Page 120 of Faking the Pass
“It’s not a gift,” he said. “It’s a business expense. You need clothes for our public appearances—they’re props. And this point isn’t open to negotiation… unless you’d rather have sex out on the deck today? I’d be fine with that alternative.”
“Pres,” I scolded, but I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Those are my options? Public sex or shopping?”
“Take your pick,” he said.
In one quick move, he pulled off his shirt, revealing that splendid chest and those lickable abs.
When he started unbuttoning his pants, I blurted, “Fine. We’ll go shopping. Just let me shower and get dressed, and we can go.”
Leaving the house as quickly as possible suddenly seemed like anexcellentidea.
Downtown Eastport Bay was even more charming than it had been when I’d left here for California fifteen years ago.
There were some new shops and restaurants, but the cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks, historic buildings, and Colonial-era plaque homes were still the same.
Expertly designed window boxes and standing planters overflowed with colorful blooms outside the posh boutiques and art galleries and upscale hotels that lined Main Street.
In the spaces between the buildings, the deep blue of the harbor was visible, decorated with white yachts and sailboats.
When we parked at Brady’s Wharf, the quaint shopping and entertainment center where Saltwater Style resided, I noticed a new bookstore that I wanted to check out.
It had a cute name—Bonnie’s Bonny Books. I also spotted Nooky’s Diner, my very favorite place to eat when I was growing up.
The retro railcar diner had been in business since the 1950’s. Based on the number of cars in the parking lot, it continued to draw a large daily crowd of tourists and locals alike.
Though it served all kinds of food twenty-four hours a day, I’d always been most interested in Nooky’s famous fresh-baked pies—no less than ten varieties each day.
My mom had started taking me to Nooky’s as soon as I was old enough to eat solid food, but it hadn’t been until I was a teenager that I’d understood the cheeky double meaning of its slogan, “Come and Get It All Night Long.”
As Presley and I walked hand in hand toward the clothing shop, several paparazzi kept pace with us, snapping pictures. One was using a phone to capture video.
“Where have you been the past few days?” that one called out.
“Are you fighting?” Another asked. “Is the honeymoon over already?”
Presley answered. “Not even close.”
Then he pulled me against him with an arm around my waist and pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
“You guys may want to go grab some lunch,” he said as he opened the door of Saltwater Style for me. “We’ll be a while in here.”
Once inside, he turned and locked the door.
“Can you do that?” I asked, surprised.
“You can if you’ve arranged with the owner to shut down the store for a few hours. Here she comes.”
A beautifully dressed woman approached us from the back of the store, arms out in greeting. Her makeup and hair wereperfect—she was the one who should have been followed around by a pack of cameras.
She was middle-aged and looked like she might have worn a pageant crown at one point in her life—or modeled. She still could have, in fact.
Her warm smile and soft voice were the only things keeping her from being intimidating.
“Welcome back, Rosie.” She extended a hand to Presley. “Hi, I’m Chelle. And you must be the lucky groom.”
“That I am.”
