Page 63 of Love at First Sighting
Carter
It’s really hard to look at my desk the same way again.
Of course, now it’s cleaned up and disinfected, and the only thing that truly remains is the little message El wrote on one of my Post-its for me to find later.
Get back to work
I keep it tucked in one of my drawers so I can look at it and blush a few times a day. Like right now.
“Would you say this is in-town transportation?” Toby asks, drawing me back into our lesson. Today we’re learning expenses. We’re currently working on Marcus’s parking receipts for meetings and events. “Or out-of-town?”
I furrow my brows. “Was it in LA?”
“Yeah.”
“So what does that tell you?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
Hopeless. This ishopeless.
“In-town, buddy. We’re in LA.”
Toby happily nods and plugs the categories into the online form. It’s a Wednesday, which means most of the senioragents—Marcus included—head to the dive bar down the road for what Brad likes to call Humpy Hour. I gather it’s supposed to be a play on Hump Day and Happy Hour, but instead, he makes me wish I was never born.
I pass on it every week, to the point where they hardly bother inviting me anymore. I don’t see much appeal in a bunch of middle-aged men smoking and complaining. I imagine the conversations revolve around things like cars, football, or erectile dysfunction, which I don’t want to get into. This week, though, I have some undercover work to do.
Since Saturday, I’ve been trying to come up with ways to get answers out of Marcus, or find out what he’s got up his sleeve. We still have some time before his meet-up with Ian, but it doesn’t mean the investigation has to stall. If I can cross him off the suspect list, it could save us time.
“Quittin’ time!” Brad whoops as he stands up. He stretches and his back cracks four times. Then he cracks his knuckles. Then his neck. Once he’s dislocated all his joints, he rounds his desk and raps on the corner of mine. I just really hate Brad.
“Little Tobes, you coming with us tonight?” he bellows.
Toby, like most sane people, seems afraid of his brother-in-law. I imagine the kind of Thanksgiving dinners they must have, which leads me to remembering Brad is married. SomeonemarriedBrad. Like, possibly willingly. “I don’t know. I don’t want to ruin your fun.”
“Nah, we gotta show you the ropes, man. Everybody has to play me at darts at least once,” Brad continues. “I beat blondie so badly that he won’t come out with us again.”
While Brad is not exactly wrong, I don’t think about losing that single game of darts nearly as much as he does.
“Actually,Brad,” I say, rising from my chair and slipping my jacket on, “Iamjoining you tonight.”
As I make my bold assertion of the day, Marcus’s office door swings open. Ever since I saw the gift he sent Ian and the note in his calendar, I’ve feared the person who raised me for half my life isn’t who I think he is. It’s a churning in my gut, and I feel like I should follow the instinct, but doing that leaves me with nothing. It leaves me with no one.
Not like I’m writing home to tell everyone how loving and tender Marcus is, but at least there’ssomething.
“Marc, your boy’s coming with us tonight,” Brad informs him as the regular old guard closes up shop for the day.
I divert my eyes and rub the back of my neck.
“Really?” Marcus says. “Carter hasn’t come with us since—”
“I beat him at darts,” Brad interjects.
“I legitimately don’t think about darts nearly as much as you do, Brad,” I argue.
“I was going to say since he first started,” Marcus follows up.
“No need to get defensive, blondie,” Brad grunts.
