Page 19 of My Super Sexy Spy
Another couple walked by us eating pizza that looked like it was topped with tomato slices and fresh spinach and my stomach rumbled.
“Okay, that’s it,” Ted announced. “I can’t go one more minute without a pizza slice or I’ll die.”
I laughed because I felt the same way.
“But you had a monster breakfast,” I reminded him.
“Fun fact about me. I’m one of those people who can eat anywhere and at any time. Especially if something looks good. And everything looks good!”
We found a small café with seating outside. He ordered for both of us at the counter. I went with a simple slice of tomato and cheese, he brought back two more slices for himself covered with things I couldn’t even identify.
“What is all that?” I asked, but still snapped a few pictures on my phone as I did.
He folded it up and took a bite, the cheese dripping down onto the paper plate. He lifted his head and closed his eyes like he was savoring the bite.
“I don’t know, but I don’t care. Fuck, that’s good,” he said as soon as he swallowed. Then he dove back in, and for a time, we just sat, people watched and indulged in the best pizza I’d ever had in my life.
“What do you do? For work?” I asked him casually.
“I’m a spy.”
I gave him my get-real look.
“International man of mystery?”
“Try again,” I said and took another bite. Along with the pizza, he’d gotten us some fresh squeezed lemonade. It was both tart and sweet and so amazingly good. I took small sips so I could make it last.
“I’ll buy you another lemonade, you know. If you just want to slurp that down in one, long gulp.”
I looked at the cup in my hand and thought that I did want to do that. I wanted to suck on the straw until it made that gasping air sound when I’d drained it empty. But another thing I’d learned was never to rush through the good things. When they came as infrequently as they had in my life, I knew to savor each second.
“I’m good,” I said and took another shallow sip. “So really, what do you do?”
“I think I might be offended you don’t believe I could pull off a career as a spy.”
“You’re wearing a Red Sox baseball hat and cargo shorts. Trust me when I say you can’t pull offspy.”
“Ah, but your douchebag hot guy from last night? What about him?”
I smiled thinking about his blond hair pulled back into a man bun. The slacks and white pressed shirt he’d worn with cufflinks. I mean, who still wore cufflinks?
“Yes,” I said with conviction. “He could totally pull it off. Sorry, no offense.”
He smiled good naturedly. “None taken.”
“Hey, come to think about it, last night you had on a Dodgers cap. Isn’t that sort of a sport’s crime to support multiple teams?”
“That’s very observant of you,” he noted. “What if I told you I was a baseball sportswriter?”
I took in the nerdy glasses, the baseball cap that seemed fitted to his head. He probably had a hat for every team in the league.
I nodded. “That sounds about your speed.”
He smiled. “Come on. You can baby sip on your lemonade while we walk.”
* * *
The day continued to unfold in the most amazing sights. We passed mimes, we passed stone walls with crying faces. We passed a juggler. Art exhibits. Gelato stands; we both got chocolate.
