CHAPTER 1
(Unedited and subject to change)
Noah
I plonk my body down, with an unceremonious thud, into the bar seat at The Brew Beer House.
It’s my favorite watering hole located half-way between my dad’s place and Josh, my oldest brother.
I’ve been staying between the two places for a while now, but I’m well aware it’s time to find my own house.
And I have been looking for months, but the LA property scene is forever changing, and I’m kind of fussy about where I want to be.
Couch surfing isn’t exactly my favorite past-time, but it’s served its purpose for a while.
Not that I’ve ever slept on either of their couches because I prefer a comfy mattress and Egyptian cotton.
I have a perfectly good room and ensuite at each of the places I stay at, but now Dad has his girlfriend, Ali, and Josh has his girl, Lexi, all moved in, it’s time to give everyone some space.
My middle brother, Brad, is the only one I haven’t lived with, thank god.
He’s too uptight for my liking. Though now he’s finally got his shit together; recently falling for his best friend, Chelsea, it’s definitely softened him around the edges.
Maybe it’s true that a good woman can bring out the best in you.
I wouldn’t know. It’s been a while for me, and I’m not like most men.
To be with a woman means I have to have a connection with her, not just a physical one, but we have to be on the same level of thinking at the very least. My brothers think I’m weird most of the time, but now they’re both in serious relationships of their own, they’ve kinda changed their tune.
As I glance around, I see my friend, Kurt, isn’t here yet. So I order a pale ale anyway and open the business section of the LA Times so I can flick through the luxury real estate articles while I’m waiting; it’s my version of light reading.
Brad’s apartment listings in Bunker Hill appeared here in the last issue, and while I was tempted to buy one of the luxury, fully renovated homes that would make the perfect pad, there’s a property in Point Dume that’s caught my eye and I want to check that out over the weekend.
I rustle the paper while I wait for my beer and hone in on the only part of the Times I actually read.
It’s then that a waft of damaskan rose, or something similar, mixed with a warm vanilla concoction, hits me.
My head instinctively turns from my paper towards the intoxicating scent, hopeful to find its owner.
My senses do not disappoint as a gorgeous, long-limbed woman in sky-high heels and a shiny black chin-length bob appears before me.
Perfectly manicured hands reach for her black over-sized, thick-rimmed sunglasses which cover half of her buttery, smooth face.
She slides them off, tucking the arms in with one fluid motion.
“Is this seat taken?” Even her voice sounds like a melody; it’s direct, but quiet, maybe a hint of exasperation in her tone. Subtle, but not over-powering.
When I close my mouth from gaping at her beauty, I realize she’s talking to me.
“Oh, uh, no, sorry—” Fucking blundering idiot. You wouldn’t think I’m a
top-selling agent at my family's firm; Lucas Property Brothers LA, right now.
I can close millions of dollars in sales in my sleep, but a gorgeous, smart looking woman — like the one before me — appears and I’m a bumbling mess.
There’s also something about her attire that strikes me; a black boatneck a-line dress, cinched in at the waist with a Chanel belt, a matching crisp black blazer over the top that screams designer, and her long legs only accentuated by the black patent pumps she’s wearing.
Everything sort of screams New York City, but I could be wrong.
I gesture to the seat next to me, Kurt’s seat — if he was even here on time — but for once, I'm glad he isn’t.
I take a long sweeping glance over her pretty face as I pull the seat out so she can slide in.
Her eyes are the first to capture me, reeling me in, and the term moth to a flame suddenly springs to mind.
Me being the moth, of course. The cool, liquid green of her irises are sharp and luminous.
They remind me of the California maiden-hair ferns living their best lives at my dad’s place under his vibrant Crepe Myrtle trees.
She blinks at me over her extremely voluminous lashes that fan out like crescent moons.
And for whatever reason, I don’t miss the fine edge of the green eye-pencil carefully outlining those dazzlers, or the way her dark hair shimmers in the afternoon sun as she moves.
Her deep, cherry red lips part to utter what sounds like a soft platitude, but I can’t be sure.
She sits up on the bar stool, resting the back of each stiletto on the stools footrest.
“Can I grab you a—”
She shakes her head as she fishes around in her Chanel quilted bag, perched on her lap.
“No need,” she says, signaling over to the bartender with a waft of her hand.
Wally appears a moment later. Clearly she thinks she’s in a downtown Manhattan bar or some shit, hailing Wally like she would a cab in the big smoke.
I roll my lips to save from laughing. She sticks out like a sore thumb, granted, a very attractive, head-turning sore thumb.
“What can I get you?” Wally asks, with a raise of his eyebrows.
It’s then she turns to me, those arresting eyes that could cut through the haze like a laser beam, beckon me to answer whatever she’s clearly about to ask.
I can tell there’s a question looming because she regards me coolly, but her lips part while she taps her red nails on the Maple bar top like she doesn’t have all day. “What’s good here?” she asks.
I quickly clear my suddenly Sahara-dry throat. “Personally, I prefer the pale ale,” I say. “But the lime Pilsner is equally good. It kinda has that clean, refreshing finish with a little pizazz.”
I feel Wally’s eyebrow rise in my peripheral vision. “You want a job here, kiddo?” he jokes, and usually I’d laugh my ass off too, but her pinned stare has rendered me speechless. At least for a moment.
I shrug it off as best I can and look back at the woman that clearly isn’t impressed by my suggestion.
In fact, with a slightly upturned nose and one twitch away from forming a pout with those full, juicy lips, she looks as though being in The Brew Beer House is the worst thing that has ever happened to her.
“A lime Pilsner it is,” she finally says with a hint of disdain in her downturned mouth.
“Are you sure, sweetheart? You know Pinocchio’s Wine Bar is just down the street?
” I hedge, trying to make light of it, but half of me is serious, because she doesn’t look like the ale-slinging type to me.
I’ll bet she drinks Cosmopolitan’s or maybe a dirty martini.
She shifts her svelte frame in the seat, clearly trying to make herself comfortable, her hands resting over her designer purse still sitting in her lap like someone is going to steal it.
“Pinocchio’s?” Her musical voice is almost like a taunt. “Is that really a thing?”
“As sure as I’m sitting here.”
“Please don’t call me sweetheart,” she feels the need to add.
My eyes bug wide as I take an extended swig of my beer. “I’m sorry, what should I call you? I’m No—” I stick out a hand just as she cuts me off introducing myself with a wave of her hand.
“Nope. No need to introduce oneself either, not after the week I’ve had. I’ll just call you Mister Pale Ale, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Should I call you Lime Pilsner?” I quirk a smile that I’ve often been told is as charming as they come, but clearly this chick didn’t get the memo.
Wally’s mouth twitches a smile at me as he places her drink down on a cardboard coaster.
“Call me what you like, it’s all the same to me,” she says.
“Alrighty then.” I glance at my watch, wondering where the heck Kurt has gotten to. He hasn’t texted me, so I'm assuming he’s on his way. His appearance around about now would be handy because I’m digging a hole.
Out of my periphery she brings the Pilsner glass to her lips and takes the daintiest sip I’ve ever seen, like she’s gearing herself up for something that might taste really bad. When she doesn’t spit it back out my shoulders relax a little.
“Not bad,” I hear her say to no one in particular, because she clearly isn’t looking at me.
“First time drinking beer?” I find myself asking, but wishing I’d quit while I’m ahead. Or in my case, behind.
“It is actually. I’m more of a vodka soda, French champagne, or a white wine kind of woman.”
“Figures,” I mutter, then I glance at her. “Wait, all in one sitting?”
She rolls her eyes and takes another sip. It’s actually strangely fun watching her experience it for the same time, or maybe I’m just twisted. If she wasn’t so damned uptight, she’d be even hotter than she already is.
“Not all at once,” she clarifies. “I rarely have more than one drink. I’m only here out of obligation to meet someone.” She glances around but clearly her guest hasn’t arrived yet either. Her eyes land back on mine. “I guess I missed the memo about it being a beer house.”
The way she says beer. It’s like she’s marvelling at the concept of such a travesty.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” I say. “Please don’t feel obligated to keep listening to my ranting.”
Do my eyes deceive me when I see the edges of a quirk of a smile on those pretty, full lips? Maybe I am going cuckoo afterall, because a second later, her serious face is back on again like it never left.
“Oh, I won’t, Mister Pale Ale.”
I glance at her before signalling to Wally I need another. I think it’s going to take at least one more beer to get through any more conversation with Miss- highly-strung-snooty-lime-Pilsner. But not being a quitter, I decide that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
She may think I’m a douchebag for just existing, but I always read the fine print, and for some reason I can’t explain, this is one mysterious woman I don’t want to get away.