The Swan and The Sergeant - Alana Albertson Page 0,17
silence. I tossed the magazine on the coffee table and crossed the room to open the door.
Bret stood there, looking stunned. “You didn’t even ask who it is. Don’t you have stalkers? I could be a sex-crazed fan.”
Well, if my sex-crazed fan was as hot as you, he’d have a shot.
I laughed nervously. It was hard not to look at him and remember that he’d been my first love. My first lover. And I’d been his. He’d been a shy, lean teenage boy back then. This Bret standing before me—he was all man. His presence threw me. Made me wonder crazy things. Like what it would be like to nuzzle his neck, fondle his muscles, taste his kisses—those strong hands exploring every inch of my body.
I couldn’t let myself go there. We were about to be stuck in a truck for eight hours. I gave a playful roll of my eyes and crossed my arms.
“Relax. I checked in under a pseudonym, and no one else knows my room number. I knew it was you because you’re right on time.”
Bret slung my duffel bag over his shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“What?”
“Your fake name. What is it?”
“If I tell you, I’ll have to change it next time.”
Bret just stared back at me, clearly not amused.
“Fine, if you must know, it’s Brenda Walsh.”
He gave me a blank look.
I shot him a skeptical glare. “Oh, come on. Beverly—”
“Hills 90210, I know. I remember losing weeks of my life watching those garbage reruns, over and over, at every dance competition.”
“Well, that’s the only American show some of those countries would play. Besides, you got a kick out of the ridiculous dubbed voices. The Spanish Dylan was hilarious.”
“Okay, Brenda. Let’s get a move on. It’s late.” Bret stared at Dima’s bags in the room. Ugh, now he knew we had shared a room. At least there were two queen beds in it.
I picked up my purse and cooler and followed Bret out the door.
When we arrived downstairs, I focused on the new truck. I’d always liked Dima’s flashy Fanta orange Lamborghini, but there was something about this big silver truck that seemed more exciting, more masculine, and less pretentious. Bret tossed my luggage into the bed.
“Um…I thought you were only kidding about putting my things in the back of your truck.”
“No, princess, I wasn’t. Otherwise, there would be no room for Banjo.”
The valet handed Bret his keys and a leash. Attached to the latter was a tan, smooshy-faced dog, around thirty pounds, with a goofy smile. Bret slapped a five-dollar bill in the valet’s hand.
“You’re bringing . . . your dog? I’m not sure the hotel up there will allow it. What is he, anyway?”
Banjo sniffed me and slobbered all over my jeans. “He’s a pug/lab mix. Got him at the base shelter. Great dog. Anyway, I’m not staying in the hotel. Get in, Sel. I’ll put a tarp over your bags, so they don’t get too many dead bugs.”
Gross. The thought of slimy insects smashed over my luggage made me ill. But I wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it because I didn’t want to endure Bret’s teasing.
He helped me into the truck and hoisted Banjo in next to me, and the mutt scampered to the backseat. The fresh scent of new leather tickled my nose. I stole a glance at Banjo, now making himself comfortable by turning in circles on the seat until plopping down. Where would they be staying, if not at the hotel? For all I knew, Bret could have a girlfriend in Marin.
Bret climbed into the front seat, and we were off.
“Are you hungry? We can stop at In-N-Out.”
Memories of a fifteen-year-old Bret egging me on to cram the rest of my Double Double Burger Animal Style in my mouth hovered in my mind. Before In-N-Outs were all over California, we once drove two hours away to find Bret’s favorite burger. Winning a competition meant a greasy reward we’d never be allowed to eat during training.
Back then, I could eat anything and not gain an ounce.
I pointed at the cooler resting between my feet. “I have my dinner packed.”
“I don’t even want to ask. Cooler?”
“Uhm yeah. My nutritionist has a chef prepare my meals for me. It’s vegan and gluten-free. But super yummy.” I reached between my knees, pried the lid open, and pulled out a clear plastic container. “It’s this amazing quinoa grilled vegetable salad with lentils and lemon-basil vinaigrette. Wanna try?”
Bret turned his nose up. “I’ll pass.