“The kitchen was a bar when I moved in,” Griffin said, strolling toward it. “I had it converted, though it’s still basic. I also repurposed the sauna as a closet. Care for a drink?”
“Yes, please, but first I need a bathroom. Do you have one of those?”
He pushed a hidden door in the wooden wall. “It’s minimalist, but not that minimalist.”
The bathroom reminded her of a powder room in a spa—all teak, glass, and smooth, white surfaces. A little messy—it had the look of someone who’d been more concerned with packing for a week away than leaving the place tidy for their return. Behind a glass door were wooden shelves and racks holding T-shirts and jeans, shirts, sweaters and suits, folded towels. She found herself staring at Griffin’s underwear—cotton boxers—and quickly looked away. It was like his entire life was laid out around her. And there wasn’t much to it.
Despite its architectural appeal, the pool house felt like a temporary retreat rather than a true home. Somewhere you came to regroup, rebuild, heal, before rejoining the world fully formed.
When she emerged, Griffin had placed glasses on the coffee table, alongside orange juice and sparkling water. Condensation pebbled on the bottles.
“Pantry’s a little bare, sorry.” He was chopping something at the counter. For the first time in days, she felt completely safe. Like normalcy still existed. She hadn’t even realized how on edge she’d been—which reminded her why she shouldn’t be lapping this up. Vivien was who-knew-where, while she had a Hollywood star rustling her up lunch at a Beverly Hills mansion. It was all too, too cozy. “First thing I was going to do when I got home last night was give the place a good clean.”
“You do your own cleaning?”
“Don’t most people?”
“Yeah, but you’re not…” He frowned, and she changed tack. “You work such long hours. I’m sure you could justify a cleaner.”
He screwed up his beautiful face, though it remained beautiful.
“I’m thinking there’s a story there?”
“I feel like you’ve heard enough stories about my life.”
“Can I take a wild stab that it comes back to trust issues?”
“I wish I could shock you and say no, but… Gotta say though, cleaning all that glass is a bitch. At least we don’t get sea spray.”
“How long have you lived here, since you moved back in?”
He thought for a few seconds. “Going on seven years.”
Okay, so not all that temporary. She was drawn to the terrace with the view over the city. But just as she stepped outside—the demarcation no more than a groove in the stone where the glass door slid through—Griffin’s hand closed around her arm. She suppressed a gasp. He was scanning a hillside to their left, frowning.
“Maybe don’t go out there,” he said, coaxing her back in. “There’s a spot on the hill where paps sometimes camp out.”
She could see nothing but green and brown scrub inset into sand-colored soil. He was like a Secret Service agent checking for snipers. “You don’t go outside?”
“I’ll risk it if I’m alone and fully dressed. But shots of me entertaining a woman at home would have currency, and we don’t want to alert the goons to your location. You’re okay standing here—they can’t get an eyeline inside.”
He returned to the kitchen as she sat on the sofa. The view was so broad, she could track the earth’s curve across the distant Pacific. The sun winked off the sharp edges of Century City skyscrapers, and the sky slid out forever, melting from cobalt to hazy white on the horizon, before the sea carried the blue back to meet the city’s sandy fringe.
“The view is actually better now than when my grandfather had the house built in the fifties,” Griffin said. “We have photos from back then, and you can’t see the ocean for the smog.”
“Your family’s been here that long?”
“He bought the site when the whole neighborhood was giant dirt terraces cut into the hill.”
“I’ve read about that. All the houses had to be single level so everyone got a view, so they sprawled sideways rather thanup. Flat roofs, floor-to-ceiling glass, the house arranged around the pool and the view. The beginnings of mid-century modern. 979.493,” she added, and Griffin smiled. She and a movie star had private jokes now. “Was it a gated community back then?”
“No, people were way more trusting. They wanted to show off their wealth, not hide it. They’d line up their expensive cars in carports for passersby to admire. No footpaths though—to discourage lingering. The paranoia didn’t hit until the late sixties.”
“The Manson murders?”
“Just over in Benedict Canyon.” He jerked his head to the west. “Hit my grandmother hard. She knew Sharon Tate—they were friends or rivals or perhaps something in between, though Granny was a few years older. They both posed forPlayboy, back in the day. Jockeyed for the same film roles.”
“Yourgrandmotherposed forPlayboy?”
