Page 141 of Ripped & Shipped
I tell him I love him too and then I head to bed. Tomorrow’s the big day. I’ll start with pilates here in the hotel and then I’ll put my game face on and head to Drake’s. I know @ariapilatesgoddess lives somewhere near LA. It’s too bad I don’t have time to visit her in person on this trip. Maybe next time.
* * *
The drive down Pacific Coast Highway takes about a half-hour from my hotel to Drake’s impressive mansion facing the sand. The cliffs rise up on my left and the Pacific ocean fills my view to the right. I scold myself for not renting a convertible, but then again, good hair is everything. And I’m styled in beach waves that would ironically be wrecked by the wind coming in off the beach. Who actually maintains beach waves on the beach? No one. That’s who.
Parking is scarce, but then I catch sight of the attendant out front of Drake’s house. Drake told me there was a pre-party this afternoon before things get into full swing tomorrow night. The whole bash lasts several days with various bands, and even a fashion show in the middle of it all. Rumor has it, Drake spends somewhere around twenty thousand dollars on this extravaganza.
Who knows what he really spends.
Gossip.
You should never fully believe it. Am I right?
I hand the valet my keys and walk toward the front door. Houses are built with barely five feet of space between them on this section of the coast, but they all face a restricted road that runs parallel to the freeway, and then the back of their homes sit directly on this private section of the beach.
My heart feels like it’s in my throat when I ring the doorbell. A few moments later, Drake’s standing there wearing only swim trunks. His aviator glasses are perched on top of his head, keeping his wild, wavy hair away from his face. He looks good—really good. But I feel nothing.
Chris is it for me.
“Ella Mae!” he shouts when he sees me. “You made it. I wish you would have let me put you up here. You can see it’s a far cry from wherever you stayed last night. My bed is custom-made, and the sheets are one thousand thread count Pima cotton.”
His bed? Maybe that was a slip. I’m pretty sure he’s just sharing about his bed so I’d know all the beds in the house are high quality.
“I reserved a nice room in Santa Monica with a view of the city. It’s comfortable.”
“Well, no worries. You can always crash here anyway. Mi casa es su casa, and all that. Come in, come in.”
He waves me inside and then he surprises me by pulling me into a hug. His hand moves up and down my back. I’m wearing a top that ties at my neck and wraps around my waist. My whole back is exposed. And I’m not going into the magical details of how I keep everything tucked where it needs to be. A girl’s got her secrets. All I know is Drake’s hands are on my bare skin. I give him a quick squeeze and step back.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask.
The house is quiet except for the sound of an Ed Sheeran song playing through the home audio system and the noise of the surf crashing in the distance out through the huge sliding glass panels at the back of the great room.
“Ah, yeah. They’ll all be here in a while. I thought we could hang out first. Just the two of us, you know?”
“Okay.”
I’m a little wary, but I know Drake’s been talking about connecting me with big influencers. He may want to talk shop before they all get here. Once the house fills with guests, we won’t have as much of an opportunity to catch up.
Drake walks further into the house. He looks down at the bag at my side.
“Did you bring a suit?”
I did, but I honestly don’t want to mess up my hair before everyone gets here.
“Yeah. For later.”
“Later. Yeah,” he agrees. “Well, let’s go out back. I’ve got a full kitchen out there. I’ll get us drinks and we can catch up. Did you eat?”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
He walks ahead of me, out through the floor to ceiling opening, past the glass panels that are pushed open to create a seamless indoor-outdoor feel. He walks over to a bar area where there’s a pizza oven, a stovetop, and two low refrigerators all set in stacked stone. Everything looks like it’s straight out of a magazine.
He opens one of the refrigerators. “Wine spritzer? IPA? I could mix you a drink.”
“Seltzer water?” I ask.
“Sure. I’ve got that. Once things get under full swing, the bartender will be here—and the servers, of course.”
