be.
By the end of the day, relations between them would be normalized. They'd be just a couple of pals.
As Ren rounded the car to the sidewalk, she sneaked a glance at his face. An unfortunate move, because then the memory of those kisses hit her like a sledgehammer. His mouth had been demanding, and she could still feel the burn of his whiskers around her lips as well as the imprint of his thumbs on the edge of her jaw. Champagne bubbles started speeding through her blood again, just thinking of that.
"Cilla?"
Her gaze jerked to Ren's and she realized she'd been standing, frozen, for some embarrassing number of seconds. Ordering herself to get a grip, she started walking, away from the side street where she'd instructed him to park and toward their destination. "Close your eyes," she said as they neared a corner.
"What?"
"Close your eyes. I'll lead you, but I want this to be a surprise."
With a shrug, he did as he was told, which was when she realized that "leading" likely involved touching—not such a great idea. They'd taken time to shower and change out of their exercise gear, so he was now in jeans and a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled up, tails out. To avoid skin, she grabbed the side of the shirt at his waist and tugged him forward for half a block, then stopped at the corner. "Ta-da!" she said.
His eyes opened and he looked out at the car-crammed intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street, then back at her. "Uh...?"
"You wanted a distraction, right? Action, things to look at." She spread her arms in both directions. "The Walk of Fame."
He blinked and looked around again, this time his gaze traveling over the sidewalk crowded with people streaming by, some moving purposefully, others pausing every few steps to take note of the star-studded squares at their feet. "I've never stopped here."
"Just as I guessed," she said, grinning. "I brought an out-of-town friend to the Walk for the first time last summer and everybody from L.A. I've told about it since say they've never strolled the stars."
"So that's your plan? We'll stroll the stars?"
"Yep." She started forward. "C'mon, breathe deep of the auto emissions and breathe in all the Hollywood glamour you can handle."
Glamour was a bit of an exaggeration. The fact was, there was more kitsch than elegance to be found on the blocks that made up the Walk. Besides eateries and bars and Starbucks there were a zillion souvenir shops that sold I Love LA T-shirts, facsimiles of Oscar statues that ran from the size of a finger to the size of a Doberman, and maps that promised purchasers directions to the exclusive homes of actors, musicians, and supermodels.
Still, it made for an entertaining amble. Ren kept at her pace, even going along with the game of who could spot the stars awarded to fictional characters, the first to find three being declared the winner. Each of them had spotted two (Cilla scored with Godzilla and Donald Duck; Ren with Bugs Bunny and Shrek) when she saw him hesitate, glance down, then keep moving.
Cilla's gaze dropped to the star he'd dismissed. Another point! "Hey buddy," she called out. "You missed Tinker Bell. I win, three to two." When Ren turned back, her eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "Wait. You saw her, didn't you?"
He shrugged.
"Oh my gosh." She laughed. "What, do you think you're too macho to acknowledge Tink?"
"I don't just think I'm macho, squirt."
She stared up at him, the sun limning with gold the disordered darkness of his hair. It didn't surpass the brightness of his easy smile. Her last breath caught in her lungs and she had to cough to dislodge it. He was that beautiful.
"Anyway," he continued. "Tinker Bell isn't fictional. Don't you remember Peter Pan ? 'I believe in fairies. I believe in fairies.'" He clapped three times, then reached for Cilla's hands. "Repeat after me," he said, his warm fingers guiding her palms together. "I believe in fairies and I didn't win the game. I believe in fairies and I didn't
By the end of the day, relations between them would be normalized. They'd be just a couple of pals.
As Ren rounded the car to the sidewalk, she sneaked a glance at his face. An unfortunate move, because then the memory of those kisses hit her like a sledgehammer. His mouth had been demanding, and she could still feel the burn of his whiskers around her lips as well as the imprint of his thumbs on the edge of her jaw. Champagne bubbles started speeding through her blood again, just thinking of that.
"Cilla?"
Her gaze jerked to Ren's and she realized she'd been standing, frozen, for some embarrassing number of seconds. Ordering herself to get a grip, she started walking, away from the side street where she'd instructed him to park and toward their destination. "Close your eyes," she said as they neared a corner.
"What?"
"Close your eyes. I'll lead you, but I want this to be a surprise."
With a shrug, he did as he was told, which was when she realized that "leading" likely involved touching—not such a great idea. They'd taken time to shower and change out of their exercise gear, so he was now in jeans and a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled up, tails out. To avoid skin, she grabbed the side of the shirt at his waist and tugged him forward for half a block, then stopped at the corner. "Ta-da!" she said.
His eyes opened and he looked out at the car-crammed intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street, then back at her. "Uh...?"
"You wanted a distraction, right? Action, things to look at." She spread her arms in both directions. "The Walk of Fame."
He blinked and looked around again, this time his gaze traveling over the sidewalk crowded with people streaming by, some moving purposefully, others pausing every few steps to take note of the star-studded squares at their feet. "I've never stopped here."
"Just as I guessed," she said, grinning. "I brought an out-of-town friend to the Walk for the first time last summer and everybody from L.A. I've told about it since say they've never strolled the stars."
"So that's your plan? We'll stroll the stars?"
"Yep." She started forward. "C'mon, breathe deep of the auto emissions and breathe in all the Hollywood glamour you can handle."
Glamour was a bit of an exaggeration. The fact was, there was more kitsch than elegance to be found on the blocks that made up the Walk. Besides eateries and bars and Starbucks there were a zillion souvenir shops that sold I Love LA T-shirts, facsimiles of Oscar statues that ran from the size of a finger to the size of a Doberman, and maps that promised purchasers directions to the exclusive homes of actors, musicians, and supermodels.
Still, it made for an entertaining amble. Ren kept at her pace, even going along with the game of who could spot the stars awarded to fictional characters, the first to find three being declared the winner. Each of them had spotted two (Cilla scored with Godzilla and Donald Duck; Ren with Bugs Bunny and Shrek) when she saw him hesitate, glance down, then keep moving.
Cilla's gaze dropped to the star he'd dismissed. Another point! "Hey buddy," she called out. "You missed Tinker Bell. I win, three to two." When Ren turned back, her eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "Wait. You saw her, didn't you?"
He shrugged.
"Oh my gosh." She laughed. "What, do you think you're too macho to acknowledge Tink?"
"I don't just think I'm macho, squirt."
She stared up at him, the sun limning with gold the disordered darkness of his hair. It didn't surpass the brightness of his easy smile. Her last breath caught in her lungs and she had to cough to dislodge it. He was that beautiful.
"Anyway," he continued. "Tinker Bell isn't fictional. Don't you remember Peter Pan ? 'I believe in fairies. I believe in fairies.'" He clapped three times, then reached for Cilla's hands. "Repeat after me," he said, his warm fingers guiding her palms together. "I believe in fairies and I didn't win the game. I believe in fairies and I didn't
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