Sin With Me

51

I didn’t have bad dreams.

When I lift my head and look around, I’m alone. I yawn, sit up, stretch my arms overhead, and catch sight of the folded note on lined yellow paper on the pillow next to me. Smiling, I unfold it and read.

Most Hideous Female Who Ever Lived,

Watching you sleep is like watching one of those foreign art-house movies that win all the awards for cinematography and production design because they’re so ravishingly beautiful and moving, even though no one has any idea what they’re actually about.

If that makes me sound like I’ve ingested some incredibly potent drugs, it’s because I have: you.

I’m high on you.

(I know you know that’s the title of a Survivor song, but for the sake of romance, we’ll both pretend we don’t. I’m working on some better material. These things take a minute.)

You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you. Also my d**k decided it was time to start throwing his weight around again so I had to leave before he could bully me into sneaking in a few rubs against your criminally sexy bottom. Because hello, gross creeper.

You see, chivalry isn’t dead!

On a more serious note, I REALLY, REALLY hope you don’t wake up feeling any kind of regret or ickiness about what happened because it was hands down the most incredible experience I’ve had as a human since I was born. Also because you feeling bad about it would make me want to kill myself.

So, no pressure.

Not liking your ugly mug at all,

Brody

PS – Dude, get a nose job. Do you even own a mirror?

PPS – I think you said my name in your sleep. #giddy

PPPS – I looked at your feet. You were totally lying. They’re like TWO sizes different, Sasquatch.

When I set the note back on the nightstand, I’m smiling so widely it hurts. I can’t remember the last time I felt this . . . excited? No—giddy. Brody found the perfect word. I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl with her first crush.

Even though my condo blew up this morning.

Even though tomorrow morning I might have no idea who or where I am.

Even though everything.

Wow, this oxytocin is some powerful s**t.

Energized, I fling back the light blanket I’m covered with and leap from the bed. I use the bathroom, splash water on my face, comb my fingers through my tangled hair, and smile at myself in the mirror.

“Well, hello, gorgeous,” I say to my reflection. “Don’t you look like a million bucks!”

I definitely feel like I do. I’m a homeless millionaire.

I’d better not repeat that to Brody or he’ll start calling me Slum Dog.

I make my way from his room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, following that amazing smell of baking bread. Magda is at the big gourmet stove with pot holders, pulling a golden brown loaf from the oven.

“Hi, Magda. Do you need help with that?”

Her back to me, she cackles and replies in Spanish, “The day I need help with my cooking is the day I find a nice, high ledge to jump from.” She waves a hand toward the open patio doors. “Go on. He’s in the guest house, probably making a mess.”

“Okay. Thanks!”

She turns and peers at me. Then she nods, as if satisfied, and turns back to the stove.

I don’t even want to ask.

Barefoot, I cross the patio and then head across the huge lawn toward the structure behind the stand of giant palm trees. It’s about a five-minute walk. The sun is warm on my shoulders. The ocean breeze plays with my hair. I wonder if the house has a name, as many of these grand homes do. If not, I’m going to suggest to Brody that he christen it Shangri-La, because it’s truly an earthly paradise.

When I round the thicket of palms, I come to an abrupt halt, staring. Then I start to laugh.

The “guest house,” like the main house, is something straight out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. It’s a sprawling Mediterranean with saffron-hued walls and a red tiled roof, surrounded with lush, landscaped gardens, mature trees, a koi pond with a waterfall, and a wraparound balcony that looks straight out to the sea.

A kidney-shaped pool with a black rock bottom is shaded by palm trees. A fountain in the shape of a mermaid rising from a wave burbles in the middle of the lawn. A private driveway, lined with blooming jasmine bushes, winds out of sight over a low hill at the far end of the yard.

It’s magical. It’s utterly charming.

And, for tonight at least, it’s mine.

Admiring the general splendor, I walk slowly toward the front door. It’s half wood, half beveled glass, and it’s open. I go inside and find myself standing in a cool, quiet entryway. Mirrors and polished marble glisten everywhere.

“Hello? Brody?” His faint call of “In here!” comes from the back of the house.

I move slowly through the rooms, touching a sculpture here, admiring an oil painting there, wondering what it must be like to have this kind of money. My parents were solidly middle class, by no means wealthy. I know this not because I remember my upbringing, but because of the meeting I had with their attorney a week after their deaths, wherein he informed me I was lucky they both had life insurance policies.

“Lucky.” That’s not the word I would have chosen to describe my situation.

I find Brody in the master bedroom, arranging birds of paradise in a vase on the glass table by the open windows. He turns to me, smiling.

“You’re up!”