PROLOGUE - Miles #2
I give her a little nod. She seems amused by me, keeping her eyes on me as she pulls on a pair of baggy jeans that sit low on her hips. If she weren’t looking at me, I’d walk away. But she wants me to know she’s clocked me. She wants me to stay right where I am. And I’m going to.
I unbutton the cuffs of my dress shirt, roll them up to expose my forearms, and then slide my hands into my pockets so I can surreptitiously tighten them into fists a few times to make them look more veiny.
She tosses a few things into her slouchy bag, slings it over a shoulder, and then picks up her board and walks toward me, still holding my gaze, still smiling.
“Morning,” she says. She has a sing-song voice. Her tone is friendly, curious, and just a little amused. She’s amused by me. Nobody’s amused by me. Ever.
“Morning.”
She stops a few feet from me. Barefoot and slender but strong.
In a bikini and blue jeans. She’s got a little gold ring on one of her toes, and I want those toes in my mouth.
I’m not a foot guy, but I’m 90% sure I would come in my pants if I gave her a foot massage.
“You here for a business meeting?” she deadpans.
“Yeah, I was supposed to have a breakfast meeting with some hotshot up-and-coming sea lion but he’s a no-show.”
She tsks. “They’re always so cocky on the way up.”
“Think they own this town.”
“Should be so obvious to them that you own it.”
“You’d think.” I comb my fingers through my hair, making sure she gets a good look at my hand and forearm, and then I remove my aviators and rest them on top of my head. Classic. I got paid five thousand bucks just to do that in a Target commercial when I was in college.
She doesn’t notice my hand or my forearm because she’s looking down at my ankles. I forgot my fucking pants are tucked into my socks. Shit.
She looks back up at me, and I think I can safely say that she forgets about the pant situation when she stares deep into my warm brown eyes.
My brothers think they’re hot shit because their eyes are blue, but I know what works.
This is working. It’s working for me, and it’s working for her.
Her eyelashes flutter. She sighs, and then her lips quirk to one side.
A gusty breeze blows her wild hair in her face and sends the most heavenly fragrance my way.
Floral and salty and exotic. She probably burns incense at home.
I’m inhaling a bouquet of wildflowers that drifted out to sea and then washed ashore and dried out in the sun outside some beachside Buddhist temple. “Did you see the dolphins?” she asks.
“Where?”
“In the ocean…” She’s mocking me with those three little words, and then she gestures in the direction of the water and that pleasant tone is back again. “About seven minutes ago.”
“Haven’t been here that long.” Or have I been staring at her for an hour?
I have no idea. I do another move from my modeling days—the one that paid for a semester of law school.
I grin and stroke the stubble along my perfectly shaped jawline, and then I wait for her to giggle uncontrollably and throw herself at me.
She doesn’t do either of those things.
She tosses her hair over one shoulder and takes a step in the direction of the parking area. “Well, I’m gonna…”
“Yeah, me too. You want me to carry this to your car, or…?” I gesture toward her board and try not to analyze why I immediately started following her as soon as her body language indicated she was leaving.
“I’m good. Thanks,” she says casually.
I scan the sand ahead of her to make sure there isn’t anything sharp. I want to tell her she should at least be wearing flip-flops, but usually I try to wait until the end of a first date before telling women what they should and shouldn’t do.
She glances at my dress shirt and pants again, but I catch her checking out my forearm.
I feel validated. “You don’t live around here, do you?
Lemme guess. You’re a talent agent or manager, you live and work in Beverly Hills, but you came out to Malibu to meet with a client and now you’re waiting until after ten to get back on the road. ”
“Way off. I’m an entertainment lawyer who lives in Santa Monica, and our offices are in Westwood. The rest of it was accurate.”
“Wow, I’m soooo bad at this. I was like eight miles off. You must be super chill if you live in Santa Monica.” She smirks at me.
“Well, if I were a Beverly Hills talent agent, I’d be rolling calls in my parked car right now, wouldn’t I?”
“Instead, here you are in your shiny shoes, walking on sand. Where’d you meet up with your client?”
Another question. This is promising. Very promising. I’m-about-to-ask-for-her-number kind of promising. “A café a little ways up PCH. Great coffee. Good breakfast burrito. Kind of a dive, though. Not much of a hot sauce selection.”
“Yeah, I always go there for breakfast after I surf.”
An unsolicited offer of information. Nice work, forearms and jaw-stroke. “Fantastic atmosphere. Loved the vibe.”
She smiles. I like making this woman smile, but it’s pretty easy. I wonder if she’s always this happy. She stops next to the old convertible Mercedes in the parking lot and places her board in the reclined passenger seat.
Shit. I want to take her car to my body shop guy for her.
She pulls a pair of sandals from her bag, drops them to the ground, and slides her pretty feet into them.
I’m about to tell her she really needs to get that bumper fixed when she asks, “Are you okay?” So quiet and earnest. She’s adjusting the board instead of looking at me, so I’m not even sure if she’s talking to me. Then she turns to face me. “Are you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You just seem sad.”
Who is this person? I’m not acting sad. I’m acting like a witty stud. Who asks a total stranger if he’s sad?
I put my aviators back on and bend down to pull my pant hems out of my socks.
“Yeah, I’m great.” I don’t ask why she’d ask that.
I do know why. Sad eyes. She feels sorry for me.
I’m some older executive dude with shiny shoes and sad eyes who was standing alone on a beach, and she’s a sea goddess who pities me.
I’m going to die alone, and she sees it too.
I’m grateful that the ocean is so loud, because it fills the silence between us for five long seconds.
I can’t talk to my ex-wife about how I feel anymore, and I definitely can’t let my daughter know how lonely I’ve been.
I’d do anything for my family, those assholes, but there are so many layers of sarcasm to cut through before any of us would ever say the words “Are you okay?” to each other.
I was staring so hard at this golden-haired stranger, but she somehow saw into me.
“Can I buy you breakfast?” I find myself asking, just as two shirtless surfer bros walk by carrying their boards.
They nod at her, completely ignoring me.
“’Sup, Aria?”
“Hey, guys.”
Aria.
Shit.
Aria.
Now I know where I know her from.
“Don’t you have to get to your office in Westwood?” she replies to me.
“Aria Cross?”
She looks a little disappointed that I know her name. “Yeah.”
Fuck my life.
This feeling is right in line with how my life has been going, though. That rush of foolish romantic optimism followed by the realization that no other person on this earth is really mine to love with my whole heart except my daughter.
I look at my watch. 9:45. “Actually, I should start heading out, yeah. Rain check.”
I have never seen anyone so taken aback.
It’s like she’s doing an interpretive dance and showing me with her body just how taken aback she is.
Very expressive. Clearly no man has ever chosen to tackle rush hour traffic over enjoying a meal with her.
“Really?” she says. “Wow. Not a fan of former Disney Channel stars, huh?”
“It’s not that. I just signed your ex-boyfriend as a client.”
Now she’s not so much taken aback as she is mildly repulsed. “Oh. Of course you did.” She rests her hands on her hips, shaking her head, but she’s still smiling. Always smiling. “He’s almost three thousand miles away, and yet I can’t seem to escape him. He isn’t planning on moving to LA, is he?”
“No. He doesn’t have to. Hollywood will go to him.”
“Right. He is one cocky, up-and-coming sea lion nowadays.”
“He’s very talented.”
“Oh, I know. That’s why I invested so much of my savings in his first film.”
Now I’m taken aback. I didn’t know she did that.
If she were my client, I would have advised against that.
“His agents are going to send his new script out soon. It’ll definitely sell, and I’m going to get him a lot of money for it.
Once his next movie comes out, people will start watching the first one, and you’ll make your money back. ”
She waves her hand dismissively. “I know, I know. I’m not worried about that. It’s just money.” Finally, her expression betrays a little annoyance. “I don’t need men in suits to tell me about my finances or what to do with my life.”
Well, now. Seems I’ve struck a nerve. “Lucky for me, a lot of other people in the entertainment industry do want men in suits to advise and represent them.”
She scoffs. “Well, I don’t really consider myself as being in the entertainment industry anymore.”
I would tell her that is a waste of a lot of gifts and talents if she asked me, but this is none of my business.
Her ex-boyfriend is my business. I roll down my sleeves and button the cuffs.
Say goodbye to these epic forearms, little surfer girl.
“Anyway, to be clear—I can’t go out with a client’s ex,” I tell her.
“You guys lived together in New York, and from what I’ve heard, he still has residual feelings for you—allegedly—and it’s my policy to avoid complications.
Especially if the complications could lead to me losing an important new client. ”
“Well, gosh. Thanks for the clarity, Esquire.” She seems amused by me still. Also repulsed, but amused. “I didn’t get your name. Let me guess—Robert?”
I wince. I do not look like a Robert. “It’s Miles. Miles Brodie.”
“Of course it is. To be just as clear, Miles—I left Tyler and New York because I finally chose myself over him, so I would never go out with a guy who cares more about representing my ex than he does about being with me.”
God dammit. I really admire that, and I really wish she didn’t look so happy and pretty while rejecting me. But again—this feels right. This is the universe’s way of reminding me to get my ass back to the office. Because work makes sense and work never ends.
Fuck you, universe.
I should just get into my car and drive away right now, but my feet don’t seem to want to move and my eyes don’t seem to want to stop staring at her. “I thought you had an amicable breakup.”
She tosses her head back, laughing. Not a bitter, evil cackle. She’s just laughing at me. “Sure. It was amazing. One of the Top 20 Hollywood Breakups of the year! You should use that when you’re negotiating more money for him. He’s a really great guy to break up with.”
“Well, it just so happens that I am too. Just ask my ex-wife.”
Shit.
Why did I say that?
She furrows her brow, the tiniest bit. “Are you okay?”
I give her the toothy grin that got me a mouthwash commercial back in college. “I’m great.” I don’t hold out my hand to shake hers because if I touch her I won’t want to let go. I walk over to my car. “Have a great day. I’ll see you around.”
“I doubt it. Hope you don’t get any sand in your pristine BMW.”
“I won’t.” Before I open the door to my pristine BMW, I tell her, “You should really get that bumper fixed.”