Page 28 of Love at First Sighting
“Excellent. Then add a side of fries, please.” As the waitress takes our menus and walks away, Carter scribbles something on a napkin with the waxy crayons they keep on the table for kids. His handwriting is boxy but neat. He folds it and passes me the note.
She thinks we’re on a date.
“You know, you can say it out loud.”
“Passing notes is more fun,” he says. “My dad and I used to play these spy games when I was little. Invisible ink, hidden messages in my lunch box I’d have to find every day. It was like being a secret agent without all the shady stuff.”
I’m honored by the purity of the memory. I think of asmaller Carter in the same hat, sneaking around corners and cracking secret codes like he was trying to save the world. So, I grab the blue crayon and write back.
Are we?
No one I’ve dated in recent years would ever be caught dead in a diner or would even consider taking me to one. So, no, it does notfeellike any date I’ve ever known. But it feels like a date I could get used to.
Carter raises his eyebrows and clears his throat. “Uh, no. I think we’re on some serious secret agent business.”
“Oh no.” I laugh. “So, we can’t tell her the only reason we’re here is because you showed up at my house and told me to come to a second location? Or that I only know you because it’s your job to stalk me?”
“Government-sanctioned stalking,” he corrects over the rim of his water glass.
“That makes it so much better.”
“The justice system might agree with you.”
Several minutes later, the waitress swings by the table and drops the single grilled cheese with fries on the table. It smells like a heart attack but looks criminally sexy. Bread, gooey cheese, perfectly crisp fries.
I claim one half of the sandwich and take a bite. Sweet Jesus, this is delicious. I need to start coming to weird diners more often. Especially coming to weird diners with handsome government agents who offer me the bigger side of the sandwich.
After a single bite of grilled cheese, he lets out a low moan and I don’t blame him. “I forgot to go grocery shopping this week, so there’s no food at home.”
I’ve never actually thought about Carter out of the suitand off the job. I guess I assumed he lived in his car and only ever wore suits. I didn’t think he’d have to go grocery shopping or need a bed. I’m getting the impression that if there is secrecy he’s supposed to be upholding, he’s not doing a good job around me. I like the bubble of warmth in my chest that says he trusts me.
“So, you, like…have a life outside ofthis?” I wave at his getup.
“Yes? Granted, a boring one, and I work a lot of hours, but yeah.” He shrugs and takes another French fry.
“Right. And you have, like, a house—?”
“Whoa,” he interrupts, choking on his food. “I’m Gen Z. I willneverhave a house. I rent an apartment.”
“And do you own, like…T-shirts and jeans? Or do you wear this to bed, too?” I lean across the table and snap his suspender.
I imagine undressing him and slipping him into something more normal—jeans, T-shirts, hoodies, pastel shorts. Actually, I can also imagine myself just undressing him and leaving it there.
“Of course I have other clothes,” he scoffs.
“You’re not giving me much else to work off, buddy. And I did some research on the Men in Black—
“Before or after you bingedAngel City Noir?”
“Hey…” I frown. “You know, there’s a lot of conflicting stories about the Men in Black. Some people think they’re aliens, or just really weird guys.”
Granted, most of my research came from a Skroll web series Lea recommended, starring a blue-haired girl and her bespectacled lumberjack boyfriend. I’m notfullysure their information is completely factual.
“I mean, I am a weird guy,” he concedes.
“Butweirderthan that. I’m talking pale skin; no eyebrows; glassy, glowing eyes. One description said they had these red lips, like they put lipstick on because they didn’thavelips. Others said…”
Carter laughs and rakes a hand through his gelled hair. It falls out of place, and by the time he’s done, the hat hair is gone and his fluffy waves look way too tempting. Like the sort of thing I’d hold on to if—
