“Every little thing she does

is magic,” Sting sang on the radio, and Grant slapped the steering wheel of his electric blue BMW convertible in what he thought was time but was actually half a beat off. He loved L.A. So much warmer and sunnier than back home in Wales. Top down, wind in his butterscotch-colored hair, D&G sunglasses on . . . He felt cooler than cool and could almost believe he didn’t need anyone like Genevieve Monti.

Well, and he didn’t need her. He just wanted to see if she could speed things along.

The Beamer skated up the PCH to Malibu Road. Genevieve’s place was one of many of the monstrosities perched on the cliffs overlooking the ocean like so many vultures. Her particular bird of prey was one large smooth white cube flanked by two smaller smooth white cubes. The windows were all perfectly square as well.

Grant only knew this because he’d looked the address up on Google. And he only knew Genevieve’s address because he’d wrangled it free from one Alfred Keenan, who had almost too gleefully handed it over. Now Grant hoped that, having driven all the way out to her place on a Friday evening, she wouldn’t turn him away at the gate.

The Police gave way to Steve Miller as the turnoff to Genevieve’s came into sight.

Wondering about my A to Z theme? It’s explained here. And remember: these scenes aren’t necessarily in chronological order!

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