Water bottle dangling from one hand and Layla’s MacBook Air perched on the other, Mateo started to read. When he reached the end, he looked at her and said, “Is this for real?”
“I kept an olive as a souvenir.”
He narrowed his gaze as though trying to picture the celebrity food fight. “You get a picture?” He returned the laptop.
Layla shook her head, paused to make one small adjustment, then hit Save instead of the usual Send. “The Château is serious about their photo ban.”
Mateo shook his head and drained the water bottle in one steady stream as Layla continued to ogle him, feeling more than a little perverted for reducing her boyfriend to a sweet piece of eye candy. “You going to send that?” he asked. “Seems ready.”
She sank the laptop into her bag. “You know how I’ve been talking about starting my own blog, Beautiful Idols?” Her tentative gaze met his. “I’m thinking this might be the perfect launch piece.”
He shifted his stance, played with the bottle cap. “Layla, it’s a good bit.” He spoke as though he was handpicking each word. “It’s funny, and on point, but …” He shrugged, letting the silence say what he wouldn’t: it was hardly the caliber of work she was capable of.
“I know what you’re thinking.” She rushed to her own defense. “But none of the crap I write about qualifies as world-changing news, and I’m sick of working for crumbs. If I want to go it alone, I’ll have to start somewhere. And while the blog might take a while to really catch on, once it does, I can make a ton of money on the ad revenue alone. Besides, I’ve saved more than enough to hold me between now and then.”
That last part was a hasty addition that might or might not be true. But it sounded good, and it seemed to convince Mateo, since his first response was to pull her out of her chair and into his arms.
“And what exactly will you do with all that ad revenue?”
She ran a finger over his chest, stalling for time. Her dream of going to journalism school in New York was something she hadn’t yet shared, and to do so now would bring an awkward moment she’d rather avoid.
“Well, I figured the bulk of it would go toward the burrito fund.”
He grinned, circled his arms at her waist. “The recipe for a happy life—you, decent surf, and a healthy burrito fund.” He touched his lips to the tip of her nose. “Speaking of—when are you gonna let me teach you to surf?”
“Probably never.” She allowed her body to melt against his, burying her face in the crook of his neck, where she inhaled a heady base scent of ocean, sun, and deeply rooted contentment—complemented by a top note of honor, sincerity, and a life lived in balance. It was everything Layla wished she could be, but knew she would never achieve, encompassed in one single breath.
Yet despite their enormous differences, Mateo accepted her as she was. Never trying to change her or make her see things his way.
She wished she could say the same.
When he tipped a finger under her chin and lowered his lips to meet hers, Layla responded like a girl who’d spent the last three hours waiting for exactly that (she had). At first the kiss was gentle, playful, Mateo’s tongue gliding with hers. Until Layla ground her hips against his, returning his embrace with a passion that saw him groaning her name.
“Layla … jeez …” The words were a blur on his lips. “What do you say we find a place to continue this?”
She curled her leg around his, pulling him closer, as close as her denim cutoffs and his wet suit allowed. Aware of nothing more than the heat spiraling throughout the length of her body as his hands slipped under her hoodie. So drunk with his touch she’d gladly drag him down to the warm golden sand and straddle him there. Luckily, Mateo had sense enough to pull away before she got them arrested.
“If we hurry, we can have the house to ourselves.” His grin was loose. His eyes heavy and glazed.
“No, thanks.” Layla pushed him away, quickly losing the mood. “That last time Valentina nearly walked in, the panic I experienced shortened my life by a decade. I can’t risk that again.”
“So you live to one forty instead of one fifty.” He shrugged, tried to pull her back to him, but Layla stayed put. “I like to think that it’s worth it.”
“Easy for you to say, Mr. Zen Master.” It was one of her many nicknames for him. “Let’s go to my place. It’s free of little sisters, and even if my dad’s in the studio, it’s not like he’ll bother us. He’s really into his newest series of paintings, not that I’ve seen them. I’m just glad he’s working. It’s been forever since he last sold a piece.”
Mateo cringed. Obviously he still wanted to be with her, but all it took was the mention of her dad for his own enthusiasm to wane.
“I can’t get used to that.” He busied himself with packing their stuff, pulling the umbrella apart, and sliding it into its bag. “It’s too weird.”
“Only for you. Don’t forget Dad’s a self-described open-minded bohemian who believes in free expression. And more important, he trusts me. And he likes you. Thinks you’re a calming influence.”
She cracked a smile. It was undeniably true. Then, tossing her bag over her shoulder, she headed for Mateo’s black Jeep, where she plucked a flyer from under his wiper blades and read: Promote with Ira Redman’s Unrivaled Nightlife Company this summer for a chance to win an unbelievable cash prize.
Her interest was instantly piqued.
She’d had her sights on journalism school in New York since her junior year of high school, and while she was thrilled to have been accepted, there was no chance of attending when the staggering tuition, not to mention the high cost of city living, was like a brick wall blocking her way. And with her dad’s current financial slump lasting longer than usual, asking him for help was out of the question.
While her mom could easily provide whatever amount Layla might need (correction: her mom’s wealthy husband could provide; Layla’s mom was just another Santa Monica zombie shuffling between Soul Cycle and Drybar), the fact was Layla and her mom hadn’t spoken for years, and Layla had no plans to start.
As for Mateo—his job as a surf butler at some of the pricier beachfront hotels didn’t pay much (not that Layla would accept his help if it did). Not to mention she’d yet to fill him in on that particular goal—mostly because he’d insist on joining her, and as nice as it would be to have him around, he’d only end up distracting her. Mateo didn’t share her ambition, and sweet as he was, Layla refused to be yet another female who let a cute boy keep her from achieving her dreams.
She scanned the flyer again—a job like that could be just what she needed. The exposure to the Hollywood club scene would give her way better material, and who knew where it could lead?
Mateo leaned past her shoulder and tugged the flyer from her hands. “Tell me you’re not interested in this.” He swung around to better see her, his brown eyes narrowed as Layla bit her lip in response, unwilling to admit it was the most exciting thing to happen all day (other than that kiss on the beach). “Babe, trust me, you don’t want to get involved in this.” His voice was stern in a way she rarely heard. “The club scene
