The first stop is the Holmby Hills neighborhood, where the guide rambles on about the Playboy Mansion, spouting as much trivia and fun facts as he can as we pass by the gated drive. Next we approach the old Spelling Manor, which now belongs to some international gazillionaire whose name I couldn’t understand because the guide’s mic was all crackly and an onyx Maserati was honking at a baby blue Aston Martin.
Ten minutes later, he approaches the Holiday Palms neighborhood, which he proudly spouts was the place to live in the sixties, with Raquel Welch, Farrah Fawcett, and Gloria Claiborne all living door to door at one point in time.
“It’s true,” I lean into Isaiah. “Grandma said Farrah was sweet as pie. Raquel was the one to watch out for. Wasn’t her fault though. Men couldn’t resist her exotic beauty and sensual charm.”
“Grandma?” He lifts a brow.
“Yep. Gloria Claiborne is my grandma,” I say. It’s better that I get it out now because sooner or later, I find myself accidentally working it into conversation. And it’s not that I’m trying to brag or name drop—because let’s be honest, most people my age have no idea who she was back then—but my grandma is one of my favorite human beings on the planet, so I talk about her more than most people probably talk about their grandmothers.
He scratches the side of his nose, brows furrowed. “Wasn’t she in that movie …”
I nod. “Davida’s Desire.”
“Yeah,” he says.
“You’ve seen it?”
“No. But my dad had that famous poster in his garage growing up … the one with the white bikini.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I know exactly which poster that is. My grandma has a room full of all her old movie posters.”
Over the years, her poster for Davida’s Desire has gained cult status, kind of like Farrah’s red swimsuit cover. People recognize it instantly—Grandma’s thick, chocolate curls, round, babydoll eyes, elegant pointed nose, bee-stung pout, and curves spilling out of a tiny string bikini as she lies in the sand next to a turquoise ocean.
“Huh.” Isaiah’s palm drags across his jaw and I feel him staring at me, looking at me through a new lens. “You kind of look like her now that I think about it.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Yeah, I get that.”
I don’t like to make it into a thing, but my entire life people have pointed out how much I resemble my grandma in her younger days. And it’s true. We have the same abundant, coffee-brown mane. The same round-as-saucers, coffee-hued irises. The pinched nose and the full lips are another Claiborne trademark.
The only thing I didn’t inherit from her were her exaggerated curves.
My father (her son) saw it fit to marry a 90s runway model with straight hips, long legs, and no boobs. From the neck down, I’m all my mother … minus the breast implants of course.
The tour lasts a long and sometimes fascinating two hours before the bus returns us to Sunset Boulevard. Isaiah stands, letting me out first, and then I swear I feel his hand graze my lower back as he follows me.
A zing of something—not sure what—zaps through my middle, but it’s gone by the time I climb down the bus’s steps and hit the pavement.
Checking the time, I bite my lower lip.
“What is it?” he asks.
“We should probably call it a day,” I say, eyes flicking to his as my words are laced in an apologetic tone. A tepid Californian breeze kisses my skin.
“Really?” He checks the time on his phone.
“Just realized I forgot to feed Murphy this morning,” I say. “He hasn’t eaten since last night.”
“Wow.” His hands rest at his hips and he takes a step back, glancing down the packed street.
“What?”
“If you don’t want to hang out, just say so. Don’t make up some bullshit excuse about your roommate’s dog.”
I laugh. “Wait—you think … no. I’m not making this up, Isaiah. I seriously need to feed her dog. She’s out of town and I’m supposed to be taking care of him. He’s probably starving by now, and I feel awful.”
His head tilts, like he still doesn’t believe me.
“I’m being honest, I swear. Rule number two, remember? No bullshit, no lies,” I remind him.
Isaiah exhales, lips pressed flat as he studies me for a moment. “All right. I believe you.”
“Good. You should. And I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him, cinching my purse strap over my shoulder. Mouth drawn into a smile, I say, “I had fun with you today.”
He nods. “I did too.”
“Liar.”
“I would never violate your rules, Maritza,” he says, rebelling against a hint of a smile. His gaze keeps dropping to my mouth then lifting back to my eyes. And while I didn’t give it much thought before, there were a few small moments today when I caught him staring at me … almost like he was wondering what would happen if he kissed me again.