Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Beverly
I did some research before my flight to LA, wanting to familiarize myself with the area of California where Ridge lives.
I’ve never been to the West Coast before.
To say I’m excited is an understatement, not only because the entire week ahead feels like an unfolding adventure, but because I’ll soon lay eyes on the handsome man who’s been kissing me in my dreams since he left Atlanta.
Leave it to Arthur to make all of my travel arrangements, from a private car picking me up at my home and whisking me off to the airport, to the first-class window seat on the airplane. I’ve never flown first class before, and I’m stunned by Ridge’s generosity.
I learned that he lives in a private neighborhood along a highly coveted stretch of the Balboa Peninsula, near Newport Beach.
Perusing the internet, I read about the area and its year-round outdoor style of living near the water, and how his home is conveniently located within walking distance to the Island Ferry, the harbor, and pristine beaches.
My plane arrives on time at LAX. I insisted that Ridge not pick me up.
I told him I’d catch an Uber or take a shuttle to the island so he wouldn’t have to face the terrible afternoon traffic or the paparazzi spotting him.
We compromised, and I’m greeted by a charming driver wearing a black suit at baggage claim, the single word “Lovely” spelled out in bold print across his iPad.
I instantly know the week ahead of me is going to be amazing.
“Hi. I’m Beverly Adler. Also known as, um… ‘Lovely.’” I point to the iPad, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I wonder if this is Arthur’s doing or Ridge’s idea?
“Welcome to California,” the man greets with a smile. He seems nice. “My name is Hal. I’ll take your luggage for you.”
I pass off my giant roller bag. “Thank you so much. Arthur told me you’d be picking me up today.”
“Yes, ma’am. Hal is my name, and kindness is my game.” He chuckles. I like him immediately. “I’ll be handling your transportation during your stay.”
“Great.”
I keep up with the man through the throngs of busy travelers, grateful when we arrive at the car. Once he loads my suitcase into the back end, I start toward the front passenger seat.
“Pardon me, Miss Adler. We have another hour and a half, depending on traffic. There’s more legroom and some refreshments in the backseat. Why don’t you sit back there and relax after your long flight?” He offers me a tentative smile from over the roof of the car.
I wave him off. “I don’t need any refreshments. I’m good. May I sit up front? I’d love for you to point out the sights to me. I’ve never been to California before.”
Hal thinks for a moment before responding with another signature chuckle and a wide grin. “I was told to accommodate whatever you wish. If you’d like to sit up front with me, that’s your call. I promise I’ll give you the best guided tour I know how.”
“Thank you.”
I’m surprised by the many tourist attractions Hal points out along the scenic coastal drive on our way to Balboa Island.
From Santa Monica, known for its pier, to Venice Beach, famous for its street performers and vibrant boardwalk.
While passing Long Beach, he goes on and on about the historic ocean liner, The Queen Mary.
He even tells me about his days as a young man, often trekking to surfer heaven in Huntington Beach.
The views are spectacular, and Hal, a life-long Californian, is gracious with his knowledge, his pride for his home state noticeable.
Time flies, and before I know it, we’ve crossed over a quaint bridge lined with American flags and a big sign in black letters welcoming us to Balboa Island.
Hal continues to play tour guide and points out a concrete promenade encircling the perimeter of the man-made island, where several dog walkers and joggers enjoy the perfect weather on the 1.
5-mile path. The area boasts a unique charm with its cottages interspersed among multi-million-dollar homes, many of which offer waterfront views of the ocean or Newport Bay.
Peculiarly, the coastal, small-town setting reminds me of Heartsboro, Georgia.
“Mr. Wilson’s residence is right around the corner. He lives on the bayside of the island with a private pier.”
Of course he does, I think to myself.
I crane my head and scan the homes while holding my breath, hoping for a glimpse of Ridge anticipating my arrival.
My eyes go wide when they land on Mr. Hollywood himself.
He’s standing in the middle of his driveway, his smile as wide as the stretch of land I flew over to get here.
His hair is messy, and his hands are in the pockets of his khaki shorts, biceps bulging in his Polo shirt, the color of spun cotton candy.
Even though he’s wearing flip-flops, the man looks like he belongs on the cover of the celebrity edition of Architectural Digest. His pose is one of pride, standing in front of his coastal home, which is adorned with an old-fashioned cedar shake roof and a quaint, gated entryway through a scalloped picket fence.
A tiny squeak erupts from my mouth as I hurriedly unclasp my seatbelt and open the car door, Hal chuckling beside me. He’s thoroughly enjoying watching us reunite.
“Hey, Handsome,” I swoon.
He opens his arms wide, and I walk into his embrace. Palming the back of my head, he nuzzles my neck just below my ear and whispers, “Hello, Lovely. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”
***
Sitting in a comfortable Adirondack chair under a black and white striped awning spanning Ridge’s back terrace, I lift a glass of Sauvignon Blanc to my lips and sip.
I can’t help but marvel at the breathtaking panoramic view of Newport Harbor and the Fashion Island skyline in the distance.
The twinkling lights under the hazy sunset are beautiful, and dare I say, romantic.
Classic jazz plays softly through invisible outdoor speakers, and the landscape and gardens are illuminated with dramatic up-lighting, enhancing the ambiance of the private space.
“Did you get enough to eat?” Ridge asks.
My smile is tired but satisfied, the jet lag setting in. “Yes. Everything was delicious. You’re an amazing cook.”
The short ribs with a sweet brown sugar glaze, which we’d devoured at his outdoor umbrella table, were of restaurant quality. Ridge swore he made them himself in his cast-iron Dutch oven.
Yes. The man owns his own Dutch oven. Who knew?
He leans his head back against his chair with ease, obviously comfortable being on his home turf. “Thank you. I learned a few things from my Texas mama back in the day. She’s a great teacher, not only at the University, but in raising her only son to have a few cooking tricks up his sleeve.”
“I love that. I learned most of my cooking skills from my grandma and Dad. I wish my mom had been a better cook while we were growing up. We were lucky to get fruit in a can.”
We both laugh, and he reaches for my hand.
A shiver of pleasure shoots through me, his soft skin emitting the faint scent of lavender dish soap.
Earlier, we stood next to each other at the sink, washing our plates, and the aroma reminded me of lavender season at Jamison Farm.
Thank goodness Madison understood my change of plans.
She practically offered to pay for my flight herself if it meant I’d get to spend a week with Ridge.
She even bet me it would take the man less than five minutes to lay one of his incredible kisses on me.
She wasn’t wrong.
After Hal unloaded my suitcase and departed, Ridge pulled me into his foyer and backed me against a wall.
He caged me in with his arms and devoured my mouth with a kiss so passionate and hot, I thought every nerve ending in my body might catch on fire.
Just thinking about his welcome kiss again makes me want to fan my face with my hand.
As I bask in the feel of his strong fingers threading through mine, I wonder how far I’ll let him take things this week.
There is something about him that has me tiptoeing to the edge of desire, and I have to admit, I’m a little nervous.
I will myself to keep it together while sitting next to him.
I'm holding his famous hand with a view of his private dock overlooking the magnificent bay. This can’t be real.
Before dinner, he’d given me a quick tour of his humble abode, the thoughtfully designed layout of his bachelor pad filled with sunlit rooms, tasteful finishes, and a spacious master suite with its very own balcony.
Rattan furniture with comfortable cushions in neutral colors welcomes guests into his open living space, complete with a black lacquered baby grand piano, impressive art on the walls, and built-in bookshelves housing his numerous acting awards.
His unassuming galley kitchen features high-end appliances, including a Sub-Zero refrigerator that’s bigger than my closet back home.
The man even has his own wine cellar, complete with a state-of-the-art climate control system.
And don’t get me started on the guest room.
It’s gorgeous, featuring a private en-suite and a queen-sized bed made up in white linens.
A statement blanket in a sumptuous cream and hydrangea blue fabric is carefully folded at the end of the mattress next to a large trunk, my suitcase placed on top.
Brass wall sconces free up space above the nightstands, leaving room for a stack of thick travel and photography books, as well as a few other personal touches.
The mixed materials of dark wood tones and soft linens are highlighted by the sun streaming in through large, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the dock.
It’s perfect.
But even with the obviously expensive choices, Ridge’s home doesn’t come across as pretentious.
It’s homey and well-lived in, with seamless views and access to the water.
A famous celebrity with his kind of wealth could have gone overboard with a sleek, multi-million-dollar compound, complete with automatic gates and security guards.
That he chose a three-bedroom bungalow conveniently located within walking distance to everything he needs makes him more relatable and less like someone on a pedestal.
“Are you safe here?” I blurt out, suddenly concerned.
He eyes me, his lips lifting into a half-smile as he squeezes my hand. “Perfectly safe. I have several high-profile neighbors and friends who also live on the island. Security is a significant draw for this highly sought-after location. It’s top-notch.”
I exhale a relieved breath. “Well, that’s good.”
“We’ll take a walk tomorrow, and I’ll show you around. The Wedge is a great spot to watch the surfers, and I’d love to take you to the waterfront for a ride on the Ferris wheel at the Fun Zone.”
“The Fun Zone?”
“Yeah. It’s one of the last great coastal amusement parks in Southern California.”
“But won’t you be swarmed by fans and paparazzi if they recognize you while you’re out in public?”
“Not if I wear my disguise.”
“A disguise?”
He laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s not anything fancy using latex or wigs. It’s just sunglasses and a ball cap.”
“Hmmm,” I ponder. The thought of spending a regular day with Ridge is tempting.
I mean, if the man wants to take me on a Ferris wheel ride, I won’t stop him.
Visions of the romantic movie, The Notebook, scroll through my mind as I lazily lean my head back against the chair.
I try to stifle a yawn, the delicious wine hitting the sweet spot in my brain.
I’m dead weight and relaxed. I could easily fall sleep in this position right where I am.
Shifting my head so I can look at him, I say, “If I forget to tell you, I had a wonderful time this week.” My voice comes out raspy, and my eyelids are heavy.
“But our week hasn’t even started,” Ridge chuckles.
The way he’s looking at me, with the last golden hue of sunlight illuminating his famous smile, has me convinced this is all a dream. Or maybe I’ve become the leading lady in one of his blockbuster movies?
Wouldn’t that be something?