“Sounds filling.”
“Do you mind if I sit?”
I shrug. “No, I don’t mind.”
He sits down beside me, putting his knees up and resting his forearms on them. For a minute, we sit in silence, the crashing waves the only sound. I catch a hint of his scent--a light, clean smell with a note of sandalwood.
“Been to Malibu before?” he asks.
“Farrah had an event here once. But I stayed at the hotel the entire time, so I don’t think it counts.”
He looks out at the darkened ocean water. “It’s my first time. It’s really different from Minneapolis.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
“No, but it’s home now. I grew up in Ohio. What about you?”
“Detroit, Michigan.”
“I’ve got a buddy there. A friend from high school.”
A couple walks in front of us, hand in hand. Once they’re past, Dalton looks over at me. “So, how long have you worked for Farrah?”
“Let see...almost three years.”
“Do you travel home for your time off?”
I smile wryly. “What time off?”
He pinches his brows together. “You do get time off, right?”
I subtly breathe a little deeper, wishing I could lean closer and smell him better. “I go home for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
He just looks at me in silence for a few seconds. “Are you serious? She won’t give you time off?”
There’s a flare of aggravation in my chest. “It’s not that she won’t. It’s complicated.”
“Were you exaggerating? You get weekends off, right?”
I almost laugh because I can’t imagine what I’d do by myself for two full days. Before I worked for Farrah, I had two jobs. I haven’t had two days in a row to do nothing in more than six years.
“Our setup works for us,” I say, hoping he’ll drop the subject.
“Are you happy working for her? Running errands and getting water and blotting her sweaty face?”
I am already emotional over my parents, and his completely out-of-line questions send me over the edge. I pick up my fast-food bag and stand up.
“Fuck off, Dalton. You don’t know anything about me.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just--”
“You don’t have a fucking clue.” I’m yelling at him now, the guy walking by with his dog veering out of the way to avoid us. “But how could you? You’re a millionaire pro athlete starring on a reality TV show.”
“Alice--”
I flip him off. “Thanks for ruining my few minutes of peace, asshole.”
I turn and try to stomp off angrily, but my feet sink into the sand. Damn. Trying to storm away from this conversation is turning into a workout, my calves feeling it.
