talk. If not, then . . . not. I’ll leave it on the doorstep and you can enjoy at your leisure. Take off the handcuffs if you’re planning to eat. Or leave ’em on and invite me in.
—Ben
Anna refolded the note. Ben was downstairs.
Her
Ben. Except that she needed to not think of him that way now. Too much had happened, and she couldn’t pretend otherwise.
She’d actually met him before she’d even arrived at LAX, because they were on the same flight from New York on New Year’s Day. He’d been a freshman at Princeton then, and would be a sophomore this coming fall. He wore his brown hair a little shaggy, had eyes the color of the Pacific on a sunny day, and had the toned build of a swimmer. He was also smart and sweet and sexy, and he’d been the boy to whom she’d lost her virginity. She had some great memories of her time with Ben. That was one of them.
Was that the reason that she’d thought he was “the one” for so long, and why she sometimes still thought he’d be the one forever? She sighed. There had been too much deceit, both major and minor. He’d stranded her on his father’s yacht not far from Joe’s Clams in Marina del Rey on the same night that they’d met. There’d been the Anna Nicole Smith look-alike (much younger, brunette version) who’d surprised her at the front door of his parents’ house, and whom he’d actually taken to her junior prom. Not that anything bad had happened with that girl—what was her name, Maddie?—but Ben hadn’t exactly been up front with her about it. And then, finally, there was a girl from Princeton who was basically stalking him, but whom Ben didn’t mention anything about until it was too late. It was all too much and too angst-y for her. So when Caine Manning came along via her father’s investment firm—a little older and, it seemed to Anna now, a lot more mature—she had been intrigued. Caine was different from any boy she’d ever known. He drove a pickup truck. Ben drove a Beemer. Ben lived in Beverly Hills. Caine lived in Venice. Ben’s arms were tan from the tennis court and the pool at the Riviera Country Club. Caine’s arms were tattooed with reproductions of Botticelli paintings.
Anna rested her forehead in her hands,
She still held the note. Ben was downstairs. Right now. And that’s how she came to be sitting across from him in the gazebo in her father’s huge backyard fifteen minutes later.
“Anna.”
Her insides did a somersault when he spoke her name. His voice gave her goose bumps. His looks, too. He wore old jeans and a polo shirt the same blue as his eyes. She was wearing what she’d had on when she got his note: ancient white cotton pants and a white men’s T-shirt, green flip-flops, a ponytail, and no makeup.
“Nice out here,” he commented, passing her a cardboard cup of coffee. He placed the rugelach between them on top of a white paper bag. “Doesn’t even feel like Beverly Hills.” “I love it, too.” Anna ran a finger over the natural blond wood of the gazebo, wood that had been lovingly hand sanded to the texture of velvet. “I hardly ever come out here; maybe I spent too many years living in New York to even remember to think about a backyard.” She sipped the coffee.
Ben bit into a cherry rugelach and stretched out on the long wooden bench seat that circled the gazebo. “So, let’s start with the basics. How are you?” “I’m good.” Anna winced. Ugh. What a banal thing to say. How could she possibly feel awkward with him after everything they’d experienced together? She tasted the hot coffee just for something to do and hoped he hadn’t noticed the goose bumps on her arms.
“So, community service for
trespassing
?” He sounded incredulous.
She shrugged and pulled her knees up to her chest. “Some vendetta between Cammie’s father and this guy, I guess. Cammie and I got stuck in the middle. In some bizarre way I think it’s going to be fun. We’re helping with a charity fashion
—Ben
Anna refolded the note. Ben was downstairs.
Her
Ben. Except that she needed to not think of him that way now. Too much had happened, and she couldn’t pretend otherwise.
She’d actually met him before she’d even arrived at LAX, because they were on the same flight from New York on New Year’s Day. He’d been a freshman at Princeton then, and would be a sophomore this coming fall. He wore his brown hair a little shaggy, had eyes the color of the Pacific on a sunny day, and had the toned build of a swimmer. He was also smart and sweet and sexy, and he’d been the boy to whom she’d lost her virginity. She had some great memories of her time with Ben. That was one of them.
Was that the reason that she’d thought he was “the one” for so long, and why she sometimes still thought he’d be the one forever? She sighed. There had been too much deceit, both major and minor. He’d stranded her on his father’s yacht not far from Joe’s Clams in Marina del Rey on the same night that they’d met. There’d been the Anna Nicole Smith look-alike (much younger, brunette version) who’d surprised her at the front door of his parents’ house, and whom he’d actually taken to her junior prom. Not that anything bad had happened with that girl—what was her name, Maddie?—but Ben hadn’t exactly been up front with her about it. And then, finally, there was a girl from Princeton who was basically stalking him, but whom Ben didn’t mention anything about until it was too late. It was all too much and too angst-y for her. So when Caine Manning came along via her father’s investment firm—a little older and, it seemed to Anna now, a lot more mature—she had been intrigued. Caine was different from any boy she’d ever known. He drove a pickup truck. Ben drove a Beemer. Ben lived in Beverly Hills. Caine lived in Venice. Ben’s arms were tan from the tennis court and the pool at the Riviera Country Club. Caine’s arms were tattooed with reproductions of Botticelli paintings.
Anna rested her forehead in her hands,
She still held the note. Ben was downstairs. Right now. And that’s how she came to be sitting across from him in the gazebo in her father’s huge backyard fifteen minutes later.
“Anna.”
Her insides did a somersault when he spoke her name. His voice gave her goose bumps. His looks, too. He wore old jeans and a polo shirt the same blue as his eyes. She was wearing what she’d had on when she got his note: ancient white cotton pants and a white men’s T-shirt, green flip-flops, a ponytail, and no makeup.
“Nice out here,” he commented, passing her a cardboard cup of coffee. He placed the rugelach between them on top of a white paper bag. “Doesn’t even feel like Beverly Hills.” “I love it, too.” Anna ran a finger over the natural blond wood of the gazebo, wood that had been lovingly hand sanded to the texture of velvet. “I hardly ever come out here; maybe I spent too many years living in New York to even remember to think about a backyard.” She sipped the coffee.
Ben bit into a cherry rugelach and stretched out on the long wooden bench seat that circled the gazebo. “So, let’s start with the basics. How are you?” “I’m good.” Anna winced. Ugh. What a banal thing to say. How could she possibly feel awkward with him after everything they’d experienced together? She tasted the hot coffee just for something to do and hoped he hadn’t noticed the goose bumps on her arms.
“So, community service for
trespassing
?” He sounded incredulous.
She shrugged and pulled her knees up to her chest. “Some vendetta between Cammie’s father and this guy, I guess. Cammie and I got stuck in the middle. In some bizarre way I think it’s going to be fun. We’re helping with a charity fashion
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