Page 49 of Hula Girl

She puts her hand on my chest and presses but I don’t let her push me away. “We need to get out of here.”

“Yes, we do,” I reply, dropping my voice an octave.

Exasperated, she says, “Not for that. So we cantalk.”

“Talk?” My mind is still on the idea of finding some nook in the lobby where I can have her to myself.

“Yes. Talk about how you just screwed up my life.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.” She pulls away from my grasp. “Now, let’s go.”

Swallowing, I nod and follow after her.

18

Ava

Ican feel the weight of Ford’s expectation as I storm out of the hotel and down the street, but I don’t say a word. I don’t explain to him that we’re going to my place. I don’t explain to him that I live on Spring Street, near enough to walk. I don’t explain to him that I’m grappling with how unreasonably betrayed I feel by all the half-truths he told me in Maui.

I’m in my own head, compiling the things that just don’t add up when I realize he’s no longer by my side. Glancing back, I see that he’s a half-step behind me. With his eyes on my behind.

I come to an abrupt stop and he nearly runs into me. Turning to face him, I see his crooked smile.

There are plenty of people moving in both directions on the sidewalk. They’re likely heading home after work, or meeting friends for a drink, or ducking into shops like The Last Bookstore, which happens to be catty-corner to the building where I live. There’s been a huge effort to revitalize downtown Los Angeles into a place where young professionals like myself want to live. To a certain extent, it’s worked. It can be a lively place, especially during the week. But on weekends, it still becomes a veritable ghost town. I’ve never minded, as the only reason I bought the place I live in is to be close to the office where I spend six days a week. The quiet on the one day I take off is usually of no concern since I’m more often than not at my mother’s house, spending the day with her to check over her business’ bookkeeping, catch up on neighborhood gossip, and eat the kind of made-with-love food only she can make.

Now, however, I’m conspicuously aware of the people rushing past us with impatience. That crooked smile on Ford’s face makes me lose my own patience.

“You think this is all a joke, don’t you?” I ask.

“What?”

“Do you even realize the damage you’ve done to my professional reputation? Do you even care?”

“Wait a second,” he says, his expression going serious.

Before he can continue, I tell him, “No, of course you don’t. All you care about is watching my ass walk down the street. God, I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you right now.”

Looking away from him, I eye the door to my building. It’s only two storefronts down the block, just past the hipster barbershop. But Ford doesn’t know that. I could just send him on his way right now, wait until he’s out of sight, and then go up to my loft. That would be one way to fix all this—shut down this insane attraction we have to each other and truly go our separate ways. I can tell Randall that I was playing along with Ford’s silly practical joke, that none of it was true, that I barely know him. I wouldn’t even be lying if I did that. And then I could get back to my normal life. I could get Ford out of my system and go back to my usual routine of working my ass off rather than letting him ogle it.

“Idocare,” he says.

I reluctantly meet his eyes.

“Please, can we go somewhere to talk? I’ll buy you dinner. Anywhere you want.”

He’s dropped the sex fiend act and looks contrite. The fact that his hair has reverted back to its usual unruly state and he’s undone the top two buttons of his dress shirt have nothing to do with the fact that my anger is dissipating. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

Okay, so I’m not really ready to shut this down. I want answers. I want to know what the hell just happened. And I wouldn’t mind being in close proximity to the heat of his body while I do so.

Also, I’m hungry. Those events always skimp on food, only offering a paltry passed hors d’oeuvre or two before the wait staff disappears. My first thought is to take him to the little place nearby that offers a limited menu of mouth-watering tacos on house-made tortillas. They serve everything from steak to chicharron to tinga tacos. But it's their spicy specialty taco with four kinds of roasted peppers that always draws me in. Unfortunately, they don’t have a liquor license and after skipping out on the cocktail reception before I could even get a glass of wine, combined with all this craziness with Ford, I really need a drink.

“I know a place,” I say, thinking of my second-choice Mexican restaurant. “Let’s go.”

This time, when I start walking, he keeps pace with me.

* * *

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