Page 21 of Love at First Sighting
Carter
It’s so… beige .
Everything in the Nest is.
The walls are varying tones of off-white, probably in hyperspecific shades like Royal Eggshell or Colgate Optic White.
El’s room is also very beige.
It’s more like a staging ground for a photo shoot than a home. A bed here, a throw pillow there, plenty of blank wall space for backdrops. El’s room is used, but not lived in.
That, at least, we have in common.
“I’ve only been here for a couple months,” she explains.
I take a seat on her bed, which is ungodly fluffy and soft.
The room smells like her cucumber shampoo, with bites of sharp perfume, the heat from her curling iron, and heat-damaged hair.
“And don’t know how long I plan to stay, so I don’t want to get too comfortable. ”
“Why would you leave? You’ve got a sick view.” I rise and look out her wide window at the city. The sun is going down—one of the best times of day in LA, when the sky turns vibrant with oranges and pinks—and it sure beats the view of a parking garage I have from my place.
El leans on one of her bedposts behind me. “Because my roommates are…”
“Horrible?” I turn around. El’s still in a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra, focusing on her makeup and hair before she slides into her dress (which I have not seen, but my cardiovascular system is worried).
El gives a tight-lipped smile. “That’s one way to put it!”
“Are they going to eat me alive?”
She presses her palms to the planes of my chest. Uh-oh. “They might try, but I think you can handle yourself.”
It’ll be my first time at Houdini House, which I’m not sure I could afford on my own, but at least I didn’t have to buy a new outfit.
The swanky, knockoff Haunted Mansion has a strict dress code: evening wear.
As someone who wears a full suit, suspenders, and trilby hat on a daily basis, I am better equipped than anybody.
I just had to swap out my usual Converse for a pair of dress shoes.
Regardless, there’s something so intimate about being in El’s room, with her touching me like this.
There’s a look of flirtation in her eyes and it reminds me of the longing gaze she gave me at the beach a few days ago.
I haven’t seen her since then, but we keep in contact with texts throughout the week. Not all of it is business-related.
I send her good memes I find while perusing the web at work.
She takes pictures of random men in suits and sends me messages like god, you guys are everywhere .
The other day, she sent me a photo of a golden retriever in sunglasses and said it reminded her of me.
I think being called a golden retriever is a compliment.
If my life were one of Leonard’s animes, I’d have a permanent set of those little blushing cheek spots lately.
My eyes track down her arms to where she’s touching me.
It’s hard to not imagine holding on to her wrists, pulling her onto her fluffy bed with me.
How am I supposed to not picture her leaning her head back into her pillows, suggesting she hold on to the headboard as I spend a generous amount of time between her legs?
It feels like sooner or later we’re going to explode and we won’t be able to look back.
“I’ve gotta finish my hair,” she says, dragging her fingers over my shoulder and heading back into the bathroom.
El pulls the door shut behind her and I return to sitting on the edge of her bed.
Sad and horny. Admittedly, I feel a little awkward as she hums under her breath inside the bathroom and I’m not there to respectfully swoon.
After a few minutes, she pokes her head out of the bathroom.
“Um…Can I borrow you?” she asks.
Her curls fall to the side and I catch a sliver of red sparkle on the other side of the door. I don’t know what she’s wearing yet, but I feel fairly confident it’ll kill me on the spot. I suppose it’s a good way to go.
As I reach the bathroom door, she pushes it the rest of the way open, allowing me to step inside with her. El’s bathroom is a little smaller than my own bedroom, with an elegant Jacuzzi in the back corner and a glass shower filled with high-end beauty products.
These are still dangerously close quarters to be in with the woman I want to touch so badly it physically hurts.
El’s holding her dress closed in the back, revealing a canvas of exposed tan skin on her back and a slight hint of the black lace trim on her underwear. The dress is floor length, covered in red sequins, with a slit up her leg that’s giving me heart palpitations.
“Could you zip me up?”
Our eyes meet in the mirror. Her lips are a supple, red-glossed pout and I wonder if she’s asking the same questions I am. What would be the worst that could happen if we acted on this? After our close encounter on the beach, I doubt it’s a stretch to say she’s as attracted to me as I am to her.
She knows what lives in my darkest days and so far she hasn’t run. But that doesn’t mean she has to love it. It doesn’t mean she can love me.
“Sure,” I mutter, finding the tiny zipper at the base of her spine and beginning to work it up her body.
The bodice tightens around her midsection, forming to her curves.
My thumb brushes the center of her back and she shudders, biting back a sigh.
The zipper reaches the top, shaping the dress into an off-the-shoulder number.
It hugs her in all the right places. I yank my eyes away before I get lost in the sharp lines of her collarbones and trace them down to her cleavage. This dress is doing the lord’s work.
By the lord’s work, I mean testing my ability to resist committing sins .
“There,” I say. “You look beautiful.”
The last part slips out, but it’s true. El knows it, too. Her cheeks flush red, like these words feel special coming from me.
“Thank you.” Finally, she brings her thumb to her lips and bites down on her nail. “Bex, uh…Bex told me we were all supposed to wear neutrals or pastels, but I really wanted to wear this.”
Red. Daring. It commands the attention El deserves, to stand out rather than blend in with the crowd.
“I think you made a great choice, Agent Ariel.” I offer her a reassuring smile, which she returns.
“I’d say you look particularly nice, too, but…”
“It’s the same thing I wear every day?”
“You’re doing an awful job proving to me you have other clothes,” she says as she turns around. She settles at my tie and straightens it down the center of my chest. “Let’s go over the plan.”
“We’re going to mingle and act normal until we find a way to chat with Ian Forte. You’ll handle that part.”
“And you be my eyes.”
I nod. “Deal.”
It’s not the most ironclad plan in the world, but we don’t know our battlefield yet. El’s eyes flicker up to mine.
“You look nervous.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. I’m a freshly shaken cocktail of inadequacy and simmering lust. “Is this going to be an issue? Us going to this thing together?”
El swallows. “I can’t say Bex and the others are going to be thrilled about it, but…”
“But what?”
“Remember what I said. I want you there. I want you there with me .”
I don’t have time to ask if this is a date before someone bellows “YOU LOOK SO BANGIN” from downstairs. I swear to god, the windows might rattle.
“Who is that?” I ask.
El lets out a heavy sigh. “Let’s take you to meet the crew.”
El spritzes herself one last time with perfume, unplugs her curling iron, and steps into her room.
We collect our things and she slides herself into a pair of strappy black heels.
As we step out of her room, I tense up. I shouldn’t be afraid of these people, but if clout does more to keep these people running than coffee, I’m on empty.
The first person I notice is a man who has got to be at least six-six and is so built he could be mistaken for Optimus Prime.
He looks like every greased-up guy they send to the beach to find love on a reality show, and there’s not a shirt in the world that could contain his biceps.
I can also see too much of his nipples, so I divert my eyes.
Fondling one of the buttons on his shirt is a short, rail-thin girl with chunky blond highlights, wearing what I can only describe as an evening gown straight out of a Regency period piece. The third girl is blond and thin as well, wearing a dress that looks like a monotone art deco piece.
“Oh, what are you wearing ?” Bossy Spice begins, in the most obviously fake British accent I’ve ever heard. “I thought we agreed to a scheme.”
“You suggested it,” El says. “I didn’t like the suggestion.”
Bex—I presume—bites her lip and pink lipstick smudges on her front tooth. “Whatever. So, you’re Eloise’s—”
“Ariel,” El corrects.
“—El’s chap for the evening,” she finishes.
“Guys,” El says, gesturing to me, “this is Carter. My…he’s my date for this evening.”
Why’d she hesitate? Did she hesitate because she’s embarrassed? Or does she think I’d be embarrassed? Jesus, what are we? I really should have asked how we were playing this , too, but truthfully, I was too nervous.
“CARTER,” the big man bellows. “Name’s Jet. Nice to meet you.”
He holds out a hand that could dwarf my entire face and I take it. I offer him my better arm, because I don’t know what kind of steel grip this man’s got.
“And he’s with Bex,” El continues, nodding to the “British” girl. “And that’s Lea.”
I can’t figure out what Lea’s issue is yet, but she’s scrolling frantically on her phone.
“Nice to meet you all,” I say.
“Why are you wearing a fedora, Caleb?” Bex asks.
El sighs, and at the same time we say, “It’s a trilby hat.”
Bex clearly does not care, not until El clears her throat. “It’s from Britain, actually.”
“Oh! Lovely,” she coos. “Honored you’re a fan of my homeland. You know, I looked before you got here, and El isn’t following you, so I don’t know who you are.”
I don’t know how to tell a group of people who live completely online that the extent of my Instagram presence is being a lurker account that looks like a bot.
The newest name is Travis McGruber, which is not my personal favorite, but it’s what the name generator gave me.
I do follow El, but Bex isn’t going to put two and two together here.
“I—” I begin, before I’m interrupted.
“He’s pretty offline,” El butts in.
“How peculiar,” Bex mutters to herself.
“I’LL CALL THE UBER,” Jet screams.
There’s no arguing with a man named Jet. Not as he hails the Uber to fit us all, not as we climb in and he asks me if I want to know his dietary routine. As I’m someone whose diet is mostly fast food and faux-gourmet meals from Trader Joe’s, I don’t know if he really wants my opinion.
“It’s corn. I eat six ears of corn every day,” he tells the group as we load in. The Uber driver turns around and eyes us warily. This is not how you start a positive Uber ride.
Jet immediately takes the passenger seat, leaving Lea, Bex, El, and me to take the back seat.
While Bex, Lea, and El are all small, fitting four people in a row isn’t feasible or road safe.
El bites down on her lip and eases herself onto my lap to make space.
She laces an arm around my shoulders and holds on to my jacket as her legs cross over mine.
She is overwhelming and her lips are so close to mine as we readjust to find a comfortable position. There is no comfortable position when El’s breath is on my neck, her sharp perfume intoxicating me, and her body curving in sync with mine. This is going to be an impossibly long ride.
When we get to the bottom of the hill, Jet informs all of us he has an audition for an HBO pilot this week.
“I really think my willingness to go full frontal is doing me favors,” he says. He’s lowered his voice to an indoor shout, and the Uber driver has cranked the music higher. He must know I’m fighting the urge to get turned on while El sits across my legs, because he’s playing egregious opera.
Thankfully, it’s a short ride to Houdini House and we’re able to unload.
Jet claps the Uber driver on the back and thanks him for the ride, but I think the best thing Jet can do to thank him is get the hell out of his car.
I lend El my hand as we disembark, but when she’s on her feet again, she doesn’t pull her hand away.
Instead, she slides her fingers between mine and looks up with a smile meant only for me.
“El! Cameron!” Bex interrupts our nice moment with a Cockney war cry and waves us up the steps to Houdini House. “Are we going to go inside or are we going to eye-shag all night?”