Page 52 of The Cruiser
ChapterNineteen
VANDANA
After a dark,dreamless sleep, it’s still there. The slime of his touch. Another hot shower helps, and I scrub until my skin glows pink. With two hours to kill before we leave, the only way to shrug off the remaining creep factor is a jacked-up heart rate. I lace up my Nikes, tuck a few euros into my Lululemon tights, and go off in search of a free mind and killer espresso.
I leave my phone in the room.
I need to be alert.
I’m going to be plenty ready to drive my knee right into the ball sack of Renan again. What a loser, stalking me on the balcony, corralling me into the corner. It probably didn’t help that I pissed him off, asking why he was at the award show with no nominations to his name. But there was no excuse for him grabbing my arms and trying to press those cold, vodka lips onto mine. He lay moaning in the fetal position on the concrete after my bull’s-eye retaliation. He deserved it, after what he said to me. Repulsed and needing a time out, I couldn’t bear another minute in the hotel.
I just wish Morgan didn’t see me. Wish I didn’t lie to his face.
Woah, girl.
A car horn blasts and I jump off the street, narrowly avoiding a collision. From inside the Fiat a frumpy woman shakes her fist at me and okay, I get the memo. Time to slow down, take a breath. I’ve sprinted for a good thirty minutes, running with purpose but no plan. Looking left and right, I’m at a loss. No sense of direction or where I am. The winding streets of Genoa are not at all like the grid pattern of Santa Monica. I decide to retrace my steps, but a delicious baked-goods scent wafts on the breeze and tempts me in the other direction. I follow the heavenly aroma down a narrow, shop-filled alley with huge brightly colored umbrellas strung overheard on thin steel cables. Morning commuters bustle past me, not without a few stares in my direction. Grabbing a coffee on Montana Avenue in skimpy exercise wear is so part of the LA landscape that no one ever looks twice. But Genoa isn’t so forgiving. I walk quickly into the bakery, a bell on the door jingling my arrival.
At the sight of me, the twenty-something barista behind a display of glittering pastries does a double take. An older, handsome gentleman sitting alone at a table does the same. He’s the only patron, wears a dress shirt with the top buttons undone, and when he smiles, there’s something familiar about it.
My boobs are sweat-slicked and spilling out of my sports bra. I feel very self-conscious. “Buongiorno. Un espresso macchiato, per favore,” I say to the barista, busting out the only Italian I’ve mastered.
“If you’ve never had their sfogliatella,” the older man says, “I highly suggest you try one. It looks like you can afford the calories.”
His accented English also sounds familiar, but it’s his playful wink that hits me. I know him somehow. And when Morgan appears, coming out of the darkness of the side hallway, the connection lands.
They’re related.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” He’s shocked to see me, for more than one reason. If anything, I’m usually overdressed.
“Um … this is so random. I was out for a run and smelled the pastries…”
“Est-ce que tu la connais?” the man asks Morgan.
“Oui. Papa, c’est Vandana. Elle m’aide les relations publique.”Switching to English, he says to me, “This is Alix, my father.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Alix says, getting up to kiss me in greeting like his son does. “Will you join us?”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just a fluke that I’m here.” I glance at Morgan for some guidance. It’s his call.
“Nonsense,” Alix overrides. “Please have a seat.” He pulls out a chair for me and instructs Morgan to add a pastry to my order and pay for it. Settling at the table, he regards me with great interest. “How lovely to have such a beautiful woman share our table. Morgan never mentioned he was hiring someone for public relations.”
Hearing the spit on the comment, Morgan chimes in. “It’s barely been a week, Papa.”
Alix blows on his espresso before taking a sip. “My son likes to do things his way. Never mind keeping his parents informed.”
“You did everything your way.”
“He’s very sensitive about privacy,” Alix carries on. “His maman believes it’s our fault. Did you know—”
“You could talk about me like I’m actually here.” Morgan slides into the chair beside me, and it’s funny to see how exasperated he is. Nothing like a parent to bring you back to earth. He sets down my espresso and a delightful-looking treat rippled with layers of crisp pastry. “And Vandana doesn’t need to hear about our family dynamics.”
“I don’t mind family stories,” I say, and Morgan shoots me a dark look.
“Where are you from, Vandana?” Alix asks. “Lovely name, by the way.”
“Thank you. Los Angeles. I’ve lived there for years but grew up in Orange County.”
