The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,119

I pull him toward Sunset Boulevard where we’re supposed to wait for some hot pink topless bus type of vehicle with the words CELEB VIP TOURS painted across the sides.

By the time we round the corner, the open-top bus contraption is pulling into a reserved parking spot and a herd of little old ladies are climbing on.

“Sure you want to do this?” I ask. “I’m giving you an out right now, so if you want it, you better take it.”

“I told you, I’ll try anything once,” he says.

“Good. Because I wouldn’t want you violating rule number one on our first day,” I say, winking.

“Did you say day or date?” he asks, face pinched.

“DAY,” I say, loud and clear, enunciating each and every letter.

“All right. Just checking.”

Elbowing him as we climb on board, I say under my breath, “You’d be so lucky.”

I swear he fights a smirk.

Retrieving my phone, I pull up our tickets in my email and the driver scans the barcodes. We find a seat in the back row, left side, and he gives me the outside which clearly has the better view.

“Okay, are we ready for our Homes of the Stars tour?” The driver-slash-tour guide speaks into a microphone, his enthusiasm way too extreme for a weekday morning. The women around us smile and half-clap, and he takes his seat, buckling up.

We pull into traffic a second later, and while I feel like an enormous dork, I’m secretly pleased because this is always something I’ve wanted to do, but my friends always acted like they were too cool for shit like this.

The first stop is the Holmby Hills neighborhood, where the guide rambles on about the Playboy Mansion, spouting as much trivia and fun facts as he can as we pass by the gated drive. Next we approach the old Spelling Manor, which now belongs to some international gazillionaire whose name I couldn’t understand because the guide’s mic was all crackly and an onyx Maserati was honking at a baby blue Aston Martin.

Ten minutes later, he approaches the Holiday Palms neighborhood, which he proudly spouts was the place to live in the sixties, with Raquel Welch, Farrah Fawcett, and Gloria Claiborne all living door to door at one point in time.

“It’s true,” I lean into Isaiah. “Grandma said Farrah was sweet as pie. Raquel was the one to watch out for. Wasn’t her fault though. Men couldn’t resist her exotic beauty and sensual charm.”

“Grandma?” He lifts a brow.

“Yep. Gloria Claiborne is my grandma,” I say. It’s better that I get it out now because sooner or later, I find myself accidentally working it into conversation. And it’s not that I’m trying to brag or name drop—because let’s be honest, most people my age have no idea who she was back then—but my grandma is one of my favorite human beings on the planet, so I talk about her more than most people probably talk about their grandmothers.

He scratches the side of his nose, brows furrowed. “Wasn’t she in that movie …”

I nod. “Davida’s Desire.”

“Yeah,” he says.

“You’ve seen it?”

“No. But my dad had that famous poster in his garage growing up … the one with the white bikini.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I know exactly which poster that is. My grandma has a room full of all her old movie posters.”

Over the years, her poster for Davida’s Desire has gained cult status, kind of like Farrah’s red swimsuit cover. People recognize it instantly—Grandma’s thick, chocolate curls, round, babydoll eyes, elegant pointed nose, bee-stung pout, and curves spilling out of a tiny string bikini as she lies in the sand next to a turquoise ocean.

“Huh.” Isaiah’s palm drags across his jaw and I feel him staring at me, looking at me through a new lens. “You kind of look like her now that I think about it.”

Rolling my eyes, I say, “Yeah, I get that.”

I don’t like to make it into a thing, but my entire life people have pointed out how much I resemble my grandma in her younger days. And it’s true. We have the same abundant, coffee-brown mane. The same round-as-saucers, coffee-hued irises. The pinched nose and the full lips are another Claiborne trademark.

The only thing I didn’t inherit from her were her exaggerated curves.

My father (her son) saw it fit to marry a 90s runway model with straight hips, long legs, and no boobs. From the neck down, I’m all my mother … minus the breast implants of course.

The tour lasts a long and sometimes fascinating two hours