“Yeah, well,” she says quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’s impossible not to notice you.”
I grin at her, wondering how much I must look like a wolf.
A couple of minutes later and we’re at the hotel and waiting in the lobby for the valet to bring the car around.
“Nice place,” she says, looking around. “I’ve never been inside. I hear the restaurant at the top is hella cool though.”
“Top of the Mark?” I repeat. “You mean, where I’m taking you for dinner tonight?”
“Dinner?” she repeats. Her eyes open wider.
“Yes. It’s only fair. You show me around the city, the best places to photograph, I’ll take you out for dinner.”
“Yeah, but we’re taking your car,” she says.
“Let’s just say my generosity knows no bounds.”
Just then the Mustang swings around in front of the hotel. Fucking driver took the corner a little sharply, absolutely no respect.
I consider cutting him down while he gets out of the car, but instead, while Violet is in awe over the vehicle, I slip the valet a ten dollar tip, holding on to his hand a little longer, my eyes telling him to watch himself.
He’s intimidated. He takes the money, thanking me profusely, and backs off.
“I can’t believe this is yours,” Violet exclaims softly, turning to face me.
I flash her a smile. “Believe it. And get in.”
Moments later I’m pulling the cherry-red muscle car out of the hotel’s driveway and we’re screaming down California Street like a scene from a classic film. Violet’s red fingernails grip the dashboard as she squeals in a mix of fear and delight, her cries getting louder as we burn through green lights until we brake to a hard stop near the ferry building.
“Holy shit,” she says, looking at me in awe. “I’ve always wanted to pretend to be Steve McQueen.”
She’s breathless, her face flushed, eyes bright and shiny. She looks like sex. It takes all my control to keep my hands on the wheel, my attention on the road. That heated urge to possess her is climbing through my veins and I have to take a deep steadying breath to quell it. I’m not used to having my desires kept in check—I’ve always been brutally upfront about what I want. But with Violet, I have to be careful. I can’t scare her off.
And honestly, I don’t want to. Every moment I’m spending with her is another layer unwrapped, and another challenge lying in wait.
I love challenges.
San Francisco is a hilly collection of one-way streets, and while I obviously don’t know the city well outside of what I learned from the guidebooks, I take the car down the Embarcadero, past the piers and the trams that trundle between Phoenix palms, past yacht clubs, beaches, Crissy field, until Violet is telling me to pull over.
“I thought you were directing me to old Fort Point,” I say, gesturing to the decaying old military fortress beneath the pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Too cliché,” she says, getting out of the car. “Come with me.”
We stop at a café where I buy her a decaf latte with almond milk, and then head out onto Torpedo Wharf which sticks out into the bay like a broken thumb.
At the end of the pier, we find a spot where no one is fishing and she leans against the wood railing, staring silently at the bridge.
The fog is continuing to roll in, bringing a briny mist that you can taste. Only the tops of the bridge remain visible, the orange red seeming to glow against grey skies, while shadows of the structure come and go as the fog moves in.
Violet stares in quiet fascination, her dark eyes taking it in. I can see the fog reflected in them, giving her an eerie quality. She appears to be listening but whether it’s the fog horns, the chatter of the fishermen, the lapping waves, or the dull roar of the bridge traffic, I don’t know. Could be something else entirely.
I don’t want to break her concentration or bring her back from whatever world she’s in. I just stand beside her and let her be. If anything, it says a lot about her comfort level with me if she lets herself drift away.
After a few minutes, she slowly turns to me and blinks. “How long did you say you were going to be in San Francisco for?”
“I don’t know,” I say carefully. “It depends if I find what I’m looking for.”
“And what are you looking for?”
“A reason to stay.” I hold her gaze with mine. The sea breeze picks up a few strands of her hair, moving them across her face like a black veil. Without thinking, I reach over and brush them away, tucking them behind her ear.
I could kiss her. I should kiss her. The feel of her skin against my fingers ignites a million torches inside.
Then she looks away, uncomfortable, the silence between us changing.
I steer the subject onto her. “You said your mother is a famous photographer. Does she have a studio?”
She lets out a soft sigh, her eyes back on the bridge. “Yeah. In the Mission District.”
“And you don’t want the same for yourself?”
She rubs her lips together in thought before looking down at her hands that hang over the side of the railing. “As I said, I don’t know what I want. I’m not sure I feel comfortable with the idea of having a studio. My mom does portraits of people. That’s not what I like to shoot.”
“Not a people person?”
A wry smile cracks her lips. “No. Not really. It’s too…intimate. My mom is great at it because people feel comfortable with her. She can…I don’t know, manipulate their feelings.”