Chapter 6
6
He walks into my small apartment, gaze constantly moving, taking in everything. It can’t be anything like what he’s used to at home. Being a librarian isn’t the best-paying job, especially at the lower levels, and rent in this city is astounding. I also love vintage stores. Therefore, my decorating style is best summed up as “I found it discounted or for free and thought it was cool.”
In my living room, there’s a charcoal sofa (half price) with an array of colorful throw pillows (also bought on sale). A chunky wood coffee table a friend gifted me (the scars give it character). A cracked antique mirror I found on the sidewalk (definitely neither cursed nor possessed). And an assortment of pillar candles and houseplants. There’s always at least one on its deathbed in need of replacement.
But it’s my big old bookshelf that holds his interest. He bends down, and the way the denim molds to his behind is something else. The thirst is real. Not that I have any business looking. I still have no idea what he’s doing here. While we were outside, we established that the press hasn’t bothered me. But here he is, inspecting my habitat just the same.
“A lot of Nora Roberts,” he says.
“La Nora is queen.”
“Three different editions of Frankenstein ?”
“Mary Shelley is life.” I shrug. “Or life after death. At any rate, they keep putting out great new hardcover editions. What’s a girl to do?”
Then he spies my battered copy of Wuthering Heights and decides to examine it. “Did you steal this from your high school library?”
“As if I would do such a thing.”
He does the solo eyebrow-raise thing. It’s definitely one of his go-to facial expressions.
“It was on the verge of falling apart, and no one had borrowed it since before I was born,” I confess. “I felt bad for it sitting there all unloved and unwanted.”
“There’s a reason that happened. Heathcliff is a dick.”
“This is more of your ‘I hate bad boys’ shtick, isn’t it? I was sixteen. What do you want from me? I said I lost it and paid the fine, so it wasn’t really stealing, thank you very much.”
He shakes his head sadly. “What shocking behavior. I am shocked.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Now you’re abusing me. A fine hostess you are. Are you even going to offer me a glass of wine?”
“Would you like a glass of wine, Ali?”
“I’d prefer a beer if you have it,” he says, cool as can be. “And I believe I asked you not to call me that.”
“It’s good to want things. I love that for you. Keep it up.”
He grunts.
There just so happens to be a couple of bottles of Blue Moon in the back of the fridge, cunningly hidden behind a bag of out-of-date salad mix. I twist the cap off one and hand it over.
“Thank you.” He heads toward the mess on my dining table. “What’s all this?”
“The makings of my list. Things I want to do before...you know.”
His frown returns with a vengeance. “Have you told anyone else about that? Your friends and family?”
“I decided not to.”
He waits patiently, but I have no more to say on the subject. “As ridiculous as it is, I know it’s still weighing on your mind,” he says finally. “You shouldn’t have to deal with it alone.”
“I’m not. You’re here now. Hooray!”
He narrows his eyes on me. Like he’s not entirely certain I am joking. Messing with this man just might be my new favorite thing.
“So I made a Hollywood star cry,” I say. “That’s something that happened.”
“Please.” He snorts. “Daria’s an actress with a film to promote. Her marketing team must be loving this.”
I am not convinced. Given I just got cheated on, the idea I might have inadvertently hurt someone in a similar manner is not nice. Though nothing happened between him and me.
“Lilah,” he says in a gentler tone. “Daria and I aren’t together. Any moment now, there’ll be exclusive photos of her being comforted by her costar.”
“If you say so.”
He takes a seat at the table, setting his ankle on the opposite knee, making himself comfortable. “You were about to tell me why you haven’t talked to anyone else about this Witchy Wanda situation.”
“Good Witch Willow,” I correct, taking the seat across from him. “The thing is, I’ve decided to embrace toxic positivity. This whole dying-next-week thing doesn’t make me want to vomit at all. Everything is fine.”
His grunt is full of disbelief.
“I mean, think about it, Ali.”
“You really do need to stop calling me that,” he mumbles.
“What would even be the point in freaking out? We all die sometime. It’s an irrefutable fact of life,” I say, doing my best to convince us both. “What does it matter if my time is up sooner rather than later?”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Good vibes only.”
“Good vibes only,” he repeats in that accent, sounding not the least bit convinced. “Great.”
“I have a plan. I’m going to spend the next week working through items on my wish list. The idea is to enjoy myself so much that the threat of an early demise hanging over me won’t even matter.”
“What’s a wish list?”
“I am so glad you asked. It’s like a bucket list, but better,” I explain. “No negative death connotations. Nothing to do with domestic cleaning supplies either. It’s all happiness and sparkles from start to finish.”
“Right.”
“The thing is, I ran the numbers. You’ll be delighted to hear that I now believe the situation could go either way. I may or may not die next Sunday. But whatever happens, I’ve taken the next week off work, and I’m going to have fun.”
“All right,” he says, as if he’s considering giving me his grudging approval. As if I even need it. This one has some alpha tendencies. “What’s on the list? Skydiving and bungee jumping and so on?”
“No. None of those things. Yikes.” I take a sip of wine. “I do not feel the need to test gravity. There’s a delicate balance between experiences that make you feel alive and ones that actually increase your chances of an early death. I intend to stick with the first.”
“What have you got, then?” Now he’s on his feet again. He takes a cookie off the plate on the kitchen island and takes a bite. After he’s finished his mouthful he says, “These are great.”
“My mom made them. She can bake like nobody’s business.”
Head cocked and beer in hand, he starts reading the papers on the table. Guess I took too long to answer his question. There’s a lot of paperwork to see. Mom printed off numerous articles about best bucket-list ideas and top things to do before turning thirty, along with several versions of my list. Lots of ideas were added before later being discarded.
“‘Drive along the coast in a convertible,’” he reads aloud.
“I will of course be wearing a scarf that will dramatically fly away on a gust of wind. Just like Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief . My gran used to love that film. And I mean, where would we be without metaphors regarding the fragility of life and the importance of living in the moment?”
The frown he gives me is lukewarm at best. Like he disapproves of the idea but doesn’t see any actual harm in it. “‘Eat at a Michelin star restaurant.’ Any in particular?”
“I imagine it will largely depend on what I can get into on such short notice.”
He looks up. “You crossed out ‘Cut own bangs and dye hair blue’?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I just don’t know how it would look. If I do die and they decide to have an open casket, it could be a disaster.”
He says nothing for a time. Just stares at me.
“If you’re going to be judgmental, you can leave,” I say, legs crossed and glass of wine in hand.
“Sorry. ‘Axe throwing’ has a question mark next to it?”
“I’m not sure about that one. I can be a little clumsy.”
He picks up a pen and crosses the idea out. Fair enough. “‘Stay up all night with someone special until the sun rises. Go skinny-dipping. Wear a ball gown to the opera. Attend a polo match. Designer shopping spree.’”
“I’m open to re-creating any scene from Pretty Woman . It’s one of my mom’s favorites. The women in my family have great taste in films.”
“What’s yours?”
“What’s my what?”
“Your favorite movie,” he says. “You’ve told me your gran’s and mom’s. But you haven’t told me yours.”
“ The Shape of Water. It’s so romantic but weird too, you know?”
“I don’t like your chances of finding a fish man to woo in the next week.”
“Me neither.”
He just nods. “The rest of these all seem reasonably doable, however.”
“For someone with your resources perhaps. It might prove a little trickier for me. I have no car and the lotto check won’t clear for five days.”
He selects another handwritten document from the table. “‘Drink absinthe and dance in the rain.’”
“Of course, those two aren’t mutually exclusive. I checked the weather report. It doesn’t look promising, but you never know.”
“‘Milk a cow’ has also been crossed out.”
“Time constraints. I can’t do everything.”
“Right,” he says. Then his brows start to rise. “What have we got here?”
“I don’t know. What have we got where?”
“‘Have great sex.’ Interesting. Very interesting.”
“You just had to pick up the piece of paper with that on it, didn’t you?” I scramble out of my seat and attempt to rip the piece of paper out of his hand. Of course, he holds it high over his head. The smirk on the bastard’s face makes me want to growl. “Give it to me, Alistair.”
“Now you say my name properly. Though I’m saddened to see you forgot your manners. Where’s the ‘please’?”
Given the chance to climb a ridiculously hot and hard-bodied man, I always thought I would be more than happy to rise to the challenge. But it is in fact more difficult than it looks. My poor sore hip doesn’t appreciate it, for one. And this T-shirt bra is simply not up to all my jumping around. As much as I try tugging on his arm, it doesn’t move an inch. Trust him and his stupid bulging biceps to ruin everything.
“Fine. Have it.” I retake my seat with a sniff of disdain. Salty suits me. “I don’t care. I am an adult. You will not shame me for having a healthy sex life. Or attempting to have one, anyway.”
A moment later he sits too. “Where are you intending to find this great sex, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I mind.”
“Your ex wasn’t up to the job, I take it?”
I pick up my glass and swirl the remaining wine around and around. Class and sophistication—that’s me. “Do you remember when we were at the bar last night and I started asking personal questions and you refused to answer?”
“I remember you saying answering a question with a question is obnoxious.”
“Look at you, dancing so skillfully on my last nerve. Bravo.”
His smile is fleeting. There and gone in an instant. “My mother made me take lessons.”
“What? Dancing?”
He nods. “Along with etiquette and some other nonsense.”
“Did you enjoy them?”
“Not particularly. It was a lot of memorizing forks and waltzing.” He downs a mouthful of beer. “I preferred being outside playing rugby.” And that is when his guard goes back up. You can see it in his eyes. He sits up straight and frowns. “I should be going. I only wanted to check that you were okay. Thank you for the beer.”
I hate the idea of him leaving. Let’s not examine why. But I have a sneaking suspicion that if he walks out now, I won’t see him again in this life. Which would be sad. “I, um, used to work after school in the café my mom managed. It didn’t leave much time for sports or other stuff. But I got free cake.”
“Free cake is good.”
“That’s what I thought.” I smile. “Mostly I’d hang out at the library or the Santa Monica Pier or the mall with my friends.”
“You grew up near the beach?”
“In the general vicinity.”
“We moved to Malibu when I was thirteen. It was a hell of a change from home. Not much sunshine in Scotland.” His fingers tap against the table. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“With the wish list?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, first I have to organize all of this and come up with a clean copy of my top twelve most desired things to do. A dozen feels like a doable number. Along with a backup selection in case some don’t work out. That’s going to take a little while. But it’s best to be prepared, right? I don’t want to rush and leave out something that could be great, you know? A ranking system out of ten might be useful. How excited I am about the idea versus how far it will push me out of my comfort zone versus viability, time, and money. I’ve got my Post-its and my favorite ink gel pens and one of my keep-for-a-special-occasion notebooks here,” I say and pause. “You’re frowning at me. Why are you frowning at me?”
“The week will be gone, and you’ll still be sitting here playing with your stationery.”
“That’s not necessarily true.”
He just looks at me.
“Fine,” I say. “What would you do?”
He downs the rest of his beer and stands. “I should be able to get my hands on a convertible for tomorrow. I’ve got some business in the morning. Meet you here at around three?”
My mouth hangs open for a moment. “Uh. Okay.”
“Give me your number,” he says, pulling his cell out of his back pocket.
I enter my number into his phone and hand it back. A moment later, my phone vibrates with an incoming text. This is all happening very fast. At least for me. “I’m confused. Are we becoming friends? Is that what’s happening here?”
“Do not misuse my number,” he says in a particularly stern voice with a very serious expression on his face. A combo that hits me right between my legs.
“As if I would misuse your number.” I am shocked and stunned that he’s sharing it with me. Given his general distrust of people and his need to keep things private. It’s a huge act of faith on his part. “What am I going to do, Ali, text you pictures of my feet?”
“And don’t make a big deal out of this. It’s a onetime thing,” he says, heading for the door. “You need help. I happen to know someone with a convertible. That’s all.”
“Of course. I appreciate you putting yourself out like this. Thank you.”
He gives me a stiff nod.
“It does kind of feel like we’re becoming friends, though.”
“So long as you don’t think we’re soulmates, I don’t much care what you call it.” He opens the door. “Come and lock this behind me.”
I set down my glass and stand. “I know basic home security. You’ll note that I didn’t even bring up the soulmates thing this time. That was all you.”
“See you tomorrow. Don’t forget your scarf,” he says and shuts my front door in my face. As one does.