Hot Shot (American Royalty Book 3)

by Robin Bielman

  As we trek through the 21,000-square-foot facility, she talks to every senior and knows every single one of their names. She’s quick to smile, ask about grandchildren, compliment on agility.

  We stop at a meeting room where she asks me to wait in the hallway so she can have a word with the director of the center. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but looking through the glass wall at their dour expressions, it isn’t a welcome discussion.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask when Alejandra rejoins me.

  She takes in my whole face as she deliberates my question. Or maybe she’s mulling over how much detail to tell me. I know the center is in financial trouble. After a long beat she says, “No, but I don’t want to talk about it right now. Come see our little slice of outdoor heaven. Our gardening group is working outside and I want to be sure they’ve got everything they need. It’s a new program.”

  It bothers me she’s keeping it to herself, but I get it. With every business there are ups and downs. The hotel’s first official pool party weekend hasn’t garnered the attention I’d like. We’re a few days away from the first official day of summer, though, so I’m hopeful the coming weeks see big gains in attendance and word of mouth.

  We step through a sliding glass door out into a large atrium. A small group is working on a flower bed inside a brick planter box about eight feet long.

  “Hi, everyone,” Alejandra says. “Wow, this is looking great.”

  I take a seat on a bench and watch her do her thing.

  “Jemma, you’ve got a hard-working group here,” Alejandra says to the thirty-something woman overseeing the project.

  “They are,” Jemma says.

  “Nice hat, Lynette,” Alejandra says to a woman wearing a leopard-print wide-brim hat.

  “Isn’t it?” the woman replies.

  “I didn’t know you were a Lakers fan, Norm.” Alejandra smiles at an older man, his hands buried in dirt, and the bill of his purple and yellow baseball cap slightly askew.

  “I never told you about the time I had floor seats next to Jay Z?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Remind me the next time we play cards,” Norm says.

  “You got it.” Alejandra says something to each of the other participants before looking over some gardening supplies, righting a bag of soil that has tipped over and then stacking several empty plastic flower containers. She chats for a few more minutes before sitting down next to me. She raises her face to the blue sky, closes her eyes. “Ahhh…fresh air, sunshine, and the smell of mulch.”

  Her ponytail hangs over the back of the bench. Her eyelashes brush the tops of her cheeks. She takes a deep breath and my gaze catches on the rise and fall of her chest in her plain white T-shirt.

  Too soon, she jumps to her feet. “Okay, let’s go shopping.”

  She’s got me completely captivated, so I follow right along.

  I drive us to Beverly Hills and score a metered parking spot on Beverly Boulevard. I hurry around the car to help Alejandra out of her seat, but she’s faster than me and already closing the door behind her.

  “Thanks again for coming with me,” I say.

  “You’re welcome. Any idea what you want to buy?” She walks beside me down the sidewalk. The sun is warm, palm trees slightly sway, and plenty of people are milling about. We pass a mix of stores, from casual to expensive.

  “None. What do you think she’d like?” Alejandra understands seniors so she’s got to have some good ideas.

  “Have you never bought her a gift before?” she teases.

  “I have and it’s always a struggle. I’m good at everything but gift giving.”

  Alejandra laughs. “Everything? You can juggle? Flame throw? Ride a unicycle?”

  “Do you have a secret job with a circus and your mission is to recruit multi-talented performers?”

  “Obviously,” she jokes. Then, “I have no idea where that all came from.”

  “A hidden desire to work under the big top with me by your side, of course.”

  She snaps her fingers. “That must be it.”

  We turn the corner onto Rodeo Drive and window shop in the luxury boutiques until we come upon the Coach store. “How about a purse?” Alejandra says, stopping fully to admire the window display. “And then you could tuck little handwritten notes into the inside pockets. Tell her all the things you love about her.”

  “That’s a great idea.” And one I guarantee my brothers won’t think of. Not that it’s a competition. (It’s a competition.) I open the door for Alejandra to enter the shop before me. Mahogany shelves, glass, leather, bronze, and mid-century furniture greet us. Alejandra strides straight to the wall of brightly colored bags.

  She looks over her shoulder at me, her eyes sparkling like a kid in a candy store. “I feel like she needs something bold.”

  “To match her personality.”

  “Exactly.” She turns back around to study the choices before us.

  I stand beside her, leaving only a sliver of space between us, and pretend I’m considering which purse to buy when I’m really watching her out of the corner of my eye.

  “They’re all so lovely,” she says.

  You are so lovely.

  “Hello,” a saleswoman says. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Hi,” Alejandra says.

  “We’re here to buy a gift, but I think we can manage on our own,” I say.

  “No problem. Let me know if you have any questions or need assistance as you look around.”

  “Thanks. We will,” I say to be polite. Alejandra’s got this.

  “The red is stunning,” Alejandra says as the woman walks away. “But so is the royal blue. Oh, but look at that one.” She points to a coral-colored bag with leather flowers layered one over the other and sewn onto the outside.

  I have no clue which one to pick, but Alejandra is enamored with them so I say, “Model them for me.” In the back of my mind do I want to buy one for her, too? Yes. But I won’t, because I have a feeling she’d be put off if I so much as even mentioned it. Doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy a little fashion show.

  “Okay,” she says excitedly. “I’ll probably never set foot in this store again so you’re on.” She lifts the red handbag from its perch, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. She holds the purse by the handle so it hangs at her thigh, then she twists her shoulders and drops her chin in a fucking adorable pose. “What do you think?”

  In her white T-shirt, light blue jeans, and white tennis shoes, she is a red-white-and-blue dream come true, that’s what I think.

  “Not bad,” is what I say. Because I can’t have her deciding on the first bag she poses with. No way am I depriving myself of more handbag hottie.

  She gives a little shrug. “My grandmother loved handbags.” She puts the red one back and grabs the blue. “She never had a bag like these, but the ones she had she treasured.” She slips the detachable leather strap over her shoulder this time, turns to give me her side. She bends her leg and quickly turns her head to the right to look me straight in the eye, a serious expression on her face, like she’s striking a solemn pose, the kind you might see on a fashion runway.

  “How does this one look?” she asks, unsmiling.

  I hold her gaze for one second, two…and then we both laugh.

  “Everything looks good on you,” I tell her. “But I just remembered green is my grandmother’s favorite color, so maybe we should find something in that shade.”

  She looks a little flustered by my compliment as she slides the purse off her shoulder and directs her attention around the store, in search of a green purse, I’m guessing.

  “I’ll put this one back,” I say, taking the blue bag from her. Our fingers graze during the hand-off and we both startle at the electric shock. She practically elbows herself in the stomach pulling her arm back. Which tells me she agrees that wasn’t just static electricity, but something more.

  I don’t bother to hide my delight whi
le she appears adorably nerve-racked. I’m cool with her nervousness. I’m cool with everything about her.

  Alejandra spots something across the room. “I think I see the one,” she says. She walks toward another open display case, her steps faltering slightly halfway there, like she stepped on something, but I don’t see anything on the floor.

  She lifts up a handbag with a mosaic patchwork design in hues of bright green, blue, and purple. Clutching the bag by the leather handle with both hands, she places at her hip, tilts her head and smiles. She keeps that pose for a couple of seconds then releases one hand and holds the bag with her arm straight at her side. She struts away, pivots, struts back. It’s the best runway walk I’ve ever seen.

  “Can I get a repeat?” I ask for purely selfish reasons. She could be holding a blank piece of paper.

  She grants my request, swinging her arm this time. It’s the kind of carefree, happy walk that shouts confidence and delight. I’m tempted to ask her for a ‘three-peat,’ but refrain. When she’s standing in front of me again, she brings the purse up under her chin, elbows out to the sides, and shows off her straight, white teeth. I snap a mental picture.

  Twisting, she drops the purse and holds it beside her thigh to check herself out in the mirror. “This bag is bold and playful. I think Rosemary will love it.”

  “Sold.” I lead us to the register and pay for the gift.

  On the drive back to the hotel, I tell Alejandra about the birthday party. “Invitations recently went out, but we’re keeping all the details a surprise.”

  “She won’t hear anything from me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once back in the suite, I notice Alejandra limp toward her bedroom. “Hey,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” she answers without turning.

  I’ve learned over the years that when a woman tells you she’s fine, she is anything but. I follow, keeping several feet back. She leaves her door open so I lean against the doorframe to find her sitting on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed taking off her tennis shoes, a look of pain on her face.

  Slipping off a thin pair of no-show socks, she lets out a miserable breath. Next, she crosses her left leg over her right knee to examine the bottom of her foot and that’s when I see the reason for her discomfort. A nasty blister the size of a dime.

  “Ouch,” I say, catching her attention.

  “That’s an understatement. It hurts like a mother.”

  God, she’s cute. “A consequence of this morning’s run, I assume?”

  “Yes.” She gently taps the blister. It’s red around the edges. “I’ve never had a blister like this before. Do I pop it?”

  I take her question as an invitation to look more closely at the unwelcome bubble and to offer my help. Scratch that. Give my help. I kneel down to take her foot in my hands.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking it out so I can give you a proper diagnosis.” Her skin is soft, her toenails still painted a pretty blue.

  She chuckles. “Oh, okay, Dr. Auprince. What’s the verdict?”

  “Well, typically you shouldn’t pop or drain a blister, but this one is large and a ten on the pain scale from your description—” I glance up at her pretty face for confirmation; she nods “—so stay put and I’ll be right back to take care of it.”

  By the furrow in her brow, I think she’s about to argue with me, but when I kiss the top of her foot, her eyes widen in surprise, or maybe it’s shock, and she bites the corner of her lip instead.

  I grab the first aid kit under the kitchen sink, thinking about all the times Finn had blisters on his feet from his baseball cleats and me watching my mom take care of him. Next, I grab the sewing kit in the laundry room.

  “So,” I say, returning to the room, “how far did you run this morning to garner this kind of reward?”

  She notes the kits in my hands and swallows. “Funny story.”

  “Yeah? Let’s get you to the bathroom.” I help her stand then hold her arm for balance as she hops on her good foot. “Have a seat.” I motion to the marble countertop. She hoists herself up and sits.

  I put my supplies down and roll up her pant leg then turn her so she can put her foot inside the sink.

  She watches me closely, my every move. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s nervous or intrigued, probably a combination of both. Her lips are slightly parted, her breaths are coming a bit faster.

  “Tell me this funny story while I get you fixed up.” I turn on the faucet, waiting for the water to warm.

  “I tried to chase down a pickpocket.”

  “You what?”

  “I was jogging down Ocean when this older woman sitting on a park bench started shouting and pointing at a guy running away. She said he’d taken her wallet out of her tote bag.”

  “And so you chased after him?”

  “Uh-huh.” She flinches when I clean her foot with soap and water.

  “Sorry,” I say, forgetting to be gentle at the thought of her getting hurt even worse if this guy had turned on her. “I’m guessing you didn’t catch him.”

  “No,” she says dejected. “I followed him for what seemed like forever before I lost sight of him.”

  “It’s never a dull moment with you, is it?”

  “Lately that seems to be the case.” She looks away for a moment. “Interestingly, before I ran into you again, my life was very uneventful.”

  “You’re welcome.” I carefully pat dry her foot.

  “For what?” she argues.

  “Making your life more exciting.” I sterilize a needle from the sewing kit with rubbing alcohol. “Obviously.”

  “Or more taxing,” she playfully offers.

  “The saying does go ‘no pain, no gain.’” I cradle her foot in my hand. “This is going to hurt a little.”

  She pinches her eyes shut and wraps her arms around her middle.

  “Al?”

  Her long lashes slowly rise. “Yes?”

  “Tell me if I do anything that’s too uncomfortable and I’ll stop. The poke with the needle won’t be bad, but squeezing out the fluid will be.”

  “Please just hurry and do it.” She clamps her eyes shut again.

  This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you. I poke. I squeeze. She squirms and it about kills me. I leave the skin over the blister and wash the area again. Pat it dry. “Hard part’s over,” I say quietly. I apply antibiotic ointment. Cover the spot with a sterile bandage then loosely wrap gauze around her foot to keep the bandage in place.

  “All done.”

  She opens her eyes, relaxes her arms and shoulders. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Now what?”

  I lift her in my arms. “Drew,” she protests, but she laces her fingers behind my neck, lets her legs dangle.

  “Now I carry you to your favorite reading spot.”

  “How do you know my favorite reading spot?”

  “Because I pay attention.” I deposit her on the arm chair and ottoman next to the couch. There’s a clear view of the ocean. A blanket within reach. A book tucked into the side of the cushion.

  I don’t need affirmation I got it right. Her soft expression tells me I did. She looks between my eyes, thinking I don’t know what. When she hastily drops her gaze and picks up her book with a quick, “Thanks,” I think I should probably give up any hope of this becoming something more before she breaks my heart.

  Will I though?

  Not a chance.

  Chapter Ten

  First Kiss

  Alejandra

  I stare at the photo Matthew just texted. It’s so green and beautiful. So far away. Wanted to share the picturesque farmland where Lord of the Rings was filmed. The last text he sent me came the night of mine and Drew’s first date. Talk about bad timing. I didn’t want to be reminded of him when I was having one of the best nights ever with Drew. I wish I hadn’t looked at my phone on the drive back to the hotel, but I
did. And it ruined what I’d hoped would happen when Drew and I walked into the suite: a toe-curling kiss good night. Guilt seized me instead, and we simply walked away from each other toward our own bedrooms.

  The guilt isn’t over just Matthew. It’s over Drew, too. Am I a horrible person for liking him as much as I do when I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty that Matthew and I are over for good?

  I huff under the weight of my confusion. But then I look a little closer at my phone. I look and I look and I look, stuck on something besides the breathtaking scenery. On the right edge of the photo, barely there, is what looks like a woman’s shoulder. I think Matthew took this picture from behind her and then cropped it before sending to me.

  Matthew is sharing this view with someone else.

  And it…hurts.

  Is she a friend? Lover? Both?

  I swipe up to close the text, unsure how I want to respond. Words were never this hard between us, but it’s to be expected given our circumstances. Ultimately, if she’s someone important, I’ll find out soon enough. I put my phone face down on the coffee table and resume reading my book.

  A few minutes later the sound of Drew moving about has me looking up to a vision that immediately makes my pulse race. In a very good way. “What are you doing?” I blurt out, caught off guard and hot, the temperature in the room increasing rapidly. It’s Friday night and he has plans to have dinner with Finn. I’m having my sister, Jane, and Sutton over for a girls’ night in. A very nice thing for Drew to agree to since I’m his guest here. We’re navigating this temporary roommate thing relatively easily.

  Or, we were. Before his nakedness intruded.

  “Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge,” he says, seemingly unaware of how his being dressed in nothing but a towel is making me hot and bothered.

  A tiny, white towel draped low around his waist! If sex appeal had a proper name, it would be Drew Auprince.

  He has those sexy indentations that form a V on his lower abs. His chest is defined, his shoulders broad, his stomach packing a couple of mouthwatering ridges. And his biceps? They’re big and muscly and I’d like to have them wrapped around me.