Story Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

retrieve my own car from the towing company, a younger cousin version of McDreamy limped into the waiting room. He sat across from me between an elderly woman and a small child who had a mouth stuffed with gauze.
    He nodded at me with recognition, “I’m really sorry about that.”
    Even his head slanted in the exact same way as McDreamy, “Pardon?”
    “Weren’t you the one that smacked into me?” he asked.
    “Oh yes, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” God was I a buffoon, blowing my entire defense just because a cute guy asks me a question.
    “Oh no, it was my fault. You had no reaction time. My engine just died on the spot. It was dead. That car has over 200,000 miles on it.”
    “200,000 miles? Okay, it was
your
fault.”
    “Told you so.”
    “But still. I should have been paying more attention. I could have stopped a couple of seconds sooner.”
    “Not really possible. My car just up and died. I always wondered what that might feel like on an L.A. freeway. Anyway – don’t worry about it. I have insurance. Or I can pay you out of pocket.”
    Cute
and
nice.
    “Well, I’m hoping the damage to my car isn’t too bad.”
    “But the front didn’t look good, and it’s totally my fault.”
    “Maybe.”
    He shrugged and we both sort of laughed in a goofy way; then he extended his hand. I immediately scanned the powerful forearms – steel cord pulsing. My hand in his hand felt strangely intense; the textured flesh was not of my imagination this time.
    “And my name is James, by the way.”
    “Are you straight?”
    Fool – why not just pounce on the poor guy?
    “Uh – yeah – although sometimes my shoulders droop.”
    So maybe we were both a little asinine.
    “Anyway – it’s sometimes hard to make ends meet, but I really shouldn’t have been driving that thing. And all the stop and start stuff is hard on a good car, never-mind a bad one. My parents warned me a million times. It’s a ’78.”
    “My God, I was still in diapers. How does it pass the smog test?”
    He started to tell me and I really wanted to listen but I was far more interested in analyzing his sexiness – it was low-key in a lanky sort of way. He had a huge head of wavy brown hair that was so healthy it gleamed purple at certain angles.
    “So I’m thirty-one and sometimes I think I should just hightail it to Hawaii and make puka shell necklaces on the beach.”
    “Where are you from?”
    “The east coast. Washington… my parents are political people.”
    “What type of political people?” I asked.
    He shrugged like he didn’t want to talk about it.
    “Involved in the daily running of government?” I pressed.
    “More like lobbyists, both right-wing. Sixties backlash stereotypes. Every time I take money from them I feel like a sell-out.”
    I stared at his purple clean hair, “Why don’t you stop taking their money then?”
    He winced at the obviousness of the question, and I was amazed at how quickly this beautiful man could be hurt by a stranger – even one who ate dinner on her bed every night, alone but for her cat.
    “I’ve tried and tried and then things get so tough.”
    There was the unmistakable trace of a whine in his voice. I wondered if Mr. Clooney would accept parental charity, but then I remembered his aunt Rosemary and thought about family dynasties. Nothing was going to dampen James for me, even if he was a spoiled brat.
    “What do you do?” I asked.
    “Screenwriter,” he said, without a trace of embarrassment.
    “Yeah, I can see why you need help.”
    “Last three months they’ve paid the entire rent plus utilities plus car insurance, gas and groceries.”
    He was looking a little less dashing. I quickly conjured a vision of Rosemary helping little Georgie, sending him out the door with a Superman lunch box.
    “Makes it hard for me to argue with their neo-con ideology,” he said.
    “Are they really neo-cons?” I asked, amazed.
    “War is peace, right?”
    “Neo-cons indeed,” I said