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“I ride a bike for my business,” she says. “It does the trick. Anyway, let’s get going. I have clients to see.”
“What do you do?” I ask.
“Organic Landscaping,” I say.
“Of course,” I smile.
Both of us stopped at the driver’s side of the Porsche. We exchanged looks. We both want to be behind the wheel.
“I thought I would drive me to the office because I know how to get there,” I say.
“Ah, no,” she says with a smile. “Pop the trunk, and I will take my gear off.”
“I don’t think that is going to fit,” I say, eyeing the contraption she is lowering off her back.
Even with the convertible down, it’s not going to fit.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
“It’s home for the next whenever until we can decide about the inn,” she says matter-of-factly.
I start shaking my head no before my lips start moving. “What do you mean?” I ask in a deadly tone.
“This has my tent tarp, and of course, this is my bedroll,” she says.
I stoop so that she and I are eye to eye.
“Where do you propose to sleep?” I ask.
“On the beach,” she says like it’s obvious.
The attached bedroll, which is currently dangling off the backpack, has to weigh 75+ lbs. That’s a considerable weight for someone as slight as Brynne to be hauling around.
“I’ll hold it,” I say. “Drive us to the inn’s front door, and I’ll set it inside. You do have a key, right?”
She doesn’t answer. Again, she looks at me, this time sheepishly.
“You have been entering and exiting the inn with a key, correct?” I ask her pointedly.
“I have a secret way to get in,” she confesses.
My head tips back, and I look skyward. “Do you want to know how much I pay my security team?” I ask rhetorically.
We both climbed into the car. I ride shotgun with the monster backpack resting on my lap. Brynne drives a standard shift with ease. I got so sidetracked that I had not thought to ask if she knew how – luckily, she does. She waits while I deposit her stuff inside the door, and we are off.
“Santa Monica,” I say. “Need GPS?”
“I can get us there,” she says.
“I have an office building on Ocean Avenue,” I say, riveted to the glorious sight of her hair starting to lift and swirl as we gain speed. I touch her shoulder, still clad in my T-shirt, to get her attention.
I looked at her hair. “You probably should braid it or somehow pull it back,” I say.
She pauses before we hit the road out of Dove Point. She draws fabulously unruly hair back to reveal exquisite bone structure. She ties it all in a knot. Once we take off, it stays in place as wedrive Pacific Coast Highway for the nearly half hour it takes for us to arrive in quaint downtown Santa Monica.
I feel like a spectacle riding shotgun in my car while a babe in a man’s shirt is driving. I point to the building, and she pulls up curbside. I grab what I need and get out of the car. I eye the gas tank.
“Well, environmentalist,” I say. “You’re a pretty good driver. And you’re going to need gas.”
