"I brought you Lizzie's," he said.
"I bet that was dramatic."
"We promised her an autographed copy."
She flipped the album over. "Twist and Shout...I love that song."
"Yeh, there are some covers, but John and I wrote most of the songs."
"Really. What instrument do you play?"
"I play a little of everything. Guitar, piano, drums, sax, spoons, washboard, a tire iron, hell, I'll play anything you put in my hands. Got a red pepper? I'll try to play it." He thumped the cover. "But on this I play bass."
"That's quite a list." She flipped the album back over to the photograph of the four beautiful young men. "Thanks. I can't wait to hear it."
Paul stood on the other side of the gate with one hand shoved in the pocket of his trousers, waiting.
"So...would you like some lemonade? We're just sitting on the patio..."
He had the gate unlatched before she finished the invitation. "I rang the bell but no one answered. Then I heard these hounds of hell so I reckoned you were back here."
As soon as he stepped inside the gate Ramsay leapt on him, leaving two dusty paw prints on the front of his black trousers.
"Ramsay, no! Get down!" The dog gamboled away and Marisol instinctively began to brush the dirt from Paul's hip. When her finger snagged in the fly of his trousers she realized what she was doing and jerked her hand away. She balled her hands into fists and glanced up into his amused eyes. "Oh god...sorry."
He arched a brow. "I'm starting to think you can't keep your hands off me or my van."
She felt her face grow warm. "I'm just...um...a little jet lagged," she sputtered.
"I hoped it was my animal magnetism." He put his hand on her lower back as they walked across the grass.
She tried to think of something to say. She tried to think of anything besides the fact he had his hand on her back in that possessive way, as if she belonged to him. She shot him a sideways glance. "So you do know how to shave."
He rubbed his smooth chin. "Neil says you don't like scruffy guys."
"Hmm. How would Neil know what I like?"
"So you do like scruffy guys," Paul mused. "Do you think I'm scruffy?"
"You might be," she said, smiling to herself. "If you cleaned up a little."
A smile quirked around his lips, and then he was outright laughing.
When they reached the patio, Paul turned his charm on her grandmother. "Mrs. Bellamy, good to see you again. I brought Marisol some music. I hope you won't hold it against me if the neighbors complain."
"Hello Paul, how nice of you." Mrs. Bellamy removed her eyeglasses and tucked them in the pocket of her dress. "Have a seat, I'll bring more lemonade," she said, rising from the chair.
"No, Grandma, sit down, I'll get it." Marisol patted the album and nodded at Paul. "Thank you, I'll take this inside."
When she returned with his drink, Paul was leaning over the tabletop, dropping pieces of sea glass inside the circle of shells, arranging them from dark blue to lighter blue, while her grandmother nodded in approval. His other hand rested on Lily's furry head, his fingers scratching behind one of her ears. Lily rested her chin on his thigh, her liquid brown eyes gazing up at him adoringly. That didn't take long.
YOU ARE READING
In Your Atmosphere (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)Fanfiction
Marisol Hemingway isn't looking for love when she meets Paul McCartney on holiday in the summer of 1963. She is nursing a broken heart, and he is on the brink of international success. But the attraction between them is undeniable. Will Paul be the...