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“Well—it looks like somebody one-upped me, anyway.” I forced what almost passed as a laugh, motioning toward her shiner.

“Yeah, well, a heel to the face will get you every time.” Her smile returned. “Still out-swam her by a few hundred meters.”

“Is that what your boyfriend does, too?” I don’t know why I felt the need to bring him up. He was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of total confusion.

“My boyfriend?” She set her beer down. “Wha—oh.” Her laugh, low, easy, perfectly complimentary to her laid-back persona, sang across the lanai. “You mean Kyle?” She squinted, the fine lines of a life lived in the sun creasing the corners of her eyes. “Tell me,” she held my gaze in something that felt like a challenge, “do I really look like the kind of girl that would be interested in a plonker like Kyle?”

“I…” My response faltered as I tried to catch her drift, and when I did, I spiraled into the abyss of complete idiocy. How oblivious could I really be? I mean, I lived less than two miles from West Hollywood, which was practically the gay capital ofthe world, and I’d grown up a stone’s throw from San Francisco. But the thought just hadn’t occurred to me.

“Oh,” was the exceptionally insightful response I managed, before stumbling further into the hole I’d dug. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—I mean, you didn’t—”

“Strike you as gay?” The archness of her smile grew more prominent as she stared at me across the table.

I tried to look anywhere other than her inquisitive green eyes and finally settled with staring at her forearms, where a series of minimalist tattoos were scattered along the lean contour of her muscles.

I suppose I should have read the writing on the wall, but the one thing living in Hollywood had taught me was not to make assumptions. In my defense, half the dolled-up glamour girls I knew were gayer than Elton John’s fanny pack. So despite her short crop of wild blonde hair and the striking angles of her androgynous features, I hadn’t taken it as a sign one way or another.

At my non-reply, she continued. “Does that bother you?”

I practically choked on my spit in my rush to assure her it didn’t. “No.” I had to clear my throat. “Of course not.”

“Good.” And with that, she brushed the subject aside, and the conversation turned with the arrival of our dinner.

We talked for two more hours. Long after the sun had set and left the bay enveloped in a shimmering wash of shadows. I think we would have chatted all night if the cheerful Hawaiian hadn’t threatened to charge Dillon rent if we stayed any longer. I learned her mother was English, her father was Welsh, and she had one sister. She’d been born in Wales and currently lived in London. But beyond the mention she hadn’t turned on a TV or seen a movie in the last ten years—something that took the sting out of her lack of interest in my credits—I wasn’t sure I could actually narrow down on any single subject we’d exhausted. Isimply knew, on the drive home, that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed as much or enjoyed someone’s company so effortlessly. She was the most original person I’d ever met, unapologetically certain of herself, but without the distasteful addendum of undue arrogance. Genuine. Witty. Amusingly competitive.

When we pulled into the resort’s parking lot, I found myself disappointed at the closure of the evening.Shake hands, call it a day, and go our way. That’s what she’d said on the phone. But for whatever reason, the thought left me with a ridiculous sense of melancholy. What had I expected to come at the conclusion of our meeting? That we’d exchange numbers, become Facebook friends, maybe she’d shoot me a text one day to say she’d finally seen one of my movies?

I stood on the loose gravel driveway and caught the Jeep keys she tossed over the hood.

Maybe I could ask her if she was on Instagram? Tell her I wanted to follow her career. That wouldn’t be too creepy, right?

“Thanks for inviting me,” I said, trying to find some of her same nonchalance as she strolled around the car, “I had a really great time.”

“Makoa’s cooking didn’t kill you and you survived my first attempt at driving on the wrong side of the road,” she winked to show she was teasing. “I’d call that a win.”

The automatic headlights clicked off, sending a scattering of geckos into darkness.

I decided asking her about Instagram would be pointless. There was no way someone who hadn’t turned on the TV in over a decade had anything to do with social media.

“If there’s anything I can do for you—to make up for the other night—please just let me know. Your flight change fees, an admission of guilt to your sponsors so they know you’re not at fault for your bike, anything at all—”

She put me out of my misery.

“There is, actually.” She tilted her head with that cocksure confidence, pausing just long enough to weight the words with a slow smile. “Have dinner with me again. Tomorrow night.”

Scene 4

“You smell like someone pissed on a cinnamon stick.”

Dillon toweled off as Kyle dropped his bag on the sand, reeking of Fireball whisky. He was forty minutes late for their recovery swim. By the look of his bloodshot eyes, he’d either made good on his quest to find someone to shag—or hadn’t. It was difficult to tell.

“Shut your gob.” Kyle tugged his swim cap in place, spraying on sunscreen. “Are you really leaving already?”

Dillon deliberately slowed the packing of her gear, not wanting him to realize she was in a hurry.

But shewasin a hurry. She still had to stretch. Shower. Change. It was getting late, and she was supposed to meet Kameryn in little more than an hour.