Claim Me(114)

I am smiling so wide it hurts, and I hug the letter to my chest and sigh, then collapse onto the bed and replay every decadent moment of last night. Then I spend the rest of the morning doing as Damien suggested. There’s a darling floral-print sundress for me in the closet, along with a cute pair of Yellow Box flip-flops. I wear those downstairs and have a mani/pedi at the spa. Once my nails are dry, I wander the lobby and buy both Damien and myself oversized Beverly Hills T-shirts and matching baseball caps.




After that, I sit by the pool with a magazine and drink two Bloody Marys while I read all about the latest celebrity antics in what will surely turn out to be a futile attempt to impress Jamie with my Hollywood knowledge. The magazine has only one small picture of Damien and me, and I immediately decide that this particular publication is a million times more responsible than its competitors.

At eleven, I still haven’t heard from Damien, so I go back to the room to wait. The vodka goes to my head and I must drift off, because the next thing I know the mattress is shifting, and I’m opening my eyes and seeing the most gorgeous sight ever.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi, yourself. What have you done so far today?”

“Very little,” I admit. “It’s been heaven.”

“Would you object to going out? I have someplace I’d like to take you.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Rollerblading on Venice Beach,” he says, and I burst out laughing—at least until I realize he’s serious.

“Really?”

“It’s fun. Have you ever done it?”

I have to admit that I haven’t, and Damien tells me that it’s high time I tried.

“In that case, I have the perfect accessories.” I unwrap the shirts and caps, then pull my shirt on over the dress and shove my hair into a cap. “The more we look like tourists, the less anyone will recognize us.”

“Not to mention the fact that you look pretty damn cute.”

I look at myself in the full-length mirror and decide it could be worse. It’s not a fashion statement, but I look like a girl having a lazy, touristy Sunday afternoon.

Damien, of course, looks hot as sin in the gray T-shirt that hugs his body and the black baseball cap that accentuates his chiseled jaw and brilliant smile.

He has a leather backpack, and he offers to hold my wallet and phone. “Leave everything else,” he says.

“Don’t we have to check out?”

“It’s my room,” he says. “Well, the company’s. We keep this suite permanently leased for visiting clients and execs from out of town.”

Not a bad deal, I think, as we head down to the valet stand. Soon we’re in the Jaguar and heading west down Santa Monica Boulevard.

Damien knows the small streets of Venice well and soon he has the car settled in an attended garage and we’re sitting on a bench strapping on rented Rollerblades, kneepads, and helmets.

Twenty minutes later, we’re back on the bench, taking them off and returning them to the little rental stand.

“I told you I’d be horrible,” I say.

“You were pretty bad,” he acknowledges. “I’m not sure how someone so graceful can actually have no balance whatsoever.”

“I can balance,” I say. “Just not on tiny little lines of wheels. What about bicycles?”

He eyes me dubiously.

I cock my head and raise my brows. “Yes. I can ride a bike.”

We find a rental stand and then I spend the next two hours proving to him that I have in fact retained this childhood skill. Although, to be honest, it’s not a childhood skill at all. My mother was too worried about potential scrapes and bruises. So I didn’t learn to ride a bike until college.