Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“All right. Then I’ll pay off this year’s taxes—it’ll give you some room to figure things out,” I add when she stiffens.
“How about this. If I can’t figure out how to pay for it myself by tax time, you can help.”
“It’s your choice.”
“It is.”
“Okay, then. But the offer is always going to be open.”
“And I appreciate it. Truly, August. I do.”
We walk a bit in silence.
Her expression turns resolute. “If you do end up helping me, it will be just the one time. I’ll either sell the place or find another way to pay you back.”
“Okay.” It’s all I can say. Pen sees this as charity, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. It’s an attempt to give something back in gratitude for the public pressures I’m about to subject her to. That part, I don’t like. Only, I can’t back down now. I just can’t.
I’m an intelligent guy. There are other ways I could go about fixing my tarnished image. But somewhere between finding her on my parents’ doorstep and hunting her down at the airport, I’d realized with absolute clarity that this is the play I need. Not only to help my career. But to get closer to Pen, something I could never do before, given that she’d flee any time I was around.
Our new ease together tentative at best. I need more time with her. I need to play this right. It’s a gamble. Anything worth having is. All that is required is a good strategy.
I take her hand in mine—friendly-like. “Meet me on Wednesday for breakfast?”
Twelve
Pen
One of the great things about LA is the classic Americana diner. There’s something comforting in knowing you can get a plain cup of coffee, bacon and eggs, waffles, a fluffy stack of golden pancakes, crisp hash browns, a tuna melt, whatever floats your boat, and it will always be served up the same. Hangover food, a family breakfast, works well either way.
When I was a kid out visiting Pops and Pegs, we’d go to the 101 Coffee Shop, a ’60s-style diner, with a chunky rock stone wall, hanging milk glass globe pendant lights, and faux wood-paneled counters. Amidst the scents of drip coffee, grease, and pancakes, we’d slide into one of the tan booths, the backs of my bare legs squeaking along the pleather, and settle down to calorie-laden fry-cooked paradise.
During the pandemic, the 101 closed. And with it, a slice of Hollywood history. I’d gotten a huge kick out of watching Swingers one night, in my freshman year, and seeing the 101 featured, and knowing I’d often sat in that very spot, eating a short stack with a side of bacon. But time moves on.
Thankfully, it was saved and reopened under the new name of Clark Street Diner. It’s no longer a late-night drunken haven, but, seeing as I’d never been here after midnight, I’m okay with that.
I haven’t been back since my grandparents passed, but the sensation of sliding my bum across the tan booth remains the same as I meet August for breakfast two days later because he wants to settle “some things” before we go public.
He smiles at me from across the table—that happy, gorgeous true smile of his that crinkles his eyes and brackets his mouth with little dimples. Dressed in faded jeans, a gray T that stretches tight across his shoulders but hangs lose on his trim waist, and a trucker hat worn backward, he looks like a walking ad for casual wear. Honestly, as my mom would say, the man could sell ice to penguins, and they’d walk away happy. Given that this is LA, where hot men abound, he doesn’t stick out. But he’s still the only man I notice.
“I’m starved,” he says, glancing at the menu with ravenous intensity. Oh, to be a menu. “I met with my trainer at six in the fucking morning and was tortured for hours.”
“Poor baby.”
His eyes twinkle with good humor. “It was hell, I tell you. Pure hell.”
“I can imagine.” No, honestly, I can. And I’m glad I wasn’t subjected to it.
“And all I could think was, soon I’d be with you.”
My breath puffs out in a little “oh” of surprise. Damn the man, he’s too good with words. How did I not know this? I’m saved from having to respond when our server arrives. I order my usual pancakes and bacon. August goes for the gold, getting a protein omelet and hash browns.
“No shakes?” I ask, amused.
“Maybe later.” He winks as our server comes back to pour us coffee. “Today’s a build and bulk day.”
August is more lean than bulk. But his build is well honed.
I must have been caught looking, because he gets cheeky.
“Mostly the legs,” he says casually, that gleam still in his eyes. “Strength equals stability and protection. Did so many squat thrusts today, my thighs burn like hell. If you’re interested.”