The second time I saw the blonde bombshell was a couple of weeks later, at some charity event where rich socialites pretend that they're humanitarians by donating a pittance of their extreme wealth to the starving kids in Africa. It's all very fine and dandy to help them out and all, but even they know that these L.A. events are just a way for overly tanned women to flaunt their money and appraise what everybody's wearing. As a journalist, I am required to go to these events and usually find myself sitting by the bar watching the unfolding events in utter boredom. But tonight was actually surprisingly pleasant, probably because I was watching the beauty in the black dress glide across the dance floor in the arms of a man who looked like he could have played prince charming in any play. She had my full attention, I found myself noticing everything about her. The way her whole face lit up when she flung her head back and laughed, a genuine laugh, not fake. The way she smiled at the older couple dancing next to them. The way she looked over towards the bar and caught my eye. And for some reason when she caught my eye I felt embarrassed that I had been looking at her all this time. Peeling my eyes away I noticed that I wasn't the only one, there were a few eyes that seemed to be looking her way. I'm not sure why I felt oddly irritated by that.
I turned back to the bartender and ordered a vodka cranberry. She'd been flirting with me all night, but I wasn't interested, any other night I would have flirted back and by the end of the night she'd be lying in bed beside me. But the only thing that was on my mind was the woman that had caught my attention from the first day I saw her.
"Can I have an orange juice please."
I immediately stiffen, I'd heard that voice before, except this time it wasn't hurriedly muttering apologies but ordering a drink. A myriad of thoughts just start streaming through my creative mind, she smells so good, like vanilla and chocolate.
"Can I get you anything Ashley?" The bartender asks me. I shake my head no.
Her presence near me is making me flustered and I don't like it one bit. She turns to look at me while the bartender makes her drink, I can see her from the corner of my eye while I pretend to be interested in swirling the olive around in my drink. I can see her contemplating saying something and my lip curls up at how nervous she seems.
"Do you come to these events often."
I turn to face her and see her smiling softly at me, and I briefly wonder how anyone could be made to be so flawlessly beautiful. The bartender pushes her drink in front of her looking very pissed off at the same time. I look at the blonde but she doesn't seem to notice and proceeds to take a seat on the barstool next to me.
"I have to. I'm a journalist. I can definitely think of better ways to spend a Friday night than watching rich snobs socialize," I joke. She laughs and tilts her head in a way that's so adorable I can't help but smile sweetly at her.
"Well, one of those rich snobs is my mom."
I start mentally kicking myself in the face, I can't believe I just insulted her mom, I mean duh why else would she be here if she wasn't one of them.
"Oh, I'm sorry I shouldn't have said that."
"Don't be, it's true. I wouldn't be here either if it wasn't for the fact that my mom forced me. Played the guilt card on me, you know the "I never get to see you, please just do one thing for me" card." She gives a wry smile and takes a sip of her drink.
"I know what you mean, my mom's been bugging me about coming to New York to see her." I fail to mention that she's only been inviting me because her therapist, that she's no doubt sleeping with, says that she needs to make up for all the time that she missed being a shit mother to me when I was younger. Do you know what I think? Too late.
"New York, huh. I've never been but I'd really like to go sometime. So tell me, what ways do you normally spend your Friday nights?" She smiles at me and I can't help smiling back, it's infectious.
"You don't wanna know," I give her a warning look.
"Try me. I think I can handle it." She gives me a smirk and I let her have it. Telling her all about my wild drunken nights that end up with me speeding down winding roads on my motorcycle.
"Are you serious?" She gives me an incredulous look and I just nod my head.
"I told you, you wouldn't want to know. Now I would say that you should come and try it with me sometime but I know that that'd be a bit too much for you to handle." I laugh.
"Who says I wouldn't be able to handle it?" She frowns at me with stubborness written all over her face. I have to say it's kind of cute.
"Oh yeah, you think you could handle it?" I smirk at her and she continues to frown.
"Yes, I think I can handle it. Do you know what, let's do it right now. You know, that's if you can handle it and all."
I sit stunned a little bit that she, the picture of innocence, would even suggest doing it. I manage to pull myself together and reply back.
"Oh I can handle it. But what about your boyfriend?" I motion to the prince charming standing on the other side of the room who had been none too covertly staring in our direction the moment she came over here.
"Oh he's not my boyfriend, just a friend. He'll be fine with it, I'll let him know we're leaving."
She walked over to the guy and I could tell that he seemed none too pleased about the change in plan but was putting on a front for her. Journalists instincts. I watched her walk back over to me with a smile on her face.
"You ready?" She asked.
"Yes...wait, I don't even know your name."
"Spencer... Spencer Carlin"
