He grinned at me as if I’d said something profound. “That’s funny,” he said. “Because even though I’ve never lived here before, the place feels kind of nostalgic for me. Almost like it’s part of a collective memory about Los Angeles.” He leaned back on his heels. “It has this great energy, you know?”

I did know.

“Sorry,” he said. “That probably sounds pretty cheesy. It’s just I can totally picture Brian Wilson hanging out by my pool, or Dennis Hopper rummaging through my fridge.”

I nodded eagerly. “I know exactly what you mean. You can practically smell the weed and righteous rebellion.”

He laughed.

“You should get a house like that,” I said. “Not something big and grand like this. A home.”

Unfortunately, I said that right as the real estate agent was walking back into the room.

“I think you’re right,” Gabe said before turning to her. “I might need to rethink what I’m looking for.”

“Of course,” she said with a smile, but the moment he turned away, she shot me a glare.

I couldn’t really blame her. I’d be pissed too if I lost the commission on this house.

We drove back to his rental in Laurel Canyon. The puppy fell asleep in his lap, but rested her nose on the armrest between us, her hot breath tickling my elbow. Gabe didn’t say much on the ride home, gazing out the window while I only got lost once.

“Hey,” he said, as I stopped at a stop sign. “The mountains.”

I glanced over to what he was pointing at. We were almost to his house, about to go around one of the many cliffside curves. The sun was beginning to set.

“Gold and pink,” he said.

It was beautiful—a shadow across half of the Valley—the rest of it looking like it had been painted with vibrant watercolors.

Behind me, a car honked.

As I pulled into his driveway, I knew that I’d totally blown the interview. That I was going to have to go back to my little apartment that I shared with two people I didn’t like very much and attempt to write an article that I knew was not going to be very good.

It would be functional and it would serve its purpose—I’d find a way to make Gabe seem like he was a perfect fit for Bond—but it wouldn’t be anything more than that. It wouldn’t be special, and I desperately wanted to write something that was special.

I shut off the car and turned to Gabe, planning to thank him for his time and make as much of a gracious exit as I could.

“I should probably have some coffee,” he said before I could even open my mouth. “Do you want some coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee,” I said.