Page 18 of My Super Sexy Spy
“No. I’m a blogger. That’s why all the pictures, by the way. I’m not like one of those people who has to be snapping a picture of myself every second, but my editor wants me to beef up my Instagram account.”
“A blogger. Wow. One that actually gets paid money?”
I could feel my lips twitch. “Pull out your phone and give it to me.”
He handed his phone to me. I pulled up my blog and he stood closer to me so we could both see the screen. I glanced up at him only to realize he was taller than I’d expected him to be. Last night when we’d been at the bar, I’d been sitting so I hadn’t really accounted for how much taller than me he was.
I tried to shake off the feeling of being petite. Delicate even.
“That’s my blog. See all those ads running down the side? That’s what pays the bills.”
“Holy shit. I’ve read this blog! You’re famous.”
“Not exactly. It’s just a blog. But this editor from a New York publishing house wants me to turn it into a book. So they wanted lots of pictures…with me in them.”
“That’s why you’re here? Really?” he asked as if that was a surprise to him.
“Yep.”
His phone beeped with a text.
I see you...
No name, just a number. “Sorry,” I said, handing him his phone back. Did I mention that I saw the message? Did I mention that it was creepy? He took the phone and shoved it in his pocket without even looking at the message.
It had to be some prank thing or spam.
We left the church and stepped out into the bright sun.
“Where to next?” I asked him.
“I think we just wander around and get lost. There is a cool bridge I’d liked to check out.” He pulled the map out and I started to laugh as he turned it twenty different ways trying to get a sense of where we were and where we needed to go.
“This way,” he said eventually pointing to the left. “I think.”
We started strolling along again. After a big breakfast he probably wasn’t hungry yet, but I was getting ready to eat something. Pretty much everything anyone was eating looked amazing and was dripping with cheese.
“So why Italy? Or is this just your first stop?” Ted asked me.
“It is. The plan is to spend the next few weeks seeing as much as I can. Enough to fill a book I imagine. Why Italy first? That’s sort of a lame reason,” I said with a half laugh. “My father is Italian. Or at least that’s what my mom always told me. I never met him. But I figured I must be part Italian, so why not see Italy? But I’m saving Paris for last.”
“You never met your father?”
I shook my head, thinking back to Agent Davies. How crazy was it that I’d booked this trip with him in mind, then some random FBI dude showed up asking if I’d been in contact with my father? That was about as far from my reality as I could imagine.
“Nope. He was a professor or something like that. Older. My mom was smoking hot before… Anyway, he used to come into the diner where she worked. They hooked up, and nine months later I was born. I’m not even sure if she ever told him I existed.”
“I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “His loss.”
“And he hasn’t ever tried to contact you?”
“That’s so weird,” I exclaimed. “You’re the second person to ask me that in a month. My dad was a ghost before I was born. I don’t even know what he looks like. So no, he hasn’t ever tried to contact me. Why would he?”
“Yeah, well, you’re right then. His loss. What about your mom? Are you and her close?” Ted asked.
“Yep. We’re really tight,” I lied. Because the truth was the sad-sack version of my life and I didn’t want to talk about that here, today, and ruin the mood which, without even realizing it, had been surprisingly fun.
