Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Thank you for this.”
He gives me one of his signature stiff nods.
“No photographers?” I ask, looking both ways down the street.
“There were a couple, but I lost them on the way.”
“Guess you’re good at that sort of thing.”
We don’t talk as he drives through the city and toward the coast. Not at first. He keeps giving me these side glances with a faint frown. As if he can’t quite believe he is here in this car doing this with me. Which makes two of us. But eventually I can stand the silence no more.
“I got some good work done on my wish list after you left last night,” I say. “Then I read a book for a while.”
He nods.
“And this morning I went out for the best breakfast in existence.”
“What exactly is that?”
“It’s this breakfast burrito from a local café. Eggs, black beans, ham, Monterey Jack cheese, guacamole, and salsa on a white-flour tortilla.”
He raises a brow. “Sounds interesting. But you can’t tell me it beats a good old brown-sugar Pop-Tart.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“I am always serious about breakfast.”
“A Pop-Tart.” I give him a long look. No idea if he is winding me up or what. “Please.”
He takes his eyes from the road for a moment to shoot me another one of those glances. Though this time, it seems more curious in nature. “Your choice of cheese also gives me pause. Would you really willingly choose Monterey Jack over mozzarella?”
“What do you have against Monterey Jack?”
“It’s fine, I suppose,” he says with a faint air of disdain. “If you like that sort of thing.”
“By ‘that sort of thing,’ do you mean cheese? Because I like cheese.”
He lifts the fingers of one hand from the wheel. As if he’s waving the subject adieu.
“There’s nothing wrong with Monterey Jack. It’s a wonderful cheese.”
“Whatever you say, Lilah.”
There’s something in the way the Santa Ana wind tousles his dark hair that works for me. Makes it hard to look away. Though he is alluring with or without the weather.
“You’re staring at me,” he mumbles.
“I want to commit what a Monterey Jack hater looks like to memory. That way, I can avoid your kind in future.”
His smile is a split-second sort of thing. Like it escaped him for a moment. “Bold words from a Pop-Tart-phobe.”
“I never said I hated Pop-Tarts. Just that there is no way they compare to a breakfast burrito.” I wait for a while. “What’s up, Ali? Nothing to say in your defense?”
“I just thought I’d let you sit over there and dwell in your wrongness for a while. You seem like a bright enough lass. I am sure you’ll come to your senses eventually.”
I snort.
We’re heading northwest, and there’s little to see until we join the Pacific Coast Highway at Santa Monica. The gods of traffic smile on us and we make good time. A handsome man in a sedan tries to catch Alistair’s eye at a red light, along with several women in an SUV. Who can blame them?
“What?” asks he of the dark tousled hair and chiseled jawline.
“Hmm?”
“You’re still staring.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. What’s on your mind, Lilah?”
I sigh. “I was just thinking...”
“About?”
“How wonderful this is. The sun is shining, music is playing, and this car is a dream. Thank you.”
“You already thanked me.”
“And now I’m thanking you again. You put yourself out for me. A veritable stranger in a sticky situation,” I say. “You’re a good man, Alistair Lennox. Even with the whole cheese thing.”
He grunts.
“What else would you like to argue about?”
“I suppose we could move on to lunch. I grabbed a burger. What about you?”
“Brunch was late, so I didn’t bother.”
He just nods.
It is a spectacular day for a drive. The endless blue of the ocean disappears in the distance. There are gorgeous beaches with expanses of sand, rugged cliffs, and rock formations. But it’s the cool salty air rushing past that makes it sublime. My scarf is wound around my neck, and the ends flutter in the wind. I want to imprint this moment in my memory so I can play it back at will whenever I need a hit of happy.
I clear my throat and announce, “Back to my wish list. I decided not to attempt riding a mechanical bull.”
“Probably for the best.”
“I also started working on a second wish list, which—”
“Did you finish the first one?” he asks.
“No. Not quite.”
“What does the second one cover?”
“Things I want to revisit, like my favorite books and so on.”
He thinks it over for a moment. “That makes sense. What’s on the list?”
“The paranormal romance I read last night and season one of The Vampire Diaries. Except it’s twenty-two episodes, so I don’t know how feasible a rewatch is given time constraints and the other things I hope to do. But those two choices kind of sum up my teenage years.”