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...
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Marisol awoke to the sound of voices coming from outside the open window. One serious and quiet. One louder and laced with irritation. She rolled onto her back and blinked open her eyes, taking a few seconds to remember where she was. Paul's bedroom. The room was cold and she wanted to curl back into his pillow for another few hours of blissful sleep. Then she remembered he wanted to get an early start. She swung her legs out of bed, the wooden floor icy beneath her feet as she shuffled to the window to close it. Her fingers brushed aside the lace curtain.
Paul and his father were in the garden, just under the window. She couldn't make out what his father was saying at first, but she could clearly hear Paul's angry responses.
"I'm telling you, I don't even know this bird!"
"It can't be mine, I never touched her!"
"I was in ruddy Hamburg!"
"You'll need to talk to Mr. Epstein," came Mr. McCartney's calm voice.
Marisol let the curtain fall back and stepped away from the window, hugging herself against the chill. Jesus, what now? Paul wouldn't be pleased about her overhearing any of that conversation. He'd probably be his happy self today, pretending like nothing was on his mind. She'd have to pretend as well. With a sigh, she squared her shoulders and headed to the bathroom.
"Hullo love, sleep well?" Paul was outside the bathroom door when she came out, dressed and ready for the road.
"Yeah, much better now."
He leaned down and kissed the side of her face. "I'll have your suitcase when you're ready. Looks like my car was spotted. There's a bit of a crowd outside. We may have to make a run for it."
Marisol waited in the living room, sipping a cup of tea, while Paul went outside to load the car. Despite the early hour, a dozen or so fans had gathered by the Aston Martin. Mr. McCartney hovered at the front door, watching Paul signing autographs and posing for pictures. Another car pulled up and three more girls spilled out, squealing and charging at Paul.
"He needs to be off before this turns into a mob." Paul's father opened the door. "All right Son?" he yelled toward the street. Somewhere in the building, a window slammed. Mr. McCartney shook his head. "No one gets any sleep when the lads are in town."
"Mind how you go," Mr. McCartney said to Paul when he dashed back inside. He took Marisol's hand in his. "Come back and see us any time."
"Bye girls," Paul said, pulling Marisol through the throng of agitated girls and practically shoving her into the car. "C'mon now, that's enough pictures, be good girls. See you next time."
Before he could cross in front of the car and climb in behind the wheel, a dark-haired teenager launched herself at him, trying to plant a kiss on his lips. He managed to turn his head so that the kiss landed on the side of his mouth. "There's more where that came from, Paul!" the girl yelled. Another girl threw some sort of note inside the car before Paul managed to yank the door closed.
