Page 7 of The Cruiser
“Hey,” she says, all laid-back Valley girl. “I’m Dakota. Table for one, or are you meeting someone?”
“I’m meeting someone. But I don’t think he’s here yet.”
“Oh jeez,” she replies, voice dropping low. “Tinder date? Hate those.”
“He’s a guest at the hotel,” I reply, mildly irritated she thinks I’m single, even though I guess I technically am. “Morgan de Rohan-Chabot.”
“Oh. Are you Vandana?” She does a miserable job hiding the fact she’s hoping I’m not. After I say yes, what’s left of her smile slides off her face. “He’s on the patio. Follow me.”
The Bungalow, one of several eateries in the hotel, is a funky space styled in boho LA beachside and draws a monied, on-the-make crowd. More than a few appreciative heads turn to drink me in. In a tailored, black silk shirtdress and nude wedges, I’m flashing a little extra leg. (Yes, Vaughn, you are more right than wrong.)
Dakota catches wind of the attention coming my way and apparently decides it’s better to join forces. “Your friend’s got a great accent,” she says. “Where he’s from?”
“Monaco, I believe.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously? So love to hit that place one day. Looks epically romantic. Are you two…”
“No,” I say, although part of me wants to say yes. She’s got the determination of a girl too young to know she’s angling for a man beyond her pay grade, and it’s making me feel older than thirty-three. Not that I consider her competition. She’s pretty and all, if you’re into shaved heads and pale goths, and no offense to Dakota’s artistic choices, but something tells me she’ll one day regret the snake tattoo crawling up the back of her leg.
Momentarily lost in the detail of said snake, I crash into the suddenly stopped Dakota. We’re on the fringes of the patio and she discreetly points to my left.
“That’s him,” she whispers.
It’s quiet for a Friday, with only a few guests scattered at various tables. When I reflect back on this night though, I’ll be hard pressed to remember anyone else being there at all. I wouldn’t go so far as to say Morgan’s sitting on one of the sofas flanking our table, because sitting is what mere mortals do. He presides over the entire patio like a god in his kingdom. His gaze is on the Pacific Ocean across the street, and I say nothing for fear of interrupting what feels like an intimate moment for him. But Morgan senses my presence like an animal attuned to being in the crosshairs of a rifle. His head swivels, eyes locking onto mine.
“Mademoiselle Hillman?” he asks, rising to his full and daunting height.
The fluttery feeling in my stomach looking at his photos online? Yeah, well, that was nothing. If Adam resembled Morgan, then Eve would’ve dropped her fig leaf in a heartbeat. Apple or no apple.
Morgan is original sin in the flesh.
“Uh … yes,” I say. “Hello.”
Before my tongue fully untangles, he leans in for a double kiss, one on each cheek. “Bonsoir,” he says, his voice sultry and oh-so debonair. “You look lovely.”
His stylish scruff of beard tickles my skin, but the rush of heat on my face has everything to do with his soft lips and intoxicating scent. He smells exactly like the ocean. The good bits. Salt and sand and sunshine.
“Can I get you two drinks to start?” Dakota asks, her flirty smile meant only for Morgan.
He casts a questioning glance my way. “If you’re a wine drinker, they have a Barolo that’s outstanding.”
My cheeks are still warm from his kisses. Might as well make them flush more with a great red. “I never say no to a nice wine.”
“If I didn’t drink it all last night,” he jokes to Dakota, “please bring us two bottles of the Giacomo Conterno. And the food I ordered.”
“Right away,” she replies, although she lingers a touch too long before finally leaving.
Can’t say I blame her.
Magnetic and majestic, Morgan is a force of beautiful nature with skin the color of honey-dipped bronze. Women here pay top dollar to glow as he does, but I get the sense he just rolls out of bed, runs a hand through his dirty blond hair, and goes about his day all tanned, tousled, and perfect.
And sexy AF.
His long-sleeved sweater clings to every muscle of his swimmer's physique, and whatever animal donated its wool to create it must have been hand-fed the rarest grains and rocked to sleep every night. The butterscotch knit looks like spun gold. With white jeans cuffed above his ankles and wearing no socks in velvet loafers—it's a look very few men have the confidence to pull off.
But he doesn’t lack confidence.
It’s all right there, in his yes-I-am-that-attractive-so-stare-all-you-want stance.
