The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,118

to get out much. Most people in Brentwood keep to themselves and the flashier stars stick to Beverly Hills and those places. A few of the B and C listers who’ve pseudo-retired and started families have been migrating to Encinitas and Temecula, but for the most part, I might see someone I recognize from TV mayyyyybe once a month.

“Oh, full disclosure,” I say, placing my hand on his arm as I catch him checking out waxy J. Lo’s booty. “We were talking about not being fake and stuff yesterday?”

“Yeah?”

“My boobs are fake. Just putting it out there in the interest of full honesty and sticking to our agreement.”

He smirks for a split second, dimples flashing, and his honeyed eyes land on my rack.

“That wasn’t an invitation to check them out,” I say, pointing at him with two fingers and then pointing at my eyes. “Up here, Corporal.”

“How’d you know I was a corporal?” he asks.

“Rachael told me that day at the diner. I don’t forget a thing.” I point to my head and give him a wink.

He sniffs, like maybe he’s impressed. “Anyway, that was a natural reflex. Forgive me.”

“Forgiven,” I say, pressing my palms against my full C-cups. “I’ve had them since the month I turned eighteen. At the time, all my girlfriends were getting new boobs as graduation gifts, and my friend’s dad was a plastic surgeon who offered a buy-one-implant-get-one-free deal to all her friends. In retrospect, having her dad do my surgery was kind of creepy, but at the time, all I could think about was how nice it was going to be to finally fill out a bikini top for the first time in my life.”

“Priorities of an eighteen-year-old.”

“Exactly.” I grin, head tilting, and I nudge his shoulder with mine. “See, you get it.”

We make our way into the next room, which is set up like some fancy nightclub. Will Smith is perched on some futuristic-looking seat, Jada standing beside him. Across from them is Edward Norton—random—and then of course Brad and Angelina.

“Whoever runs this place needs to read an Us Weekly. Brangelina broke up, like, a year ago,” I say.

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

He slips his hands into his jeans pockets, and I watch the subtle flex of his triceps before following the round curve of his shoulders. Isaiah is pure muscle. Hard, steely muscle.

Shaking my head, I snap myself out of it.

“You’re not into this celebrity stuff, are you?” I ask. “You seem bored. If I’m being honest. And I am. Always.”

He drags his hand down his full mouth. “Yeah. This isn’t my thing.”

“Then why do you live in LA?”

“I don’t. My mom is here. I stay with her between deployments.”

“So, where’s home then?” I ask.

Isaiah shrugs. “Nowhere.”

I follow him to the next exhibit, which is full of historical replicas of people like Benjamin Franklin and George Washington. He lingers in here a bit longer. Maybe history is more his thing?

“My cousin, Eli, is a huge history buff,” I say. “He’s in the army, too. I think that’s partially why he joined. He wanted to be in command, he wanted to lead, but more than that, he wanted his name printed in a history book. True story.”

He shakes his head. “Yeah, I’ve met a lot of those.”

“Can you believe I’ve lived in LA my entire life and this is the first time I’ve ever been here?” I muse. “Here, take my picture next to this guy. I like his hair.”

“Thomas Edison?” He lifts a brow.

“Yeah.” I strike a pose, flashing a peace sign and sticking my tongue out of the side of my mouth a la Miley. Fuck trying to look cool. I’d rather be memorable, even if it means looking like a dork.

Isaiah lifts his phone and snaps a picture, texting it to me a second later, and we head toward the exit.

“So, uh … Before I knew you didn’t like this stuff, I kind of, sort of booked us this celebrity tour-of-homes sightseeing excursion.” I wince, eyes squinting hard as I shrug my shoulders. “But we don’t have to go.”

Even though I already paid the eighty bucks to hold our spots …

“Nah, it’s fine,” he says, glancing toward the distance. “I’ll try anything once.”

“Just don’t get your hopes up, okay? You strike me as the adrenaline-seeking type, and this is going to be more like Midwestern tourists and little old ladies asking where Clark Gable used to live.”

Looping my hand into the bend of his elbow because I’m an unapologetically touchy-feely kind of girl,