about and fantasizing about it.
“No. I’m not afraid of that. But, we’re not kids anymore. It’s…complex.”
“Invalid reasoning. You got any other flimsy excuses?”
I didn’t need anymore. He was reason enough with his dark-stubbled jaw, jutting cheekbones, intense gaze and a body Michelangelo could’ve sculpted. It looked like it was carved from stone. I wouldn’t mind running my hands over his chest, down his waist—this line of thinking had to stop.
“I was looking forward to going home and changing out of these clothes. They aren’t very comfortable.” It was a terrible excuse, but I didn’t want to give up and let him win unchallenged.
“I’m sure I have something you can throw on. Got anymore I can bat over the fence?” He looked over and winked. His eyes were obscene. Long and cat-like with a thick fan of black lashes. His profile was Romanesque. If it wasn’t for the small pock mark above his left eyebrow—a chickenpox scar—he’d be too perfect to be human. At least physically. Mentally and emotionally he was far from it.
“Sounds like you have an answer for everything.”
“Always do, Bessy Lou.”
Embarrassment flared inside me and I sat bolt upright, straining against the seatbelt. “Do not call me Bessy. That’s a cow’s name.”
“Whoa. I was only teasing.” He held up a hand in surrender. “Won’t happen again. Won’t even refer to the burgers as Bessy.”
I knew he didn’t remember the summer after eighth grade when he called me thunder thighs when we were swimming. I lived on Diet Coke and salads with fat free dressing that summer. I didn’t hold that against him though. Boys that age are all insensitive and obnoxious. But calling me Bessy wouldn’t fly.
About five minutes off the highway, Derek turned up a winding road and pulled through a gate enclosing a steep driveway. The enormous house was as expected of an L.A. mansion: square and modern with a lot of glass. It was a far cry from our identical, small ranch houses in Santa Cruz. It didn’t look like somewhere I would picture Derek.
“It’s corporate owned,” he said, explaining the style not matching his taste—unless it did now.
“Do you like it?” I asked.
“No. It’s too new. No character. You know me, I need creaky front steps and peeling paint.” He smiled at me and my insides thawed. Maybe I did still know him a bit.
We got out of the car and entered the house through a door in the garage. It opened into the hallway off the kitchen. A wall of windows lined the back where a cedar deck enclosed an enormous crystal blue pool. The kitchen was manly and mammoth with black marble countertops and cherry wood cupboards. “I’ll grab a bottle of wine and we can sit on the deck. Once you’re comfortable, I’ll fire up the grill and start cooking.”
“I can help,” I offered, then was smacked with the sense of playing house. Getting cozy with Derek Bast was dangerous. I had to remember that.
“I’ve got it covered. You’re my guest and I had to practically tie you up and drag you here, so I’m not going to make you help me.”
Tie me up? Those words sent another flash of heat through my body.
I watched him take two wine glasses out of the cupboard and select a bottle of red. “When did you start drinking wine?”
One New Year’s Eve when we were young we sneaked a bottle of wine into my bedroom. We each took a big gulp, gagged and grimaced and swore never to drink anything but the cocktails they made with juice or soda to mask the pungent, bitter taste of the alcohol.
He looked over his shoulder while uncorking the bottle. “When did you? Or don’t you?”
“I do. Started drinking wine in college, I guess.”
“I started when the business dinners with the big wigs came along. At first I hated it, but it grew on me.” He grabbed the bottle and two glasses and strode to a sliding glass door. “Come on out.”
The sun was just above the trees. A bright orange ball in the
“No. I’m not afraid of that. But, we’re not kids anymore. It’s…complex.”
“Invalid reasoning. You got any other flimsy excuses?”
I didn’t need anymore. He was reason enough with his dark-stubbled jaw, jutting cheekbones, intense gaze and a body Michelangelo could’ve sculpted. It looked like it was carved from stone. I wouldn’t mind running my hands over his chest, down his waist—this line of thinking had to stop.
“I was looking forward to going home and changing out of these clothes. They aren’t very comfortable.” It was a terrible excuse, but I didn’t want to give up and let him win unchallenged.
“I’m sure I have something you can throw on. Got anymore I can bat over the fence?” He looked over and winked. His eyes were obscene. Long and cat-like with a thick fan of black lashes. His profile was Romanesque. If it wasn’t for the small pock mark above his left eyebrow—a chickenpox scar—he’d be too perfect to be human. At least physically. Mentally and emotionally he was far from it.
“Sounds like you have an answer for everything.”
“Always do, Bessy Lou.”
Embarrassment flared inside me and I sat bolt upright, straining against the seatbelt. “Do not call me Bessy. That’s a cow’s name.”
“Whoa. I was only teasing.” He held up a hand in surrender. “Won’t happen again. Won’t even refer to the burgers as Bessy.”
I knew he didn’t remember the summer after eighth grade when he called me thunder thighs when we were swimming. I lived on Diet Coke and salads with fat free dressing that summer. I didn’t hold that against him though. Boys that age are all insensitive and obnoxious. But calling me Bessy wouldn’t fly.
About five minutes off the highway, Derek turned up a winding road and pulled through a gate enclosing a steep driveway. The enormous house was as expected of an L.A. mansion: square and modern with a lot of glass. It was a far cry from our identical, small ranch houses in Santa Cruz. It didn’t look like somewhere I would picture Derek.
“It’s corporate owned,” he said, explaining the style not matching his taste—unless it did now.
“Do you like it?” I asked.
“No. It’s too new. No character. You know me, I need creaky front steps and peeling paint.” He smiled at me and my insides thawed. Maybe I did still know him a bit.
We got out of the car and entered the house through a door in the garage. It opened into the hallway off the kitchen. A wall of windows lined the back where a cedar deck enclosed an enormous crystal blue pool. The kitchen was manly and mammoth with black marble countertops and cherry wood cupboards. “I’ll grab a bottle of wine and we can sit on the deck. Once you’re comfortable, I’ll fire up the grill and start cooking.”
“I can help,” I offered, then was smacked with the sense of playing house. Getting cozy with Derek Bast was dangerous. I had to remember that.
“I’ve got it covered. You’re my guest and I had to practically tie you up and drag you here, so I’m not going to make you help me.”
Tie me up? Those words sent another flash of heat through my body.
I watched him take two wine glasses out of the cupboard and select a bottle of red. “When did you start drinking wine?”
One New Year’s Eve when we were young we sneaked a bottle of wine into my bedroom. We each took a big gulp, gagged and grimaced and swore never to drink anything but the cocktails they made with juice or soda to mask the pungent, bitter taste of the alcohol.
He looked over his shoulder while uncorking the bottle. “When did you? Or don’t you?”
“I do. Started drinking wine in college, I guess.”
“I started when the business dinners with the big wigs came along. At first I hated it, but it grew on me.” He grabbed the bottle and two glasses and strode to a sliding glass door. “Come on out.”
The sun was just above the trees. A bright orange ball in the
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