off again, but Mama told me to—playing the “you only live once” card. And from her, I had to honor the wisdom. But I cheated a bit. I made Penny promise to keep me updated if anything changes. With Redix’s pull, I can be home on a plane in hours.
“Just a couple more weeks.” He grins my way, and he’s my home. “Then I have a film in Atlanta.”
“Really?” That’s hope. That’s only a four-hour drive from Hilton Head. “For how long?”
“A few months if all goes as planned.”
His lips purse. The veins in his neck tense too.
“What?”
“I might as well tell you now—Angie’s cast in it too. It was planned over a year ago.”
Dread fills me. Why? But I gotta give him a chance.
“Is she gonna be a problem for us?”
He reaches for my hand, “Not at all,” squeezing it gently.
We let the tunes he’s playing from our teens fill the minutes to wherever he’s taking me. I don’t care. I just let him rub his thumb over my hand and lead the way. When we pull in front of a quaint shop off the Pacific Coast Highway, I read the sign above the door and melt.
“Ice cream for lunch?”
“They have a special flavor here.”
The delight in his eyes when he takes my hand; I’ll never stop loving him.
I hear the gasps. A few people recognize Redix when we walk across the stone patio into the tiny shop. But they don’t approach him. I hope that’s a California perk.
“Dude!” The guy behind the counter points his chrome scoop at Redix. “You want the usual?” He glances at me. “Two cones?”
