For two months Marisol had imagined what it would be like seeing Paul again. In her daydreams she ran down a hotel corridor and leaped into his arms, wrapping her legs around him, and they barely made it into the nearest room before tearing at each other's clothes. Or he answered the door, shirtless, and swept her off her feet and carried her over the threshold and dropped her onto nearest bed, telling her all the while how much he had missed her.
The reality went something like this: after a cross country flight she waited thirty minutes for a cab from the Miami airport to the Deauville Hotel, where she cooled her heels in the lobby for another forty-five minutes before a harried Neil showed up to bring her to the Beatles suite of rooms on the twelfth floor.
The main room swarmed with journalists and cameramen, in addition to the Beatles and their entourage. Neil left her beside a table laden with snacks and beverages. "Make yourself at home, love," he said. "The lads are filming."
Across the room, Paul chatted with George and Ringo, a movie cameraman a few feet away. She watched them for a minute until Paul locked eyes with her. He stepped out of the view of the camera and gave her a little smile and a wink and held up an index finger in a just a minute sign. Then he went back to mugging and joking for the camera.
John sprawled on a sofa with Cynthia, smoking and ignoring the filmmaking.
"Good to see you, Cyn, welcome to America," Marisol said, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze.
"Nice to see you too," Cynthia said. "I'm right tired of being the only sane female round here."
"Hemingway. What brings you to South Florida?" John reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, but instead of a kiss he bestowed a bite on her knuckles.
"Ow!" Marisol wrested her hand away.
"Don't be so dreadful, John," chided Cyn.
John answered with a zany face.
"I see he's as incorrigible as ever."
"So this is America," John said, puffing on his cigarette. "They all seem out of their minds."
Marisol sensed Paul was behind her without looking around, even before he spoke. "Hello, Beauty." That accent, that voice in her ear.
She turned to look at him and the rest of the room melted away. "Hi, stranger," she said breathlessly.
He smiled down at her, his eyes softening. Without another word he hooked an arm around her shoulders, drew her in and kissed her. When he released her she brought two fingers to her lips, feeling flushed. "Oh. That was nice."
"There's lots more where that came from," he promised. His eyes swept over her. "You look fantastic. Even better than I remembered."
"So do you," Marisol whispered. "America looks really good on you." Her arm went around his waist. She couldn't believe she was here, actually touching him. It felt like she lived in a black and white world until she saw him and the sun came out and turned everything to technicolor. All the waiting was worth it. He was her sunshine.
"Do you lot want some privacy?" John said.
"That would be lovely, thank you," Paul said, his eyes never leaving Marisol's face. "Order everyone away."
As if on cue, a middle-aged man with black hair and a straw hat sidled up to them. "What's happening, baby?"
Paul seemed to roll his eyes a little before dropping his arm from Marisol's shoulders.
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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...