Or maybe that’s just me.
There’s a small oil candle in the middle of the table, and I stare at him as subtly as I can while he reads the cocktail menu. His hands are a love sonnet to masculinity. His neck is pure filth. And even though the person in front of me is a full-grown man now, the contours of his face are so familiar, it’s almost like I saw him yesterday and not fourteen years ago. I spent so much of my childhood at his house that I understood about half of what his mother would say to her children in Korean. I wonder what Sunny is like now, whether she ended up loving London like I promised she would. Whether my shy best friend had someone she trusted to talk to about her first kiss, her first heartbreak, her worries and victories.
Alec clears his throat as he checks his phone, and my attention refocuses on the sight of him in front of me. He’s a treat I want to savor. I want to take long pulls of the view of him, hold it in my mouth, slowly swallow him down. I can see his parents in his face: his mother’s dimples and cheekbones; his father’s height and long neck. And then I remember I’m supposed to be looking for lodging, not studying the bulge of his Adam’s apple or the thoughtful fullness of his mouth. I pull out my phone, but as soon as I get my travel app open, he reaches across the table and gently lowers my hand.
“Hey,” he says. “You’ve seen the suite. It’s huge. Let this go. We’re talking about a few hours of sleep in separate rooms.”
I reach up, rubbing my face. “It’s not weird?”
“You’re the one making a big deal out of it.” He blinks over my shoulder, surveying the room behind me. There are a handful of people at the bar, a few people at tables, but no one immediately next to us in this tiny, dark corner. Alec settles back into the sofa.
“Okay,” I say, “but I insist on splitting the cost with you.”
He gives me a delightful shot of both dimples. “And of course I will refuse. Besides, you’re a journalist. Isn’t this how a great story begins?”
“What kind of stories do you think I write?” I ask, grinning at him. “Stuck-in-a-strange-city, there’s-only-one-room-left-at-the-inn? I don’t write for Penthouse.”
He stares at me, expression straightening in surprise, and my words slowly reach my own ears.
“Oh my God.” I press my hands to my face. “I can’t believe I said that.”
Across from me, he bursts out laughing. “I mean, you wouldn’t tell me what you were writing, but I did not mean to imply that.”
“I know you didn’t,” I say through horrified laughter. “Now I really can’t sleep upstairs.”
He drags a hand down his face, pulling himself together. “No, come on, let’s start over.”
“Let’s.”
We stare at each other, eyes shining. Finally, we both break again, and oh my God, what is happening? My brain is too fried to successfully drag us out of this.
Thankfully, the waitress comes for our orders—Zinfandel for me, whiskey neat for him—and when she leaves, he leans back and stretches his arms out across the back of the couch. “That was fortunate timing.”
“We needed the reset,” I agree.
“Tell me more about your job,” he says. “Am I right that you and Sunny used to pretend to be detectives?”
I laugh. “How on earth do you remember that?”
“You two were always hunting around the neighborhood with notepads, looking for clues for mysteries.” He gazes at me with amusement. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you ended up working for the LA Times. But that’s a big deal.”
“Thank you.” Pride warms my chest.
“How did you end up there?”
“I only started about a year ago,” I say, “but I really love it so far. I went to USC for journalism and then hustled my ass off just trying to get any story anywhere I could. I did some crime reporting for OC Weekly for a while. Freelanced for every website that would take me. But when I wrote a pet project about a man in Simi Valley painting monthly portraits of his wife as she succumbed to Parkinson’s disease, and it got picked up by the New Yorker, I got a job offer from the Times.”
“The New Yorker?” He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. “How old are you?”
“I’m the same age as Sunny.”
Alec gives an amused flicker of an eyebrow. “That’s an impressive résumé for a twenty-seven-year-old.”
“I am,” I admit with a small smile, “occasionally a bit intense about work.”
A dimple makes only a brief appearance. “I’m getting that.”
“What kind of business are you in?” I ask, changing the subject. I’ve gone from feeling proud to feeling like I’m bragging.