Tall Cool One (14 page)

Adam could tell the bellhop was wary of a high school student who wanted to rent the suite for just one night. But Adam wasn’t about to spend—
gulp
—three hundred of his hard-earned dollars unless he was sure the place would be perfect, the perfect place for him and Cammie to make love for the first time.

“Yeah, it’s great,” Adam replied. “Thanks.”

Adam went back to the front desk, thanking his lucky stars that there’d been a last-minute cancellation that allowed him to book it at half price. He paid cash; it wasn’t like he had a credit card. Counting out the crumpled twenties and watching them disappear into the cashier’s drawer made his heart palpitate. How many lawns had he mowed, how many kids had he tutored to save up all that money? Now he was spending it on Cammie. But it was worth it, he vowed to himself. That’s how much he valued what they were about to share.

As he waited for the front desk clerk to hand over the suite’s key card, he thought back on the conversation he’d had with his dad. He couldn’t believe that his father had asked him if he and Cammie were doing the horizontal. As close as he and his dad were, as much as they were able to talk about almost anything, there were still some things a person should keep private. Adam scratched his tattoo absentmindedly. If he were going to be completely honest with himself, he’d have to admit that what bothered him most was that he hadn’t been able to tell his dad for sure that he loved Cammie. He definitely cared about her and felt like he knew her in a way that no one else did. He most definitely thought she was hot, and he loved how much she was into him.

So was that love? He had no clue. And he decided that was okay. He had deep feelings for Cammie. One part of his life was about to end and another part to begin. For now, that was enough.

When the desk clerk offered the key card, Adam stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he walked over to Main Street and ducked into a gift shop called Parsley Sage. Bells tinkled when he entered; space music and incense filled the air.

“Welcome to Parsley Sage. Can I be of assistance?” the proprietor asked. She was middle-aged and wore a brilliant flowing silk caftan. At least two dozen strings of beads hung around her neck, and her hands were covered in henna tattoos. She stood near a tiny indoor waterfall next to her cash register.

“Um, yes. Where are your candles?”

“Ah, candles,” she intoned wistfully. “Sometimes I rue the invention of the electric light. Right this way.” She led Adam to the back of her shop, where thousands of candles covered the rear shelves. They were every size, shape, and fragrance in the universe. “You have a preference? We have your votives, your scenteds, your tapered, your round, your exotics. . . .”

Adam wished the woman would go back to her waterfall so that he could shop for a candle in peace. “Wow. There’s a lot of choices. Maybe you should give me a few minutes.”

The proprietor didn’t take the hint. “Perhaps if you describe the situation for which the candle is desired. I have a lot of experience in these matters.”

“Uh . . . it’s for my girlfriend,” Adam said.

“Ah. Romance. Well, why didn’t you just say so in the first place? I have the perfect thing.” The owner made a beeline to the end of the shelf, uncovered a huge white candle in the shape of an entwined naked couple, and scurried back to Adam. “Scented with Grecian pheromones, guaranteed to induce passionate desire. I brought it back from Mykonos myself.”

“How much is it?” he asked.

“It’s a work of art, you know. One hundred and forty dollars.”

For a
candle?

“I was thinking about something more . . . modest. In price, I mean,” Adam added.

She frowned. “Just how modest are we talking?”

Adam attempted a smile. “Um . . . ten bucks?”

The woman was crestfallen. “I’m so sorry.”

“About what?”

“That you think this girl is only worth a ten-dollar candle. But if you insist, I have one or two under the register that might—”

“I could maybe go to twenty,” Adam said, contemplating the few remaining bills in his wallet.

“Twenty dollars,” she scoffed. “For anything special, you’ll have to be willing invest fifty. . . .” Then she snapped her fingers and broke into a broad grin. “Oh no, wait. I know just the thing for a modest budget.” She bent down to the bottom shelf and pulled out candle carton after candle carton until she found what she was looking for—a flower-shaped candle in swirling shades of purple. “Behold the gardenia. Just came in from Greece this morning. Smell.”

Adam dutifully took a whiff. “Like flowers.”

“Exactly. And I have the special elixir that accompanies it. Follow me.” She went to another part of her store and found a flower-shaped bottle that matched the candle. “This special blend of body oils will send your woman to bliss.”

Bliss, huh? Exactly what Adam wanted for Cammie. Not that he believed a word the woman was saying; he knew sales hype when he heard it. But on the other hand, to set the mood he wanted for her, it couldn’t hurt.

“Okay, great, I’ll take those.”

The clerk reached for another bottle. “And the gardenia bubble bath, of course.”

Adam ran his fingers through his cropped hair. “I don’t know. . . .”

“Just imagine. The lights are low, the two of you, soaking in bubbles in the candlelight.”

Adam nodded. He could picture it, he really could.

“Excellent! You’re a bright young man.” The clerk carried everything to her cash register and rang it up. “That will be one hundred and twelve dollars and forty-two cents. With tax.”

Adam blanched. “But wait. I said I could only spend twenty dollars.”

“On the candle. Which is thirty-two dollars—quite close to what you said you wanted to spend. Then there is the body oil and the bubble bath. The body oil alone is worth the price. These are not manufactured scents, I assure you, but the essence of actual flowers, specially grown in Chilean hothouses.”

“But if the candle is from Greece, how can the scents be from—?”

The woman cut him off with a wave of her hand, then opened the body oil and inhaled. “Mmm. Irresistible. But if you want me to forget it . . .”

“No, no. Wait. Hold on a sec.” Adam turned his back on the clerk and surreptitiously counted his crumpled bills. He could make this purchase. Barely. It would leave him with a net balance of zilch, but Cammie was worth it. “I’ll take it.”

“Wise decision,” said the proprietor. “What’s your name?”

“Adam.”

“Adam, I like you. You remind me of my grandson. I want this to be special for you.”

With that, she ducked under her counter, emerged with a huge handful of gardenia-scented votive-sized candles, and put them on the counter. Then she launched unbidden into a meticulous gift wrapping that involved boxing the main candle and shaping the ribbon around it into a Japanese crane. Then she lit a taper, dripped it on the box, and pressed a golden Parsley Sage seal into it. Finally she put everything in a green Parsley Sage bag.

“Voilà,” she said, handing him his purchase fifteen minutes after she’d rung it up. “You’re ready for adventure.”

“Thanks.”

Adam grabbed the bag and sprinted from the store, heading for the corner of Pier and Main. Just twenty-five minutes until Cammie was due at their rendezvous. If he really hustled, he could shower, change, set up the suite, and still make it to where he said he’d meet—

“Adam Flood! Hi! Where are you running?”

Two girls he barely knew from school were at the corner, loaded down with shopping bags. Adam was surprised at their effusive greeting since he wasn’t even sure of their names.

“Diva Dorfman?” the taller of the two reminded him. “I was in your lit class last year.”

“Right. Diva. Hi.” Adam recalled that Diva was short for the girl’s real name, Devorah.

“And Blythe Medevoy?” the other girl said.

“Blythe. Of course,” Adam agreed. “Nice to see you. But I’m kind of in a—”

“Just one sec. I just need your opinion on something, Adam,” Diva said. She opened one of her bags and dug out a short, pale pink nightgown with a marabou-feathered neck and hemline and a matching marabou-feathered G-string. “Whaddaya think? Cute?”

Adam looked at his watch. Time was his enemy. And why the hell did she want his opinion? She hardly knew him.

“I guess it depends on your taste,” he ventured.

She dangled the G-string very close to his face. “What’s
your
taste?”

“You have to help her,” Blythe chimed in. “It’s a really
big
decision.”

“It’s . . . great, Diva. The lucky guy who gets to see you in that . . . wow.”

“So, what’d you just buy?” Diva nudged her chin toward the green Parsley Sage bag. “That’s a great store.”

“Something for Cammie,” Adam said. He took out one of the gardenia-scented votive candles. “Does this get the female seal of approval?”

Diva sniffed. “Mmm. Try it, Blythe.”

Blythe inhaled. “Adore it.”

“Great. I did okay, I guess.” He dropped the candle back into the bag.

“So Adam,” Diva went on. “We’re going to the Improv tonight. And then to Taboo in West Hollywood. Want to come along?”

“Got plans, but thanks. Gotta fly. Really.” He saw he had a green light, so he jogged across the street toward the Au Mer. As he stepped up onto the opposite curb, he turned back to wave. The two girls were cracking up. Diva’s package was at her feet, and she was holding her hands two feet apart. What was
that
about?

Well, whatever. All that really mattered was getting to the hotel, setting the mood, and letting it work its magic. And please God, letting that magic work on him, too.

Watch It, Miss Piggy

C
ammie didn’t feel like driving to the Santa Monica Pier—where Adam had asked her to meet him—since it would mean having to dodge the thousands of tourists that flocked to Ocean Avenue like seagulls to dead fish. So she called her father’s driver to take her and made certain she was a perfect twenty-five minutes late. Half an hour would be pushing it. Sooner than that . . . well, wasn’t she worth waiting for?

But now, as she walked onto the famous pier, her own heart was pounding. Oh, sure, she had acted all confident about Adam with Dee. But it wasn’t the way she really felt at all.

“Hey, Cammie!”

There he was. He trotted over to her, one perfect red rose in his hand.

“Thanks.”

Adam handed Cammie the rose. But as he did, an overweight tourist in a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt and golden polyester pants jostled Cammie as she walked by. A few bits of the cherry ice in her hand flew in Cammie’s direction.

“Sorry, sorry!” the woman called, but didn’t stop.

Cammie whirled on her. “Watch it, Miss Piggy!” she bellowed, then examined her top for any signs of cherry fallout. “That better not have landed on me.”

“Let’s put the bad twin back in her box, huh?” Adam gently asked. “She’s not the girl I fell for.”

Oh, God. Mean.
But also honest. No one ever had the guts to be fully honest with Cammie.

“You’re right,” Cammie uttered. “Sorry.”

He put an arm around her. “Cool. Let’s get out of here.”

He gently urged her away from the pier, then down to the beachfront heading south. They walked in silence for a few minutes.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. What did you and Sam end up doing last night?”

“We went dancing.”

The corners of Adam’s mouth tugged upward. “How many guys did you drive insane? Or can’t you count that high?”

Instead of answering, Cammie gave him her most enigmatic look. Which quickly turned to surprise a few steps later when Adam turned up the path to the Au Mer hotel. “The Au Mer? This is where my father puts up his new clients. And then takes them to the bar when it’s time to dump them.”

“Forget that. We’re not going to the bar.”

Adam used his key card to open the ocean-side door, and then led Cammie through the tasteful lobby to the elevators.

“You got us a room?” Cammie asked, hope bubbling up inside her.

“You could say that.”

They took the elevator to the seventh floor, where Adam led the way to suite 705. And opened it.

Cammie’s quick intake of breath was audible. Adam had strewn the entire suite with white rose petals. She drifted toward the bedroom; a bottle of champagne was nestled in an ice bucket next to the king-size bed, with two crystal flutes nearby. The suite itself was alight with votive candles. On the nightstand, there was a large floral-shaped one; next to it, a purple bottle of massage oil.

He had done all this for her, planned and paid and primped and . . .

Cammie exhaled slowly; she felt a strange ache behind her eyes. She was, by conscious decision, of the love-’em-and-leave-’em variety. The only boy who had ever dumped her was Ben Birnbaum, and that experience had shaken her more than she would ever admit to anyone. When she was sober, she didn’t usually admit it herself.

Male attention was something she took absolutely for granted. But even though men and boys alike panted after her on a regular basis, none of them knew her. None of them really cared about her. There’d been plenty of sex. She’d had it on the rooftop pool of Le Parc Central hotel in West Hollywood. She’d had it on the roof the Beverly Center and in the basement of the Leopard Lounge. She’d had sex in planes, trains, and automobiles. And yes, even in the occasional bed.

But no guy had ever gone to this kind of trouble for her before. No guy had cared enough.

“What?” Adam asked, concern in his eyes. “You look upset.”

She shook her head.

He made a sweeping gesture. “It’s all for you, Cam. The candles, massage oil. There’s even gardenia bubble bath.”

Cammie didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nodded again.

“I ran into Diva Dorfman,” Adam went on. He sounded more nervous now. “She approved the candles.”

Hearing about Diva Dorfman brought back Cammie’s sense of the absurd. “Diva? She would know. She’s done everything at Beverly Hills High that zips at the crotch.”

“Except me,” Adam pointed out. “But she did invite me to hang out tonight—that was strange. And she showed me this sheer nightie thing she bought.”