He tipped his forehead to me. “Hey.” Then he gave me a quick once-over, and a small grin.
Thank God I wore my best jeans and had a touch of that casual, wind-blown look from my scooter ride over here. Plus, I was thin and trim–something I’d always worked hard at being. Whether through exercise or other means.
Wait.
Why did it matter if I looked good? I definitely didn’t care if he was checking me out. I didn’t have the time to admire the opposite-sex scenery these days. I had loads of work and school and bills begging for attention, so I issued myself a few firm and sharp instructions: His accent will not melt you. His eyes will not hook you.
“I’m William,” he offered, and I forced myself to barely acknowledge him, instead silently cursing the universe for dropping a too-fine specimen into my day.
“Hey,” I muttered, brushing past him into the office.
“Thanks for the biscuit, J.P.,” he said, and I stole a quick look as William held up a half-eaten chocolate-covered biscuit that would ordinarily be served with tea. He took one more bite, and rolled his eyes to indicate it was scrumptious. My mouth watered slightly; it was probably a delicious biscuit indeed. It was also an indignity, as far as I was concerned, that guys could eat treats with such careless abandon. I wanted to eat with that kind of attitude. I longed not to be tempted by food.
He finished, then flashed me an irresistible grin that was one part cocky, one part lopsided and one part devil-may-care insouciance. “You should try the biscuits. They’re fantastic,” he said to me as he picked up his backpack, and slung it over his shoulder.
“Thanks for the tip,” I said dryly, because wouldn’t it be nice if I could just try the biscuits and eat only one? Alas, that was not my strong suit, so I practiced abstinence with sweets. And other things.
He left, and I turned around to shut the door, hoping that it would shut him out of my head too.
But as I was closing it, he stuck his boot in the door.
“I can recommend cookies too, if you’d like. Chocolate cake. Brownies. Tarts. Pies,” he offered, rattling off all sorts of sugary concoctions, each word playing on his lips like a tantalizing treat, as if he were trying to win me over. Or, perhaps, gain the upper hand. But upper hands were my stock in trade, so I turned things around on him.
“When I’m in the mood for a huckleberry pie, I’ll track you down,” I said, giving him my best red-carpet smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
As he walked down the hall, I spotted a strong and sturdy motorcycle helmet strapped to his backpack. He must be the owner of the scratched-up silver motorcycle.
Hot. British. Rides a motorcycle.
If he turned out to be a smart one, he’d be all my weaknesses.
An errant butterfly bounded through my chest. Damn fluttery thing.
But I had no time for weaknesses, or butterflies, in my life. I pulled hard on the door, snapping it shut and leaving him behind.
William
As I elbowed open the door, I tapped the search bar on my mobile phone. Dropping my sunglasses over my eyes, I keyed in the name “Riley Belle,” then waited as the beach ball made its rounds. Someday, somewhere–I was convinced of this eventual possibility–we’d live in a world where cell phone searching wouldn’t be the equivalent of staring at a watched pot that never boiled. But for now, I heaved a sigh as I mounted my bike and kept my vigil on the screen. The sun blasted high above, a perfect yellow orb that delivered rays of happiness as far as I was concerned. I didn’t miss the English weather one bit. Not even a single iota, and hadn’t since I flew across the pond for my junior year abroad that turned into staying my senior year too. Some people say they want four seasons; I was not one of those people. I say give me perfect day after perfect day, so I suppose that’s why Los Angeles suited me quite well.
Quite well indeed, and so much better than the homeland.
As the phone chugged along, a text message dinged from the name Hack.
I thumbed it open and read. So what’s the story with the new gig? Think you can keep this one for longer than a weekend? - Your big brother. (Don’t forget–I’ll always be older and wiser and better looking)
I typed a quick reply. Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass the family in front of good old Uncle James. (And you will always be older, which means you’ll be grayer and fatter).
After I fired off the note to my brother Matthew in New York–he’d caught American fever too–the Riley Belle search results appeared, so I clicked back to the browser and scrolled through them on a mad dash for the best image. I had to kick unholy ass on this job for a million reasons, not the least of which was to end Matthew’s ribbing. I needed a quick visual of the subject. I tapped a close-up of Riley Belle, then studied her features until I had damn near memorized her face. Right; she was the brunette with the sunshine smile and chocolate eyes. Or so this story said in some entertainment site. Probably a suck-up one. After all, who uses words like sunshine and chocolate to describe a hot girl?
As I tucked the phone into my back pocket and revved the engine, I ran through better words for hot girls. Blond, sarcastic, a fan of huckleberry pie.
I pulled into the westbound traffic, weaving among cars, with my focus on the beach.
Oh, there was one more word. Competition.
She was the competition.
Jess
The memory of William’s pinchable butt and lickable lips was front and center as I sank down on the worn and cracked vinyl couch kitty corner from J.P.’s desk.