The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,126

with me.”

“I don’t really tell anyone anything,” he says. “It’s nothing personal. And I do remember your last name because I had to submit a claim to your insurance for the damage you did to my car.”

I exhale. He’s going to be a tough one to crack, but I feel like he’d be worth cracking. Only problem is our days are numbered, our time together dwindling by the second, and I don’t see myself making much progress with him before he goes.

“It’s okay.” I rub his arm. “Just know that if you ever want to vent about anything, I’m your girl.”

“I don’t vent.”

His full mouth lifts at one corner and he leans back in his seat, staring at me in a way he’s yet to stare at me until now. I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking, good or bad.

“Should we do a little more exploring?” I ask, rising. He breaks his gaze and stands beside me, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt lifts just enough that I spot the chiseled muscles pointing down the sides of his hips as well as the hint of a rippled six-pack.

My heart hiccups and I lose my train of thought for all of three seconds. I don’t remember fully appreciating those things that night at the concert.

“I heard there’s a killer cinnamon roll stand here,” I tell him, scanning the booths. “First one to find it wins.”

“Wins what?”

“Wins at life, Corporal. Cinnamon rolls are everything, duh.”

He follows me into the crowd, and it isn’t until we’re at the far end of the farmer’s market when I realize I left my hydrangeas back at the wine stand.

“Shit,” I say.

“What?” He frowns. “What is it?”

“I left my flowers.”

His gaze drags the length of me, like he needs to personally confirm that I did in fact lose my flowers, and then he exhales. “You want to go back and get them?”

“I’m sure they’re long gone by now. Trust me, these farmer’s market ladies see an abandoned bouquet of hydrangeas and they’re going to be more than happy to give them a good home.” I swat my hand. I hate dwelling on negative shit for too long. It makes me crazy. “Oh, well.”

Isaiah glances back from where we came, his hands resting on his hips.

“Don’t,” I say. He turns toward me, feigning ignorance. “You’re thinking about doing the chivalrous thing and buying me some replacement flowers. Don’t do it.”

“What are you talking about?” His nose wrinkles, but I don’t buy it.

“I don’t want flowers from you,” I say. “Even if you’re replacing the flowers I bought for myself.”

“I would never buy you flowers. That’d be breaking rule number one.”

My head cocks to the side, and I examine his handsome face. “Don’t lie to me, Corporal. Don’t break rule number two just so you don’t break rule number one.”

“For the record, I was thinking about getting another burrito,” he says.

“Mm hm.” I’m still not sure if I believe him. “All right, whatever. Let’s get you another burrito.”

I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow and we head back into the crowd, just a couple of SoCal salmon swimming upstream and stopping at the cinnamon roll booth on the way.

After this, I’m taking him to the Vista theatre, a glorious, nearly century-old tinsel town fixture.

Today we’re seeing Casablanca.

Which is kind of fitting … because of all the pancake joints in all the towns in the world, he walked into mine.

And no matter what happens after this week, we’ll always have Brentwood.

Eight

Isaiah

* * *

Saturday #4

* * *

“You need anything before I go?” I peek my head into my mom’s room, surprised to find her awake this early in the day.

Rubbing her still-closed eyes, she shakes her head ‘no.’

“I’m okay, Isaiah,” she says. “Though I’d love a cup of coffee if you have the time.”

“Of course, Ma.” I head to the kitchen and return a few minutes later with her favorite hazelnut coffee, placing it on the coaster on her nightstand.

“What are you dressed like that for? You going to the gym?” she asks when her eyes focus on my gym shorts and sneakers.

“I’m going for a hike,” I say.

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

“By the Hollywood sign. Brush Canyon trail.”

She chuckles. “No kidding?”

I nod, but I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t know about Maritza and really there’s nothing to tell her. Maritza’s just a distraction. I wouldn’t even call us friends despite the fact that I kind of, sort of secretly enjoy her company.

“I’ll be back later. Call if