Frost on My Window by Angela Weaver

Russell.”
    “Yeah, just because you can’t wrap me around your finger doesn’t mean I’m tough. Just means I’m immune.”
    “Immune? You make me sound like a disease.”
    “As in immune to your charms. Now, some of us have work to do. So I’ll leave you to rest.”
    “It’s Saturday,” he protested.
    “For those of us without bodyguards, personal assistants, room service and maids, Saturday’s not a holiday. I’ve got a ton of laundry and some grocery shopping to do.”
    “Oh.”
    My lips twitched. “Oh.”
    “Well, I’ll call you Tuesday.”
    “Okay.”
    “Take care, Leah.”
    “You too, Sean.”
    I pressed the off button on the phone and laid it on the countertop. Simba rubbed his tail against my leg, purring. Absentmindedly, I leaned down and patted him on the back before putting his food bowl on the floor. Switching on the coffeemaker, I sauntered towards the bathroom with a smile on my face and giddiness in my heart. Sean Andrews had invited me, Leah Russell, to dinner. Although there was nothing romantic about it and we’d had dinner together many times before, I still sang in the shower.

Chapter 7
    When I went out in public with Sean, we met for drinks at a bar or for dinner at a small, family-owned Mexican restaurant where our faces never raised eyebrows or startled whispers.
    He’d order an assortment of dishes while I laughed at him over the rim of my Corona. Sometimes I’d just pretend, always imagining things were more than what they were. After leaving Sean sleeping by the cliff that morning after the party, I hadn’t expected to hear from him.
    I had chalked the night up to doing a good deed, just helping a stranger. Then the flowers arrived. Rena was always getting flowers, but two days after the party, a bouquet of orange-red orchids and pale violet lavender nestled with white lilies arrived. The card had my name. I’d opened the small beige-colored envelope with shaking hands.
    He remembered, I had thought. Lance remembered my birthday. Instead, I found a note from Sean written in bold blue letters.
    You left before I could say thank you. Have dinner with me. Friday, eight p.m.
    The first time Sean and I had dinner it was in an exclusive restaurant in Beverly Hills. We sat in the back near bay windows hidden by bamboo screens. I sat amazed as waiters fell all over themselves to serve us and almost dissolved into laughter when the restaurant chef with his French accent and tall white hat came to ask about the meal.
    I spent most of the dinner trying to convince him that he owed me nothing. Sean, on the other hand, sat back and smiled. The man just asked questions, so many questions. Like he wanted to crawl inside my skin and wallow in my mind. At first, I thought he was just an eccentric white boy. He wore a black curly wig like the spoiled rich kid who refused to grow up. But after witnessing the attention and all the special treatment, I came to realize that the man not only had money and connections, he was famous.
    I didn’t know what game he was playing, but I went along with it. And the flowers kept coming, dozens of roses, daises, iris, tiger lilies—until I agreed to have dinner with him again. When I told my cousin Sean’s name, her face squelched up a little with puzzlement as though chasing a lost memory and then she shrugged her shoulders. Actors, musicians, entertainers, and celebrities flocked to Los Angeles. There was no telling which group Sean fell into.
    Soon Rena started to worry, and so did I. Somewhere after the tenth delivery of flowers, Sean had crossed the line from being a sad suicidal rich boy to a would-be stalker. The night of the second dinner, after I spent the day pleading, Rena agreed to get me out of the mess I’d somehow gotten myself into.
    Rena opened the front door and burst into laughter. I stood with my fingers ready to dial 911 when Sean walked into the room. My cousin with tears in her eyes took the cordless phone from my nerveless