“Of course,” Alex says, shaking his head. “I know that. I'm a fool for wishing that she would choose me. I'm a fool for leading Emma along and then going back to Jen. I just love her.”

I give him a slight nod and then ask, “Who? Who do you love?”

“Um, Je-” he starts to say, but then catches himself. “I love Emma, of course.”

“What do you think is going to happen now?” I ask and reach for the bill, but he grabs it out of my hand.

“Listen, I have all intentions of signing you as a client so why don't you just let me pay for this. We can call this a potential investor meeting.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say with a smirk. “I give you $2 million of my money to manage and in exchange you treat me to a $400 lunch? Yep, that seems fair.”

“I don't see what's wrong with that at all,” Alex says and puts his business credit card in the folder with the bill.

23

Emma

I haven't taken a long drive in a while and I've never taken one by myself before. Part of me was afraid of coming out here alone, so I kept trying to get Brooke to go with me, but as soon as I get into the car, I realize that it's a good thing that she refused.

I get on the freeway early in the morning.

There are still a lot of cars even though it is Saturday, but they start to thin out after Pasadena. It has been on my bucket list to go out to Joshua Tree National Park and this is my chance. I'm going to pop into Pioneertown which is about twenty-five minutes east of the park and if D. B. Carter isn’t there, I will just keep driving and head to the park. I'll salvage the day however I can.

For a long time, I drive in silence.

I know that a lot of people like to listen to the radio or an audiobook, but it feels good just to look around and think. When I first started this drive, my hands were sweaty and I was gripping the wheel tightly. As the minutes ticked away, I started to relax.

About an hour and a half into the drive, I pull into a gas station to use the restroom. I'm tempted to stop by the snack aisles and pick out something junkie to nibble on, but I'm proud of myself when I get back in the car without making a purchase.

My thoughts keep swirling around Alex and the mysterious writer that I'm certain I will not be able to find. I started one of his books last night and ended up staying up half the night.

I'm not much of a fantasy fan, but the realism that was infused into each scene made me connect with the story and kept me turning pages.

The book ended on a cliffhanger and of course I had to buy the next one immediately. In addition to the book, I also purchased the audiobook and downloaded it. When I get back into the car, I turn on the Bluetooth and pair it to my phone.

The story opens with a sexy scene where the two main characters finally get together and have sex for the first time. The words flowing out from my speakers are eloquent, precise, and incredibly arousing. When traffic slows down near the Ontario airport, I actually feel my cheeks blushing as I look around, hoping that none of the other drivers can hear the audio in my car.

I have never read romance before.

Is this what it is really like?

Shit, no wonder everyone loves it.

Suddenly, I realize how unnatural some of the books that I have previously enjoyed are when the author ends the scene with two people falling into bed together and fading to black.

If it’s something that happens, why not go into it?

Why not offer the details and describe it just as you do a car chase or just about anything else? We all want to know.

I finish the book and start another, which is also heavy on both fantasy and romance and with a good dose of sexy scenes that makes my mouth water. By the time I pull into Yucca Valley and see the sign to Pioneertown, I have to turn it off to try to focus on why I’m here.

The beauty of the desert is undeniable.

There are enormous boulders and tall leaning cacti springing up from the hills and valleys with an almost endless blue sky up above.

Whatever clouds hovered over Santa Monica have all burned off. Out here, the sky is huge and my mind clears immediately.

Suddenly, I don't feel this oppression of thought as if something from the heavens is pushing down on me. There are no low hanging clouds, just a bright and unforgivable sun.

The road leading up to Pioneertown is winding surrounded by enormous boulders. When I get to the top of the hill, I see the famous Pappy and Harriet’s and all of the Harley-Davidson motorcycles parked in a neat row in front.

I've never been to a biker bar before so I promise myself that no matter what happens today, I'm going to come back here and have lunch. My stomach rumbles and I consider having some lunch before going to the house, but I'm too nervous to prolong this meeting anymore than I absolutely have to.

Driving to the parking lot behind the restaurant, I pull up next to the dusty unmarked main street of the Old West town and look at the big sign that prohibits cars from driving through.

Proceed on foot or horseback only

I slow down and look out of the window at the little shops selling turquoise jewelry. One of the places has a big leather saddle out front, the exact one that I saw in my Instagram search.

There's also supposedly a church and a saloon further down the dusty road, but I don't get out of my car to investigate. I drive back out onto the paved road and let GPS lead me to my address. If this is all fake and there is no writer living at this house, then I'll have plenty of time to tour the town.

The directions lead me a few miles down the road and then instruct me to turn left up an unpaved, desert path. There's a dip and the bottom of my car scrapes along the ground.

I consider parking and then walking the rest of the way, but I don't see the house from here and according to the GPS, it's another few miles away. That's a long walk under the hot desert sun so I get back into the car and keep driving.

A very bumpy two miles later, I reach a wrought iron gate, placed almost arbitrarily in the middle of the road. If I were in a different type of vehicle, I could easily drive around it and onto the property, but there are cacti, shrubs, and all sorts of other vegetation blocking my way. I get out of the car and look for the button to call the owner.

There isn't one.

I walk around and put my hand over my forehead to block some of the sun, peering into the distance. There, on top of the hill, I see the house sitting on at least five acres of property.

The gate doesn't have a way to call, but it also doesn't have a lock so when I pull up one of the latches it swings inward, welcoming me inside.

Back home, I would not have dared to walk through a gate without first trying to reach the owner because I know that they will call the police.

Out here?

The consequences are probably more dire. I'm pretty certain that almost everyone owns a gun and isn’t afraid to use it.

But I get into my car and drive over anyway.

The house is a modern masterpiece. It’s made entirely of glass resembling those rectangular mansions they have scattered over the Hollywood Hills.

I park my car out front and walk down the carefully manicured desert landscaped yard full of barrel and saguaro cacti.

When I step on a twig, it cracks underneath my foot. A black crow takes off from the roof, startling me.