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Franklin’s driver,Royce, pulls up at Zara’s apartment. A short, loud blast of a car horn sounds behind us.
“Do I have to get out? I love this car.”
“Yes,” Franklin and I say in sync.
Royce jumps out and opens the door for her.
She groans, and I wait for Zara to reach her front door. She punches in a code, and the glass door closes behind her.
“Malibu, please, Royce.” He reaches over and takes my hand in his warm one. We don’t speak until we’re on the Pacific Coast Highway.
“So, what is the story with Royce? Is he available for when you’ve had a few drinks?”
“A few drinks? No, he’s my driver.”
“All the time?”
“All the time.”
“Is this your car?”
“Yes.”
“You pay Royce to drive you around inyourcar?”
“That’s what drivers do, Penny.”
“Do you have a license?”
“Of course I do.”
“So, you’re lazy?” I can’t contain a smirk.
“No one has ever called me lazy.” He kisses my knuckles. “You know from experience I’m anything but lazy.”
My cheeks heat as I remember our night together.
He. Was.Not. Lazy.
I stare out the window at the lights flashing by. On one side are canyons and mountains, with homes built into the landform. On the ocean side is a single row of houses with their own private beach. My thoughts race ahead, wondering what Franklin’s home is like and why he doesn’t go there.
Is this home high in the hills with a panoramic view or on the shoreline?
Sitting in his luxurious black Bentley, I imagine his home to be as classy as his car. We slow as we pass the Malibu Barefoot Bar.
I grin at Franklin. “Your local hangout?”
“I’ve never been in there.”
“You should. Even I’ve been with friends after they surfed, and we hung out all afternoon. It’s fun.”
“Don’t start with being barefoot again.”
We stop, and a garage door slides up as we veer into the short driveway, waiting for the door to fully open.
Beachside.
My heart races thinking about being inside Franklin’s home, even if it is for business.
