Normally, Michael did love that sort of thing. But for the first time in many years, his heart was not into being surrounded by beautiful women on a glorious, sun-drenched day.
But he went. And it was torture—all he could think of was Leah. He cursed himself for not thinking to take his cell along to Malibu—although it would have been awkward to receive her call on a yacht while some other young woman was smiling with big moon eyes at him—at least he would have had an opportunity to talk to her, maybe coax her into a date. He took some solace in the fact that she seemed receptive to the perfume, which gave him another idea.
The next morning, Michael was up early, driving to Laguna, where he hoped a little shop he knew of was still in existence. By one o’clock, he was in his T-bird, headed back to L.A. and Leah’s house.
When he pulled up in front of Leah’s house, there were two cars in front of the house, both junkers, but Leah’s car definitely taking top prize. He got out of his car, took a deep breath as he smoothed the crease of his khakis, and walked up to her door.
Michael presumed that the guy who answered his knock was Brad. Brad was wearing pajama bottoms but no shirt. His hair was sticking out in several different directions, as if he’d just gotten up, and he scratched his bare chest as he took Michael in. “Yo,” he drawled, and Michael had the impression that he was as high as a kite.
“Hey,” Michael responded, suddenly questioning his wisdom for having come here. “Is, ah . . . is Leah here?”
“Leah?” the guy echoed, as if he had to think of who Leah was, then shrugged. “Let me check.” He disappeared from the door, leaving it wide open, but not inviting Michael in. That was just as well—from where he stood, Michael could see into the living room. The most remarkable feature was an enormous, big-screen TV in one corner.
As he stood there waiting for Brad to come back, a small, dark-haired woman poked her head out from the kitchen. She was wearing a tiny T-shirt and very short shorts. She, too, looked like she had just rolled out of bed. “Hey,” she said, lifting a spatula. “We’re making pancakes. You want some?”
Was she kidding? “Ah, no . . . thanks,” he said.
Brad reappeared, still scratching. “She booked, dude,” he informed Michael.
“Oh. Okay.” He glanced behind him, to her car. So did Brad. “Hey, sweet wheels,” he said.
“Any idea where she might be?” Michael tried again.
“Nope.”
The woman appeared from the kitchen again, this time holding a plate of pancakes. “I think she went for a run.”
“A run?” Brad asked, then laughed. “Since when does Leah run?”
Since New York, Michael wanted to tell him. Even when he would tease her, telling her she looked like she was bouncing on a pogo stick when she ran, she would get up at dawn, walk the two blocks up to Central Park, and run.
Brad shrugged and looked at Michael. “So you want me to tell her something?”
Michael had no hope that this guy would remember he’d even been here, much less any message he might give Leah. “Ah, no . . . no thanks,” he said. “I’ll catch up with her later.”
“Sure.”
“Come on, Brad! I made like four dozen of these things!” the woman shouted from the living area.
Brad smiled sheepishly. “Gotta run.”
“Right,” Michael said and stepped off the porch. “Thanks.”
“No prob,” Brad said, and shut the door.
Michael sighed, turned on his heel, and walked back to his car.
He pulled out onto the street, drove down to the intersection, and took the first parking spot he could find. This was undoubtedly a useless exercise—Leah had probably gone another route, or if she hadn’t, maybe she’d already been by here. But it was a gorgeous day, and as long as he was in the area, he figured he had nothing to lose by waiting a little while.
As luck would have it, about a half hour later, he spotted her down the street. She was at a crosswalk, her hands on her hips, waiting for a light to change. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing tight running pants with a jacket tied around her hips, and a form-fitting sports bra.
When the light turned green, she strode purposefully into the crosswalk, her arms and her ponytail swinging. As she neared him, Michael got out of his car, walked to the front, and perched himself on the bumper. Leah kept walking, was about to stride past him when she saw him, and caught herself just before she walked into a light pole.
“Hey!” she said, and smiled. She smiled. A beautiful, almost-happy-to-see-him sort of smile. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“You’re kidding. How did you know where to find me?”
“Your roommate made a good guess. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”
Leah laughed. “But I live like a block away.”
“I was going to take the long way around. By Santa Monica, and Malibu, on up to Oregon, and back. Maybe.”