Page 57 of Reel Love

I smile, picturing Stevens in bed, with some seriously sexy black-rimmed professor glasses, a white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, a cup of tea on his bedside table, the lamp shedding the only light in the room. He’s leaned back on his fluffed up pillows, reading about Octopuses. Octopi? Octopuu?

“Do you wear glasses?”

“What?” He glances over, confused.

“Do you wear glasses?”

“For reading?”

I nearly retract my question. It suddenly feels invasive and inappropriate in light of my Stevens-reading-in-bed fantasy.

“I do. I have a pair in my top bedside drawer I only use for reading.” He looks over at me and, if I’m right, a blush creeps up his neck. “Are you a sorceress? How did you know I wear glasses?”

“Just a wild guess.”

“Hmmm.” He hums. “What are you reading?”

“The Glass Castle.”

“Jeannette Walls?” he asks.

“Yes. What a poignant story.”

“I read it on audiobook,” he says, surprising me once again. “Her voice added even more depth and grit to the story. There’s something about hearing a memoir or biography in the person’s own voice.”

I study him, this marine biologist who set aside days of his life to tote me around—granted, he’s being compensated—who emerges from the water like a god after a snorkeling session, who keeps my confidences, and who reads such an interesting array of books. He’s kind, thoughtful, funny. Why is he single?

All too soon, we’re at the dock. Ken’s not working today, so another abnormally large and muscular Viking-esque man who works for our family is at the gate.

Stevens looks down the finger of boat slips at Henry, then back at me. “You know that guy?”

“If I didn’t? Are you ready to defend my honor?”

“I’m ready to haul you back into this boat and hit the gas. I’m a runner, not a fighter.”

I laugh. “I think that’s supposed to be alover. You’re a lover, not a fighter.”

“Maybe that’s some other guys’ story. Not me. I’m a runner.” He winks. “If you’re ever in danger, I’ll drive the getaway car—or boat.”

We both laugh.

Stevens hands my garment bag over the edge of the boat to me. He’s driving back to Marbella and returning to take me home late tonight. It will be a very long day for me here in LA.

“Thanks again for acting like you didn’t know me the other night at Summer’s barbecue,” I tell him. “She practically begged me to come—for you, as it turns out.”

Am I stalling? Maaaybe. Still. I do appreciate his discretion, among many things I’ve come to appreciate over this short week we’ve known one another.

“Well, I appreciate you coming to a barbecue to meet a fan,” he says with that soft smile where only half his mouth turns upand two deep dimples appear in that left cheek. “Sorry it turned out to be me.”

“I’m relieved it was you. I love meeting fans. But it’s also nice when I don’t have to beon. Summer talked me into it by saying one of my superfans would be there, and she added that I needed to get out more. She’s not wrong. It’s just … complicated. But I trust her to screen whomever will be around when I come over. And, I’m glad you’re a superfan.” I smile coyly at him, knowing full well Stevens does not love that term. “Joel couldn’t care less what I do … So, yeah. Anyway, thank you.”

I’m not just thanking him for keeping my privacy intact, and I get the feeling he understands every aspect of what I’m thanking him for.

“Anytime,” he says. “I’m around if you ever need a sub for Joel.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll be here. I’ll be the guy kicked back on the stern of a boat reading a John Green novel.”

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