Back in the parking lot, Kellin opens the door for me and then climbs behind the wheel of the Beemer. I feel so at peace that I don’t want this day to end yet. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Head back up Sunset, east toward Brentwood, and keep going until I say turn.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He revs the engine and smirks.
We drive for about twenty minutes—which is the bare minimum length of time to get anywhere in LA—until I instruct him to pull into Chateau Marmont on Sunset, just shy of Laurel Canyon.
After we valet the car, I lead him straight to the bar.
As soon as we sit down, he scrutinizes his attire, then mine.
“This isn’t New York City, babe. In SoCal, you can go anywhere in yoga pants and Nikes, as long as you wear them with confidence.”
He chuckles and at least pretends to be okay with his attire.
I won’t tell him how cute I find that.
A bartender approaches us. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, a blueberry mojito and your best whiskey, on the rocks with a double pour.”
Kellin raises an eyebrow.
“Don’t look surprised. I’m in hospitality. Listening is my superpower.”
That earns me another quiet chuckle.
The bartender sets napkins in front of us. “Menus?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” At Kellin’s nod, the bartender slides two onto the bar top before stepping away to fix our drinks.
I clear my throat and intertwine my fingers with Kellin’s. “So, in the theme of hotel touring, this right here is my all-time favorite. The apex of them all.”
“Chateau Marmont?”
“Mm-hmm.” I study the bar area, happy to note nothing has changed.
This place still boasts a 1930s Hollywood aesthetic. Red stools, dark patterned carpet, fringe on the burgundychandeliers that dot the length of the bar. Always nighttime. The place is the epitome of ambience. And the green damask wallpaper bookends it all.
How the stuff isn’t peeling off the walls after all this time, I’ll never know.
I shift my attention to Kellin. “You should go pee at some point, so you can see the moths on the walls in the bathroom.”
He places his palm over my forehead. “You don’t feel feverish. Are you having a stroke? Because this doesn’t seem like the type of establishment to have an insect infestation.”
I stifle a snort. “Moths on the wallpaper, not actual bugs. You have to go see for yourself.”
“Is that why you love this place? The bugs on the walls in the bathroom?”
The bartender sets our drinks down.
“Thank you.” Angling toward Kellin again, I shake my head. “No. Well, yeah, that’s part of it.” I exhale the way people do when they’re transported back in time. “My mom used to bring me here. This is where she’d escape to, I guess. Just like so many Hollywood stars have. Did you know Keanu Reeves lived here for years at one point?”
“I did not.”
“Marilyn Monroe, too, and so many others.” I scoot a little closer. “Well, my mother must’ve felt that pull as well. She’d come for just an afternoon here and there. Binge on blueberry mojitos. Mine were virgin. And then we’d…leave…and she’d be in a better mood for a while. At the time, I didn’t realize the alcohol did more for her than the atmosphere.”
