Tall Cool One
Copyright © 2005 by Alloy Entertainment
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group, USA
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
For more of your favorite series, go to
www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com
.
First eBook Edition: April 2005
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Marci Senders
Cover photography copyright © Andrea Balena/Photonica
ISBN 978-0-316-04157-7
Contents
Chapter 4: Quite Possibly a Virgin
Chapter 6: Ari Something-or-Other
Chapter 7: Had Kabbalah Reprogrammed Her Neurons?
Chapter 8: National Oversharing Day
Chapter 9: Right Gender, Wrong Person
Chapter 10: Turkey-Breast Sandwich
Chapter 12: Tens and Near Tens
Chapter 13: The Paradise Clause
Chapter 18: Watch It, Miss Piggy
Chapter 20: Platform Goth Queen Boots
Chapter 22: Drop the Phony Accent
Chapter 25: Dinner With Eduardo
Chapter 29: Next Time We’ll Surf
Chapter 30: With All Her Heart
THE A-LIST
GIRLS ON FILM
BLONDE AMBITION
TALL COOL ONE
BACK IN BLACK
SOME LIKE IT HOT
AMERICAN BEAUTY
HEART OF GLASS
BEAUTIFUL STRANGER
If you like
THE A-LIST
, you may also enjoy:
Bass Ackwards and Belly Up
by Elizabeth Craft and Sarah Fain
Secrets of My Hollywood Life
by Jen Calonita
Haters
by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez
Betwixt
by Tara Bray Smith
Poseur
by Rachel Maude
For my friends in Aruba
“If I’d observed all the rules I’d never have gotten any where.”
—Marilyn Monroe
A
nna Cabot Percy was very good at a wide variety of things: Conjugating irregular French verbs. Putting together the perfect understated outfit. Memorizing the poetry of Emily Dickinson. Ballet. Any and all forms of analytical left-brain thinking. Looking tan and gorgeous in her white racer-back Polo Ralph Lauren bathing suit. So okay. She was not without talents. But as she shivered on her surfboard in the ocean at Zuma Beach, Anna realized that surfing was not going to be one of them.
She felt like a bedraggled, waterlogged wreck. Who knew a person could wipe out so many times in one afternoon?
“You good?” asked her friend Danny Bluestone. He bobbed on his own board a few feet from Anna. Danny was on the short side, but he was still cute and quirky and funny and extremely talented. He and Anna had met on
Hermosa Beach—
the new hit TV show where he was the youngest writer and Anna had interned
.
A native Californian, Danny had assured Anna that he could teach her how to surf in a single afternoon.
“I’m great,” Anna lied, trying to will herself into a positive mind-set.
“Hey, did I mention the peeing thing?”
“What . . . thing?” Anna asked, refusing to blush. It wasn’t easy, though. According to the
This Is How We Do Things
Big Book (East Coast WASP edition), the apocryphal bible by which she’d been raised, urination was not a bodily function to be discussed in polite company.
“Basically, don’t pee in your wet suit,” Danny explained. “Gives you a rash from hell. You won’t be able to sit down for a week.”
“Good to know,” Anna replied gamely. But memories of the carafe of Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee she and Danny had shared at the 17th Street Café in Santa Monica three hours ago suddenly became a pressing issue. She willed herself to ignore them. When she’d moved from Manhattan’s Upper East Side to Beverly Hills six weeks before, hoping for new adventures, a severe rash in unmentionable regions had not been one of them.
“I learned the hard way,” Danny said with a grin. “Anyway, you ready to give it another go?”
Anna nodded with determination. Because that’s just the kind of girl she was.
“Perfect. I’ll be behind you. We’ll pick the wave, I’ll help turn your board, you’ll paddle like hell, and I’ll push you from behind. Then stand up. Hey, take this one!”
Anna saw a decent wave coming her way. Not too big, not too small. She swung her board around so the nose faced the beach and paddled as the wave swept toward her. Then she felt an extra surge as Danny shoved her board from behind.
“Get up!” he yelled.
Anna rose to her feet just like Danny had taught her on the beach—knees bent, left foot ahead, arms spread for balance—she was surfing!
For about a nanosecond.
Then she lost her balance, the board flipped out from under her, and she somersaulted headlong into the breaker.
“Woo-hoo!” shouted a guy on a surfboard who rode past her when she surfaced. “Nice wipeout!”
Humiliating. Even Anna knew it was time to pack it in. Five minutes later she and Danny floated in to shore.
“I think I missed getting the surfing gene,” Anna despaired as they carried their boards up onto the beach.
“That’s a good thing.” Danny cut his eyes at her and smiled.
“Does that remark come with an explanation?”
“Let’s just say that female perfection can be highly intimidating. This is our spot. Dig your board in here.”
As they pushed the boards into the sand by their woven rattan beach mat, Anna noticed that two long-haired burnouts in crud-encrusted tie-dye shirts had plopped down on their spot without asking. But before Anna could say anything to them, they stood and scuttled away. She was about to tell them to go ahead and use the mats. But after Danny’s crack about “female perfection,” she was probably better off keeping her inner Mother Teresa . . . inner.
Danny closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun. “Man, I’m glad to be out of the office while it’s still daylight.”
“You might want some of this for your face.” Anna handed him some Clarins 30 UV sunblock for his fair skin.
He nodded, squirted some into his hand, and spread it on his face. “You can’t do this in New York in February, that’s for sure. What’s the temperature there right now?”
“Probably twenty-something.”
“Perfect surfing weather. For polar bears.”
Though it was a Saturday afternoon in February, here at Zuma the weather was perfection and the beach crowded. Up and down the sand, sun lovers frolicked with their dogs, tossed Frisbees, played volleyball, built sand castles, and picnicked. Out in the water, there were still dozens of surfers doing their thing. Anna had to agree: Except for her inability to get up on a surfboard, this was about as close to nirvana as real life could get.
Danny reached into the cooler he’d brought and plucked out two bottles of pear-apricot juice. He handed one to Anna. She opened it as she scanned the ocean. A girl surfer had just caught a humongous wave and was riding it with elegant perfection.
Anna cocked her head toward the girl. “What’s she got that I haven’t got?”
“Me?” Danny quipped.
Anna gave him a confused look.
“I mean not now. But in theory I could probably go chat her up, give her the old ‘yeah, I write for a hit TV show’ routine, and next thing you know, we’re getting our freak on.”
Anna playfully swatted his arm. “Very funny.”
He shrugged. “Just want you to know what you’re missing.”
She laughed because he was joking. Sort of. She and Danny had formed a fast bond since they’d met at
Hermosa Beach.
They’d had some adventures and shared some kisses. She liked him a lot. But in the last few weeks, Anna had come to think that this was a time in her life when it would be best just to focus on herself. After her fling with Ben Birnbaum had flamed out, she didn’t want to make things too complicated, too fast.
“We’re
friends,
remember?”
He winced. “The F word—kiss of death.” He took a long drink of his juice. “Would it help to mention how hot you look? A tall blonde in a wet suit? Can’t beat it.”
Then his gaze shifted to a gorgeous redhead who was carrying her board up from the surf line. She was poised and slender and wore a blue wet suit. Her thick red hair glistened in the afternoon sun. “Wow,” Danny commented.
Anna knew that the tiny stab of jealousy she felt was utterly ridiculous. After all, she’d just reminded Danny that their relationship was strictly platonic. But men never ceased to amaze her. Danny could flirt with her one minute and “wow” after a complete stranger with great hair the next.
She smiled at him. “You’re wasting your time, Danny. You’re not her type.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, “I know her. But I never thought I’d see her here.”
Oops. Anna did a mental rewind. Danny’s “wow” had been a “wow” of recognition. She took a casual sip of her juice.
“How’s that?”
Just then the girl noticed Danny and waved. Danny waved back.
“She lives in Santa Barbara. We hooked up at a party in Ojai last summer.”
Anna watched the girl, trying to picture her with Danny. “You mean, just for one night?”
He nodded. “You shocked?”
Anna shook her head.
Danny laughed. “Yeah, you are. Because you are the last girl on the planet to go for a hit-and-run.”
He took another slug of his drink and patted her hand. The gesture struck her as patronizing, even if what he’d said was true.
“I don’t think casual sex is necessarily bad,” she insisted.
Danny cocked an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, you do.”
“No. I really don’t.”
“Really. Okay, then. Check out the beach.” Danny propped himself up on one elbow. “Point to a hypothetical one-night-stand candidate. Myself included.”
“You’re my friend; I already know you,” Anna pointed out. “So by definition you don’t qualify.”
“Ever hear of friends with benefits?”
She frowned—he mimed sticking a dagger into his heart, then extracted it. “Just covering my bases. Anyway, it’s better when you don’t know the person too well. Out of town is primo.” Anna took a moment to ruminate on the concept of sex for its own sake.
Danny just chuckled at her. “But don’t worry about it, Anna. It’s not everyone’s style,” he said as he pulled on his Ray-Bans and lay down on his mat.
Okay, maybe it hadn’t been her style in the past. Back in New York, she hadn’t even had the guts to flirt minimally with Scott Spencer—the object of her most intense crush. But that was then, this was now. And from a purely intellectual point of view, she had no problem with mutually consenting people having a mutually satisfying . . . whatever.
Fine. She’d accept Danny’s challenge.
Anna stood with new resolve and scanned the crowded beach. Danny was right. There was no lack of local talent. A guy in a Dodgers baseball cap, with a golden six-pack that ended in red surfer jams, was playing catch with his German shepherd. Guys being maternal with their dogs were always a turn-on. Another guy—lean and cut, with multiple tattoos on his arms and a red bandanna—caught her eye as he jogged along the shoreline.
She pictured herself making idle chitchat with one of them and then heading off to . . . where? His car? His apartment? Surely a one-night stand didn’t pony up for a night at Ma Maison Sofitel, did he? And the girl wouldn’t be the one to pay for such a thing, would she? She was pretty sure this wasn’t covered in the Big Book.
“Success?” Danny asked. He was leaning on his elbows, peering up at her.
“Him.” Anna pointed to the jogger.
“You like tall guys.”
She heard the regret of being five feet, eight inches in his voice and shook her head. “It’s really more about the person, Danny. When you get to know someone and they interest you—”