Starfire (Erotic Romance) (Peaches Monroe) (17 page)

“You went hiking?” He had a mischievous look that annoyed me.

“With my boyfriend.”

“He doesn’t mind that you stick your hand down other guys’ pants?”

My head started to bob side to side with its own attitude. “Of course he doesn’t. We have a very modern arrangement. We’re honest with each other, and it’s great.”

“I noticed something, back when we were outside the truck and you were grabbing my dick like it was the last organic turkey at the farmer’s market on the day before Thanksgiving. You aren’t wearing the ring I gave you.”

“I need to get it sized for my finger.”

“I know for a fact the ring will fit perfectly. You haven’t even opened the box, have you?”

“Everything’s in my suitcase, and, by the way, I brought back your sexy lumberjack coat.”

He nodded, taking his green eyes off me for just a moment. When he looked down, he always looked so sad and thoughtful. For an instant, I felt bad about being so hard on him, and lying about the ring.

His thick, dark eyelashes fluttered, then he looked up again, sunny and smiling that million-dollar grin. “Have you been to San Francisco before?”

“Is that the one with all the hills? And the trolley cars?”

“Yes,” he said, clearly amused by my description.

“No, I haven’t been there, then. I think I’d remember something like that.”

“I’ll try my best to make this a memorable weekend for you.”

“Hah! I’m scared to find out what you have planned.”

He nodded slowly. “Trespassing is definitely on the table.”

“No trespassing and no public nudity.”

“Come on, sugarlips. You were spending too many days in a sleepy little bookstore, and then I came along and unlocked your repressed cravings for criminal activity.”

I wagged my finger. “Oh, no, do not look so proud. I was a good girl, and you corrupted me. My mother’s friend went on a cruise and she didn’t even ask me to babysit her cat. People around town look at me funny, and they haven’t even seen my peaches in their magazines yet.”

“You’re a star.”

I took a pause to breathe. Was Dalton giving me a pep talk? I wished he was in the back seat with me, because I would have preferred a hug, or just his arm around me.

He continued, “When you become a star, you burn and burn. That fire touches everyone around you. Fame puts relationships on fast forward, and it shines a light so bright, there’s no shadow for your secrets to hide.”

“Especially when some stupid girl blabs your secrets, for which I am truly sorry.”

“You did me a favor.”

“Good! We don’t have to get fake-married.”

He grinned. “Nice try. You did
me
a favor, but you may have murdered my career.”

I leaned forward and stuck my fingertip right into his chin dimple. “But what about this dimple? This gorgeous face is going to have an amazing career, no matter what.”

“You were in LA for a few weeks. Didn’t you notice something about every food server and coffee barista you ran across?”

I kept poking him in the dimple. “Shut up. You’re Dalton Deangelo. Those sexy waiters and bus boys can’t hold a candle to you.”

He gazed into my eyes. “Marry me.”

I giggled in response, because Dalton was basically a mutant superhero, and his power was projecting stupidity from his eyes, straight into my brain.

He pulled away from my dimple-poking finger and neighed like a horse, which just made me laugh harder.

In a silly voice, he said, “I’m Lionheart! Nee-hee-hee-hee! I’m your favorite horsie ride, Peaches, so you should marry me.”

And that’s when Vern opened the driver’s side door to find Dalton holding his hands up like pretend hooves and me rolling side to side in the back seat laughing and trying not to pee my pants.

“You two,” Vern said, shaking his head like an embarrassed dad.

“Peaches brings out my crazy side,” Dalton explained.

Vern asked gruffly, “What are you doing up here in the front?”

“Well… there’s no privacy glass between the seats in this truck, and if I’m back there with Peaches, she’ll do something CRAZY like stick her hand down my pants—”

“Never!” I shouted.

Vern held his hand up to quiet both of us. “I’ve heard enough, Mr. Deangelo. Shall we proceed to the first location on the itinerary?”

“Yeah, hit the gas, man. Drive it like you stole it.”

Vern started the engine and turned to face Dalton, a questioning look on his face.

“What? It’s an expression,” Dalton said. “I did not steal this truck, honest.”

“Then why is there no tag on the keychain? No rental brand?”

“Because I rented from the cool place, for cool people.”

“There’s nothing
cool
about car rental agencies, sir.”

“But we’re in San Francisco, where everything is rainbows and unicorns and cool stuff.”

“That would be an excellent slogan for the postcards, sir.”

“Sarcasm!” Dalton turned and peered back at me, his eyes wide. “Vern, you’re being so sassy today. Peaches has been a bad influence on you.”

Vern steered the truck over to a security checkpoint, and then on to another road that looked like it would lead us to a freeway.

The two of them continued to argue lightheartedly about whether or not Vern was usually sarcastic, and how much I could be to blame for anyone’s behavior. I got my phone out and sent some photos and a text report back to Shayla, who was just getting out of bed.

She didn’t know about the engagement, and I felt bad not telling her.

Shayla:
Why San Francisco? Has he told you why?

Me:
I’ll let you know when I figure him out.

Shayla:
He’s a really good actor. I don’t think you’ll ever get anything out of him that he doesn’t want you to know.

Me:
I have my own methods and plans.

Shayla:
Do tell!

Me:
He’s pretending we’re just casual friends with benefits, but Vern told me he has real feelings for me, and I’m going to make him admit it.

Shayla:
LOL! Good luck with that.

Me:
We could have a moment. I just have to shut up and look pretty. Maybe by candlelight?

Shayla:
He’s never going to give you what you crave. You know I’m Team Adrian now. Unless Keith Raven comes back from Italy.

Me:
Adrian is really great.

Shayla:
I’m going for brunch with him and Golden. Doesn’t that make you jealous? Don’t you want to fly back here and claim that tall freak as your personal pleasure partner?

Me:
If Dalton doesn’t give me a little piece of his heart this weekend, maybe I will.

Shayla:
Piece of his heart? Excuse me while I barf.

Me:
Any advice?

Shayla:
Got any unexplored holes to offer?

Me:
You know I don’t.

Shayla:
Fuck. I guess you’ll have to talk to him or whatever.

Me:
We could talk about our feelings. I can’t believe I just wrote that.

Shayla:
You could tell him about the you-know-what.

(I knew she meant my pregnancy, and how I almost died when I went into labor at a very stupid fifteen.)

Me:
I want him to open up, not run away screaming.

Shayla:
Honesty is a two-way street, sweetie.

Me:
Stop making the I’m-right face. I can tell.

Shayla:
I’m also doing your I’m-right dance.

We exchanged a few more messages saying goodbye, and I put away the phone. Vern and Dalton were busy figuring out driving directions and the vehicle’s navigation system.

The conversation with Shayla could have gone better. I didn’t like the idea of her having brunch with Golden and Adrian, and I didn’t care for her suggestion to tell Dalton my secret.

I pulled out my compact and freshened my makeup. One thing I felt good about was my new plan. No matter what it took, I would get Dalton to admit the engagement was about more than saving his career.

CHAPTER 17

Our first stop in San Francisco was at Pier 39, where we got to see the sea lions hanging out near the wharfs. They were actually a noisy group, grunting and barking at each other.

Dalton was feeling the chill in the air, so we went looking for a souvenir shop.

“No wonder you’re cold,” I said, poking at his shirt. “You’ve got holes all through here, and this fabric is crazy thin. Did you get this shirt off a hobo?”

“Maybe.”

Vern, who’d been giving us some distance, saw me bugging Dalton about his shirt and said to me privately, “He’s going through a fashion phase.”

Dalton followed me into a souvenir shop. I bought him the most outrageously tacky zip-up jacket I could find, with an embroidered Golden Gate Bridge across the front.

“Perfect disguise!” he said as he zipped into the thick sweatshirt. “And feels like a hug.”

He’d been getting stared at by a few people, but nobody had come up and asked him for his autograph or a photo yet.

The sweatshirt was a good disguise, and we looked just like all the other tourists milling around.

At the Pier 39 market, we walked by a table of leather goods that drew Dalton’s eye. He selected a fanny pack—one of those bags that’s built into a belt—which he paid for and quickly wrapped around his waist.

Grinning, he said, “Do I look like a tourist, or what?”

I pulled a pair of huge, pink-framed sunglasses from a nearby display and put them on. “These are so nobody recognizes me out shopping with some weirdo in a fanny pack.”

He handed the vendor some money for my sunglasses. “My fiancée will take those glasses, and give us half a dozen of those pins.”

Despite my protests, he proceeded to
flair up
my hoodie with an assortment of pins with goofy sayings on them, about leaving my heart in San Francisco, welcoming the zombie apocalypse, being a witty 1950s housewife, and giving zero fucks while dancing in an alpine meadow.

Vern gave us an approving nod. “Excellent tourist disguise, but we’ve got eyes on us at six o’clock. Don’t look, just turn around and keep moving.”

I grabbed Dalton’s hand and hurried with him into the crowd. As he had for the last few hours, Vern followed us, staying back about six feet and keeping his eyes open for potential trouble. He wasn’t a tall man, or very imposing as a bodyguard, but Dalton assured me it was his keen eyes and instincts for avoiding trouble that made Vern invaluable.

(Instincts for avoiding trouble made Vern the exact opposite of Dalton, which was probably why they were such a good match.)

We had a quick lunch, then made our way back to the truck. From there, we started driving to our main destination, which was a bridal shop near Union Square. I’d never heard of Union Square before, but I’d picked up a tourist map and was poring over it in the back seat as we drove.

“San Francisco is pretty small,” I said to Dalton, who was still keeping his distance from me by sitting in the front seat. “Seven miles by seven miles. You know, that’s not much bigger than Beaverdale, space-wise, but there are so many people here, and they’re all so colorful.” I peered out the tinted windows to find street signs and place our location on the map. “Hey, can we go to the hippie area? And see those cool houses—the painted ladies? Oh, and I want to see Chinatown.”

“Pace yourself,” Dalton said, laughing. “You haven’t even picked out your wedding dress yet.”

I looked out the window. “Well, it’s just a fake wedding, so it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll just pick the first one that doesn’t make me look like the tooth fairy.”

We drove for a few minutes in silence, then Vern pulled the vehicle over to the sidewalk and announced we were at the boutique.

“Great,” I muttered under my breath as I stepped out. “Goody, goody, can’t wait for this fresh hell,” I grumbled.

My mother had told me all about her experiences shopping for a bridal gown, and nothing had changed in the last twenty-five years, based on what my cousin Marita had told family about shopping while curvy and pregnant.

The thing about wedding gowns is, you try on the styles, called samples, and then your dress is custom-made for you. That sounds great, but the samples come in three sizes at most, and they aren’t big girl sizes. At best, the consultants will hold the back together while you admire yourself in the mirror. At worst, you stand there in your slip while they hold the dress up to the front of you.

Dalton took my hand and asked, “Are you mad that you have to do this with some stupid guy? I know it’s traditional for the bride to try on dresses with her bridesmaids.”

“Whatever.” I shrugged.

Dalton asked me to wait a second as he talked to Vern and made arrangements for the rest of the day. From what I overheard, Vern was going to drop our things off at the hotel and take the rest of the day off. Apparently, he’d already had a long day, flying up to Washington from LA to pick me up.

I shook my head in amazement at the idea of having your own airplane, to fly wherever you wanted. I didn’t even have a
car
.

~

The interior of the bridal gown store was white, white, white. The floors were an ashy, pickled wood, but everything else was white. Did I mention how white it was?

A woman clad in pale gray approached us, smiling and saying, “Welcome to San Francisco.” She looked at my new funny buttons on my jacket. “My dear, those buttons are charming. We could add one to your gown for a little something blue.” She laughed merrily at her joke.

I instantly liked the woman, and not just because she had a body shape similar to the curvy women of my family. Her gray suit hugged her body and showed off her shape, but the most stunning part of her was her snow-white hair, cut in a chin-length bob. She must have gone gray young, because her wrinkle-free face didn’t look a day over forty.

She widened her eyes at Dalton. “D-man, you’re wearing the
hell
out of that fanny pack.”