Los Angeles Longing – by Nicole Sanchez #2
But I have the answer to that question. He does. He is the kind of guy who enjoys a prime cut of steak along with lobster caught in Maine that day, even if he’s on the West Coast. Parker is a man who gets the finer things in life because the thought crosses his mind.
He scoffs. “I’ll get you used to it, don’t you worry.”
The idea that we’ll be spending more time together thrills me in ways I can’t even begin to consider. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, because what is there really to get ahead of? There is no future where Parker and I work out.
“Sure, Jan.” I look away from his boundless blue eyes and focus back on the menu. “What were you thinking about getting?”
I can still feel the weight of his gaze on my face before he answers me. It’s what makes his presence so potent, and his attention even more so. “I was going to get a sushirrito, but you should get whatever you want.”
I look away from the pierogies, intrigued by this idea. “Say more.”
And that’s how we wind up with a smorgasbord of food from each stand.
With a truly decadent amount of food laid out on the picnic table, Parker sits beside me instead of across from me.
There is a lull in our conversation as we work on devouring what’s in front of us.
It’s a little weird to go from the giant sushi roll to the best empanada I’ve ever eaten to the fluffiest pierogi I’ve enjoyed in my life.
I pat my belly, humming with delight.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this happy,” Parker remarks, taking a sip from the beer in his hand.
“I don’t think that you’ve been around me enough to say that with any sort of confidence,” I tease. I lean forward to grab one of his yuca fries but withdraw my hand when the movement jostles my stomach just too much. I groan, prompting a low chuckle from Parker.
“Is it too corny if I say I would like to?”
My mind, still focused on the food, is slow to catch up. “To feed me yuca fries? Not corny at all.”
The dignified billionaire is taking another sip of beer as I speak, and I must surprise him because he snorts into his drink, sending foam out in a burst.
“I meant,” he starts as he wipes his mouth with a napkin, “is it corny that I want to spend more time with you?” He looks away from me, and an errant gust of wind sends his hair into his face. “Because I do.”
I get the feeling it’s hard for him to admit this. I could make light of it. I could tell him that it’s a good thing he’s paying me to spend time with him because he can have all the time in the world he wants, but I’m not going to be glib.
I reach forward and take his hand that’s wrapped around his beer, forcing him to let it go. He watches me from the corner of his eye with skepticism. I don’t know what I’ve done to make him wary of me, but I think it is less about me and more about others in his life.
“It’s a good thing I do, too,” I say.
The corner of his mouth lifts, but he still won’t face me fully, and that’s okay. His admission is enough right now.
“Before we go to the party tonight, I want to show you something. Wear something warm.”
Our hotel room is a grand suite with two bedrooms and a living space between us. I lower the lid on my computer to look at Parker, who has already turned and is striding back to his room.
“What do you mean warm? Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see,” he shouts, closing his bedroom door on me. Quickly, I jump up, running through what I packed, which luckily includes a pair of jeans and a sweater I threw in at the last minute in case we went out at night.
I’m fussing over my hair when Parker knocks at the bedroom door twenty minutes later.
“Are you ready?” he asks, looking me over. There’s an appreciative glint to his gaze as he does, and I can’t help but smooth my hands down the front of my sweater, over my breasts and stomach, watching his gaze follow the movement.
“Yeah, I just wanted to curl my hair.”
He pulls a hair tie off his wrist. “Don’t bother. The stylist will do that for you tonight. Right now, you’re better off with your hair up.”
“Parker…” I say his name slowly, worried that I know exactly where this is going, but I’m too afraid to voice it. A thrill runs through me at the thought, but the anticipation is mixed with a healthy dose of fear, too.
“Holly…you don’t want to ruin the surprise, do you?”
My guess was right, and I pause before getting out of the car as I look at the helicopter.
“No.” I shake my head, refusing to get out of the car.
Parker extends his hand closer to me. “I promise that you will enjoy it, and it’s much shorter than our last helicopter ride.”
I clench my teeth. “Billionaires don’t have a great track record of riding in helicopters. You seem set on tempting fate. Just ask Christian Gray.”
“I’m not familiar with him, but have I ever led you into harm’s way?”
The sincerity in his voice causes me to laugh. It’s a nervous laugh, but what am I going to do? Say no to him?
I place my hand in his and let him guide me to my feet. “If I die in a fiery helicopter crash, I’m haunting your ass.”
“You weren’t this adverse the last time I took you in a helicopter.”
“That’s because I wasn’t smart enough to know better then. I’ve had time to prepare and do research. Now, I know statistics.”
Parker tucks me into his side and I let him because his arm around my back makes me feel so much more secure. It’s that feeling I carry while climbing into the helicopter and being checked by the pilot and again by Parker before he straps in.
It’s the feeling of his hand in mine as the helicopter takes off that keeps me grounded, because Parker is right. I trust that he wouldn’t lead me into some dangerous situation. He would keep me safe above all.
I eventually relax enough that I’m able to enjoy the view of the Hollywood sign and the Griffith Observatory.
I can’t decide which I hate more, being in a helicopter at night when all you can see are the lights twinkling below you or during the day when you can see the ground as you swoop about from place to place.
I think I hate the void of the unknown more. I need security. I need the surety that I can see when the end is coming.
Some fancy air maneuvers send my stomach dipping as we sweep out to the coast so Parker can point out the Getty Villa, where we’ll be going for the party tonight. The day is so clear that when I squint, I can see people moving about the garden preparing for tonight.
We don’t linger there for too long before following the Pacific Coast Highway down toward Santa Monica. I’m grateful to the pilot for giving these directions as we go so I’m still able to somewhat orient myself as we fly.
Slowly, my death grip on Parker’s hand releases and I lean into his side as we fly over the Santa Monica Pier. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and presses a kiss to my forehead.
I steal a glance at him when we circle back to where we took off from and find his attention fixed on me.
Even knowing that there’s no cameras to catch us, knowing that it’s not for the show, I don’t stop myself, even if it breaks my own rules.
I lean over and press my lips to his before opening and giving this man more than I mean to in this one kiss.
As soon as the stylists descend on the hotel room, Parker makes himself scarce. I can’t say I blame him. I wish I could make myself scarce.
When they arrive, I’m handed a robe and a very small hanger with a very small garment bag over it.
I shouldn’t be surprised when I open them alone in the bathroom to find a sheer white bustier and a piece of fabric that I can’t imagine anyone could call underwear.
It takes me three tries and four impatient knocks on the door to figure out that the largest piece of cloth is actually the tag.
Once I figure that out, and I get my labia secure, I open the door, hoping that the robe isn’t as sheer as the things I have on under it.
The team of women have completely taken over my bedroom, and their frantic energy as they move around has me feeling more unsettled than when I was in a helicopter. They lead me to a chair that is promptly relaxed back so I’m nearly lying down.
“Do you want a bikini or brazilian?” One woman who seems to be in charge asks while looking down at her tablet.
“That would be neither,” I tell her slowly.
She glances at me then shrugs. “Eyebrows, lip, armpits, legs? Do you want arms too?”
“Armpits and legs only.” I reach up to touch my upper lip, wondering if maybe I need to reconsider since she’s asking.
A large ring light is turned on and she tugs it close to my face, inspecting my lip. “We can just bleach.” With a sharp tug, she pulls out my hair tie. “A trim too? You have the face shape for a nice bob.”
“Just styling is good with me.”
Her assistants are warming wax pots and plugging in flat irons and blow dryers. While she seems to judge me for the amount of split ends I have, she doesn’t comment further as her team works on me.
It’s like a fighting montage, only with beauty moments, as they wax and pluck and buff my skin. As I’m reaching to take a sip of my water, I get my hand slapped and one of those light-up tooth whitener mouth guards shoved in my mouth.
By the time I’m being helped into a white dress, I’m not sure I’ll recognize myself when I get to see my face in the mirror.
Except, I don’t get a chance to look at myself before I’m walked to the door of my room. One of the assistants gives me a bold wink before the door is ripped open for me to find Parker standing on the other side.
He’s also in all white, which takes some of the bridal vibes off me. The only color in the whole of his outfit is the tan belt around his hips that some impulse in me wants to rip off him. A white button down is tucked into white pants and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone.