“Forgiven,” I say, pressing my palms against my full C-cups. “I’ve had them since the month I turned eighteen. At the time, all my girlfriends were getting new boobs as graduation gifts, and my friend’s dad was a plastic surgeon who offered a buy-one-implant-get-one-free deal to all her friends. In retrospect, having her dad do my surgery was kind of creepy, but at the time, all I could think about was how nice it was going to be to finally fill out a bikini top for the first time in my life.”
“Priorities of an eighteen-year-old.”
“Exactly.” I grin, head tilting, and I nudge his shoulder with mine. “See, you get it.”
We make our way into the next room, which is set up like some fancy nightclub. Will Smith is perched on some futuristic-looking seat, Jada standing beside him. Across from them is Edward Norton—random—and then of course Brad and Angelina.
“Whoever runs this place needs to read an Us Weekly. Brangelina broke up, like, a year ago,” I say.
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
He slips his hands into his jeans pockets, and I watch the subtle flex of his triceps before following the round curve of his shoulders. Isaiah is pure muscle. Hard, steely muscle.
Shaking my head, I snap myself out of it.
“You’re not into this celebrity stuff, are you?” I ask. “You seem bored. If I’m being honest. And I am. Always.”
He drags his hand down his full mouth. “Yeah. This isn’t my thing.”
“Then why do you live in LA?”
“I don’t. My mom is here. I stay with her between deployments.”
“So, where’s home then?” I ask.
Isaiah shrugs. “Nowhere.”
I follow him to the next exhibit, which is full of historical replicas of people like Benjamin Franklin and George Washington. He lingers in here a bit longer. Maybe history is more his thing?
“My cousin, Eli, is a huge history buff,” I say. “He’s in the army, too. I think that’s partially why he joined. He wanted to be in command, he wanted to lead, but more than that, he wanted his name printed in a history book. True story.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, I’ve met a lot of those.”
“Can you believe I’ve lived in LA my entire life and this is the first time I’ve ever been here?” I muse. “Here, take my picture next to this guy. I like his hair.”
“Thomas Edison?” He lifts a brow.
“Yeah.” I strike a pose, flashing a peace sign and sticking my tongue out of the side of my mouth a la Miley. Fuck trying to look cool. I’d rather be memorable, even if it means looking like a dork.
Isaiah lifts his phone and snaps a picture, texting it to me a second later, and we head toward the exit.
“So, uh … Before I knew you didn’t like this stuff, I kind of, sort of booked us this celebrity tour-of-homes sightseeing excursion.” I wince, eyes squinting hard as I shrug my shoulders. “But we don’t have to go.”
Even though I already paid the eighty bucks to hold our spots …
“Nah, it’s fine,” he says, glancing toward the distance. “I’ll try anything once.”
“Just don’t get your hopes up, okay? You strike me as the adrenaline-seeking type, and this is going to be more like Midwestern tourists and little old ladies asking where Clark Gable used to live.”
Looping my hand into the bend of his elbow because I’m an unapologetically touchy-feely kind of girl, I pull him toward Sunset Boulevard where we’re supposed to wait for some hot pink topless bus type of vehicle with the words CELEB VIP TOURS painted across the sides.
By the time we round the corner, the open-top bus contraption is pulling into a reserved parking spot and a herd of little old ladies are climbing on.
“Sure you want to do this?” I ask. “I’m giving you an out right now, so if you want it, you better take it.”
“I told you, I’ll try anything once,” he says.
“Good. Because I wouldn’t want you violating rule number one on our first day,” I say, winking.
“Did you say day or date?” he asks, face pinched.
“DAY,” I say, loud and clear, enunciating each and every letter.
“All right. Just checking.”
Elbowing him as we climb on board, I say under my breath, “You’d be so lucky.”
I swear he fights a smirk.
Retrieving my phone, I pull up our tickets in my email and the driver scans the barcodes. We find a seat in the back row, left side, and he gives me the outside which clearly has the better view.
“Okay, are we ready for our Homes of the Stars tour?” The driver-slash-tour guide speaks into a microphone, his enthusiasm way too extreme for a weekday morning. The women around us smile and half-clap, and he takes his seat, buckling up.
We pull into traffic a second later, and while I feel like an enormous dork, I’m secretly pleased because this is always something I’ve wanted to do, but my friends always acted like they were too cool for shit like this.