My impatience is all exacerbated by Martin running names by me of two dozen chefs he thinks could replace Holly, until they all blend into one. Now that I’ve seen what real talent looks like, now that I’ve watched it dance through a kitchen making work look like a performance, now that I’ve seen that headstrong dedication to perfect food, these other chefs pale in comparison, experience be damned. Memories pull me into a constant state of distraction and arousal, compelling me to check clocks and calendars until Monday comes around. It’s been a long time since I had to wait to get what I want, and the waiting just makes the wanting even harder.
By the time Monday comes I feel like I’ve gone through a desert. I take my time picking out swim shorts and a t-shirt, take more time to stand in front of my cars and pick the right one. When you’re an ex television celebrity and the most well-known restauranteur in Los Angeles, women start trying to impress you, rather than the other way around. You can wear pajamas and show up in a beat-up Civic and, if anything, it only makes you glow even more in their eyes. But Willow…something tells me she doesn’t buy into all that shit. If I want to impress her, I’m going to have to work at it.
First off, there aren’t many women who’d tell the owner of a successful restaurant their entire food philosophy is wrong. Not many who’d pin that owner against a counter and force him to try their food. Not only that, but Willow looks me in the eye, talks like she’s not afraid of me, and doesn’t hold back when it comes to her own principles or opinions. She’s a challenge, and I like it. I won’t even get into what she did to me with her mouth in that dark corner of the club, how hot it was when she made eye contact with me, how much of a turn on it was that we might get caught. That’s a girl with some untapped talent right there.
I meet her at my favorite Santa Monica beachfront hotel. One with a private beach area that I know will give us some time alone. She’s standing outside the front entrance when I valet my car, by the swaying palms that hide the footpath to the beach. A wide-brim straw hat, a wicker tote bag, and a chiffon kaftan over that tight body. Slightly see-through, so her bikini clad figure teases behind it like the haze of a dream.
I walk toward her slowly, taking my time to appreciate the view, and when we get close enough I make sure she knows how good she looks by kissing her on the cheek, a little too slow, a little too close.
“You look incredible,” I murmur into her ear. “I’m not gonna be able to take my eyes off you.”
“It’s so beautiful here,” she says, turning her blushing face away from me to gaze at the azure waves.
“You haven’t seen it yet,” I say, gesturing at the beach path.
I take her hand, leading her down the steep steps as we move toward the isolated cabana. A wood platform that juts out onto the pearlescent beach, a couple of loungers set out on it, folded towels neatly stacked on them, and a small table with a crystal vase of flowers and some bottles of expensive sparkling water. The scene surrounded by four posters holding up the thin white linen that acts as a shade, swaying in the breeze.
“Oh my God,” Willow says excitedly when she sees it, hurrying her step to get there quicker. “It looks like actual heaven. This is amazing!”
“I’m glad you like it,” I say. It’s sincere. Willow’s so different from the usual women I take out that I was worried about hitting the mark. “It’s ours for the day. What would you like to drink?”
I glance over at the waiter emerging from the fauna, and Willow follows my gaze to see him.
“Something with fruit. Fresh,” she says.
“Alcoholic or no?”
Willow shrugs easily, as if she’s up for anything now that she’s happy and relaxed.
“Sure,” she says. “It is my day off.”
The waiter nods graciously in her direction, much like Charles, as if he knows exactly what’ll make the customer happy.
“We have a green tea mojito that is very popular,” he says.
“Perfect,” Willow smiles. “Cole?”
“I’ll have a single malt whiskey,” I tell the waiter. “Your choice.”
“Very good, Mr. Chambers,” he says, before turning primly and heading back.
Willow eyes me playfully.
“He knew your name.”
“Don’t believe what they tell you—TV still has reach.”
Willow dumps her bag and pulls off her hat, swishing her hair in the wind to loosen it.
“Oh, I’m sure you come here often. I bet the ladies love it.”
“Is that jealousy I’m hearing?”
“Nope,” Willow says, laughing so that I know she’s not lying. “Just figuring you out a little.”
“You don’t have to figure me out—I’ll tell you exactly who I am.”
“Is that so?” Willow says, pulling the knot at the back of her kaftan and sliding it away to reveal a body that stirs every masculine fiber inside of me. So lithe and beautiful it’s almost torture to look and not touch. “Tell me then: Do you swim?”
I stand up and perform my own show, pulling off my T-shirt and standing proud, knowing the long hours I put in every week with my trainer at the gym have sculpted my physique to near-perfection.
“What does it look like?” I ask.
Willow looks me up and down, then shifts her weight to one side, sassily.
“It looks like you’re probably too worried about your hair to be a good swimmer.”
I laugh in disbelief.
“Imagine that, being judged as a swimmer by someone from Idaho. What coast is that on again?”
“Hey, I was the captain of my swim team in college.”
“And I’m sure the swimming pools in Idaho are really something.” I look out at the roaring ocean. “But I grew up by the ocean, it’s another level.”
Willow beams at me, bouncing a little with eager naughtiness. Then she winks, spins, and starts running down the short beach to the lapping waves. I watch her for a second, just admiring her, a little stunned at how this girl is bringing out a side of me I didn’t even know I had. Then I take off after her, giving chase as she laughs back at me over her shoulder, until we’re wading into the water, diving synchronously into a rolling wave.
We swim out a little, and I find out Willow wasn’t lying. She’s a good swimmer, good enough to tease me, to sweep away when I get close, submerge herself, long legs flicking into the air before they disappear. I let her go, enjoying the push and pull, satisfying myself with the sight of the water catching her wet hair, gentle laughter mixing with the rush of waves. Until she emerges right next to me, taking me by surprise. I whip around and grab her waist underwater, pull her toward me, a shrieked laugh emerging from that pearl white smile as she brings her sun-glowing face to mine.
“So,” I ask, mock-seriously, “are you the kind of girl who kisses on a first date?”
“I don’t know. Depends on the guy,” she teases, leaning in.
We kiss slow and gentle, as if we’ve got all the time in the world, the Pacific stretching out beyond us making it feel somehow more private, more intimate. I can almost taste her happiness, taste her inhibitions fading in the beauty of these surroundings.
We pull back, and she grins again. Before I can say anything, she notices something beyond my shoulder, back at the beach.
“Drinks!” she says, pointing at the waiter putting them down at our loungers, and we break apart, swimming our way back to the cabana. Willow tosses me a towel and we dry off a little before sitting down, the table between us. We raise our glasses, clink them together, and drink.
“Oh,” Willow sighs happily. “It’s so nice out here. This is bliss.”
She settles back on the lounger, and I drag mine closer to hers before doing the same.
After a while of staring at the Santa Monica pier on the horizon, I look at her, eyes closed as she faces the sun. Golden skin drying, her breasts moving imperceptibly with her peaceful breathing.
“You think you’ll stay here?” I ask.
“In Los Angeles?”
“Yeah. Are you not feeling pull of the Idaho cornfields yet?”