I woke up, gave a good stretch, and rolled over to look out the window. I hadn’t noticed it previously, but the entire second floor of his house looked out over the city of Los Angeles. Kinda goes to show you where my focus was the night before, because that view was hard to miss; two entire walls of his bedroom were made of glass.
I could see the impressive setup out back—cypress trees bordering two edges of the lawn, obscuring the iron fencing that I knew surrounded the property on three sides. The back line of his yard was nothing more than a drop-off, creating the desired effect for his infinity pool. There was no need for a fence along the rear border; Spiderman himself wouldn’t be able to scale the cliff leading up to it.
Trip had reached a point in his notoriety where he needed such safeguards from the outside world. As he’d explained during the tour, he wasn’t going to be made to feel unsafe in his own home.
He lived in a veritable fortress, but it was a gilded cage, at least. The house was absolutely incredible. It wasn’t what I had expected, but it suited him somehow.
I let out with an exaggerated yawn, then settled myself under the cool, white, gazillion-thread-count sheets. Everything at Trip’s house was just so much nicer than in an average home, and I was definitely more than a little freaked out about it. I wasn’t used to such extravagance. It even smelled better. I reached over to his empty side of the bed, curled his pillow into my arms, and took a whiff. It smelled like him.
I finally made myself get out of bed and start my day. I cleaned up in his million-jet shower, then dried off with the fluffiest towel known to man. I swiped the steam off the mirror and took a look at the middle-class Jersey girl in the reflection, trying to reconcile that image with the opulence presently surrounding me.
Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.
By the time I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, Trip’s housekeeper had arrived. I introduced myself to Mrs. Elena, who very sweetly offered to make me breakfast. I declined, however, seeing as I was going dress shopping and didn’t want a food baby popping out while I tried on designer gowns.
Trip left directions for me to his friend’s boutique downtown. He also left me the keys to the Jeep and a black American Express card with a post-it note advising me to “USE THIS! No arguments.”
Well, if you insist…
I had to fiddle with the garage door openers until I found the right one, then slipped behind the wheel of Trip’s Wrangler Sport. Nice. Thank God he didn’t expect me to drive that Batmobile. The finer things with which he’d surrounded himself were overwhelming enough. I didn’t need to be responsible for one of them on top of it.
I assumed navigating the roads of Los Angeles wouldn’t be very difficult. The place is pretty much laid out like a grid, not unlike New York, sans the conveniently numbered streets. But hell. I figured since my driving chops had been tempered in the city from the time I was a teenager, L.A. would be a piece of cake.
I only lost my bearings once on my way out of the Hollywood Hills, but a very nice homeless man directed me to La Cienega. I tossed him a fiver and made it the rest of the way without incident.
Siobhan’s was an elegant but quirky shop right in the heart of Melrose. I was expecting more of a Rodeo Drive snob-fest, and I loved that Trip had sent me to this place instead. It wasn’t far from the hotel in Beverly Hills, but the neighborhood looked like a completely different world. Way less snooty, way more hip.
The parking gods were smiling down upon me that day, because I managed to find a spot right out front of the building.
When I walked through the door, Siobhan herself greeted me. She was tall and beautiful, with perfectly highlighted, wavy hair that fell almost to her skinny waist.
“Hello, Miss Warren! I’ve been expecting you.” I looked down at my shirt to see if I had a nametag on or something, and Siobhan gave a knowing smile as she clarified, “Trip called earlier to let me know you were coming.”
I suddenly became cognizant of two things: 1. I was an uncultured dork. And 2. This gorgeous woman had just referred to my boyfriend as “Trip” instead of “Mr. Wiley.”
Friend my arse.
Ex sex-slave, maybe. But there was no way this chick was just a “friend.” It was like being in a bad, real-life version of Pretty Woman. Only I was not the hooker in this scenario.