Page 18 of Love at First Sighting
I’m going to have to sneak out of my house. At age twenty-eight.
Tonight I’m supposed to be doing an Instagram Live withBex as damage control and to show the world everything’s normal! I’m fine! I didn’t almost get abducted by aliens! However, I lied and told her I was down with food poisoning. If this were a few months ago, she would have told me it was because I’m not vegan and I deserve it. Now, though, Bex is an adamant hype woman for beans on toast and Yorkshire pudding, so she had little to say this time.
I’ve snuck out before, but it hasn’t been since high school. I pop my back window open. None of the windows at the Nest have screens, because they look bad on camera, safety be damned. There’s a palm tree within reach of my window and I jump to it.
“Oh my god,” Carter hisses. “What are you doing?”
Clinging to the tree, I search for him. He’s little more than a black hat perched on top of a shrub, with his voice coming from somewhere behind. “What areyoudoing?”
“I was coming to helpyou!”
“I’m doing just fine,” I grunt, trying to wiggle down the palm tree without a catastrophe. I feel like a gecko, but I’m eternally grateful the sandals I wore to Stagecoach are doing the lord’s work. Great grip, comfortable soles, stylish. They can also withstand beer being spilled on them super well.
“You’re in a tree.”
“And you’re in a bush.”
I notch my foot down a few more inches and my foothold whooshes out from under me. I let out a panicked yelp before I hit the ground, but Carter’s firm grip catches me around my waist. Gravel digs into my knees and the palms of my hands, but I’m more captivated by the way the moon glints off Carter’s bright blue eyes and how smooth the fabric of his suit jacket is.
Our chests press together and his heart is thundering underneath my touch. His mouth hangs open in shock (and maybe pain from my landing on him), and the surprised huff of breath he lets out is minty and cool.
“Hi,” I say.
Tonight he’s back in his full getup. There’s no more rolled-up sleeves and disheveled demeanor. He’s more like the man I met two nights ago—a clean-cut shadow. He’s clearly slept and shaved, his blond hair slicked back into place and his hat resting on the ground near us.
I should know better.
I should know not to swoon over a man in a fedora.
“Hey,” he says back. His lips only hint at a smile, but before I can return it, he shoves himself up on his elbows and helps me to my feet. “We better get going.”
We sneak through the shrubbery before reaching his car, which is parked in front of the neighbor’s house. Special Agent Carter Brody drives the world’s most embarrassing car. It looks straight off the set ofAngel City Noirmixed with the weird station wagon with angry conservative bumper stickers that’s always parked on our block. Except his car lacks the stickers and is otherwise inconspicuous—if this were 1961.
“Really?” I ask, eyeing the brown leather bench seats as we slide in. The car smells like old leather and him—sandalwood, mint, and fresh-printed book pages. “This is your car?”
His eyes dip out from beneath the brim of his hat. He pops his gum. “Sorry, it’s not what you’re used to.”
It’s clear the car’s had some upgrades over the course of its life, like a modern radio, and the interior is remarkably well taken care of. I wonder how he traverses a city like Los Angeles with a car like this. I can’t imagine the sounds it madetrying to weave up these narrow, steep Hollywood streets. I shudder thinking about parallel parking it.
My legs squeak as I situate myself in the car, and it draws Carter’s attention to me. His stare rakes up my bare legs, clad in a pink tennis skort to accommodate an alarmingly hot summer night. His eyes find each curve of my body and he studies me as if I’m one of his case files. My heart speeds up and his grip on the gearshift tightens. It’s easy to picture him slipping back in time, with the faint smell of smoke in the air, a toothpick nipped between his teeth, and the crackle of the old radio.
Someone like him could have any girl he wanted, with his dreamy baby-blue eyes and crooked smiles. He fills out a button-down and slacks criminally well, and when the moonlight cuts sharp lines through the shadows on his face, even I feel weak in the knees.
“This is where I saw the lights,” I say, breaking the tension. I show him the pinned location on my phone. After a few inquisitive examinations, he nods.
“The middle of the mountains, andthatis what you’re wearing?”
I eye my skort and crop top. “Of course.”
Technically, this is all athleisure. I did a whole tennis photo shoot in this. His dismissal sends a ripple of frustration through me. Sure, he believes me and wants to help me, but he’s still going to see me as the self-absorbed, vapid girl everyone online sees. He’d join a long list of “normal” guys who wanted me to know they loved when girls were “authentic.” Turns out, they only liked their version of authentic. They didn’t like the parts of me that wanted to stop for pictureswhen I saw opportunities. They didn’t like the parts of me that wanted to wear makeup even on lazy days.
“I don’t know. It feels like you’re not supposed to sweat in those clothes. Maybe sneakers?”
“Excuse you, I wore these sandals to Stagecoach. They can withstand anything. I just conquered a tree.”
“Right,” he says, snapping his gum with a smile, and puts the car in drive. “I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shots.”
“You’re one to talk. Why do you dress like that? Aren’t you afraid you’re going to crinkle your slacks?”
