MARION

“Hold up,” I told Demetria before getting out of my Maserati to open the passenger door for her.

“What did I tell you the last time you tried doing this?”

“I can open the door on my own, Marion.”

“I know, but not when you are with me.”

The sun had set before we parked at the Santa Monica Pier. Reaching in the back seat, I clenched my jacket. I made sure to grab it from my closet. Demetria was wearing short sleeves, and I knew she would be cold. She would be rubbing her ...