Page 8 of Love at First Sighting

Somehow, this is going even worse than my first mission, and I didn’t think that was possible.

I understand late-night stakeouts are part of the job, and at twenty-four, I can still stay up decently late without any repercussions, but there is something about driving in Los Angeles that sucks the life from you.

My head lolls onto the steering wheel, and looking at sunlight burns my eyes.

Then I hit the horn and it not only alarms me but makes a small child crossing the street cry.

My passenger seat is a sad wasteland of chip bags, protein shakes, energy drink cans, and a reusable PIS-branded drink tumbler.

I want to go home.

I want to take a shower.

I want to nap forever.

But El is still out there and I still don’t have answers.

Shit, I don’t even have anything compelling to fake on my job report.

I have to keep trying. I also fear sulking back into the office with nothing to show for myself.

I’ll be the guy who couldn’t convince a nerdy podcast host or a hot girl to listen to him.

I know it’s only been a day, but part of me hoped I’d nail this right away and Marcus would see I’m not useless.

There’s nothing new on El’s social media this afternoon, so the trail goes cold in sunny San Diego. There’s no way she’s there. There’s no way she’s been to any of these places. The more I think about it, the more I realize I should have figured it out sooner.

She’s not posting at optimal engagement hours.

Typically, middle-of-the-night posts don’t get the same kind of response, especially on the West Coast. It’s unlike El, based on my research.

The inconsistency must stick out to someone else.

Surely someone in her influencer commune is seeing this and calling her bluff, too.

I slither out of the car, slip my sunglasses over my eyes to hide the bags beneath them, and stroll into That Grinds My Beans like it’s an oasis in the desert.

I wait in line and order a cold brew with four shots of espresso, at which point the barista asks if I’m okay.

I do not answer and silently wait for my coffee.

I’m less okay after she charges me thirteen bucks for my drink.

Death feels imminent in this overpriced coffee shop that’s playing soft lo-fi beats and advertising their new hemp milk lattes.

I just want my horrible cold brew and to go home.

I finally receive my drink and turn around.

I think I’m hallucinating.

El is third in line, checking her phone, wearing a pair of distressed jeans and an old graphic T-shirt.

Her lazy outfit looks like others’ Sunday best. I’ve spent my whole life in LA and I know the kind of people it attracts.

I’ve known people like El, but they don’t have the same magnetic energy she does.

There is something real beneath every fake thing she does.

It slips through no matter how hard she tries.

I suddenly feel like an awkward teenager at prom, wanting to ask a beautiful girl to dance. Words dry up in my mouth and I know whatever comes out is going to be stupid.

I swallow my fear and step toward her, brainstorming the least horrible thing to say to her.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Oh fuck, it was not that.

Her dreamy brown gaze snaps up to me. There’s a moment of confusion before annoyance sets in.

“ Jesus , not you!”

The rest of the coffee shop looks at us like this is an exes-gone-wrong situation. Pretending is far easier than explaining what is actually happening between us.

Don’t worry, folks, I am just stalking her!

“I need to talk to you.”

El darts from the coffee shop. I sigh and follow close behind. She walks fast, and under normal circumstances, I would be able to catch her, but my movements are sluggish. I nearly trip on my own shoelace as I chase after her—discreetly, of course—and drops of cold brew slosh onto my hand.

“Leave me alone!” she shouts.

Fuck, this is not good. We catch looks from people we pass on the street, but this is LA and no one can be bothered to help if it holds them up on their way to yoga.

“El!” I say after her. “Please. I need five minutes to talk to you. Then I’m gone.”

“No!”

I dodge through tourists and people walking their tiny dogs in T-shirts and try to bridge the distance before she swings around a corner and I risk losing her.

She peers back and picks up her speed when she notices I’m still following her.

She sees me, but she does not see the giant man rounding the corner and barreling right into her.

With a shocked yelp, El stumbles back, but I’m there to catch her. I plant my hand on her waist as she reaches for something for balance. I catch a smooth brush of skin along the side of her hip, below her crop top, and as she turns around, we’re chest to chest.

And I miraculously haven’t spilled my coffee.

I do not think about her breasts pressing against my shirt as she gasps or how her fingers wrap around mine on her waist for security.

I do not think about the sweet cherry scent of her lip balm and how good it would taste.

I am not a stupid lovesick puppy. I am a serious government agent with a mission, and I do not have time to lust.

I step away and secure her upright on the sidewalk before there’s any chance for her hips to press into mine and we’re all in a terrible situation.

“Hi,” I say.

“Thanks,” she concedes.

We break away completely, but this time, she doesn’t run.

“You okay?”

“Obviously not!” she shouts. Tears spring to her eyes. “I got attacked by some—I don’t know, some thing . Everyone is telling me I’m crazy and that I’m doing this for attention. Now I’m being followed by the literal Men in Black—”

Within the world lexicon, the Men in Black are a mysterious entity with elusive lore and a blockbuster movie franchise, but no one thinks we’re real.

It’s why we don’t use the term, really. We’re better suited as an ominous specter full of mystery.

If El posted that on social media, she’d be met with the same disbelief.

I mean, look what happened to Dan Aykroyd.

“Whoa, whoa, take your voice down. I can’t have you blowing my cover,” I whisper.

“Blowing your cover?” she laughs. “You are dressed like some dude from Angel City Noir .”

To be fair, blending in has gotten far easier since the show premiered.

“I’ve heard that before.” I cross my arms. “Get more creative, Ariel.”

“Don’t call me Ariel, Special Agent Carter Brody.”

I flinch at my full title. I don’t feel special. I feel like I’ve been led on a wild goose chase and like my failed assignments and evaluations weren’t flukes.

“You get your badge back?”

I frown. “Yes, actually.”

“Good.”

“You owe me a chat.”

She shuffles in place, looking somewhat like a petulant child. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Not even if I could help you?” I say.

“Nobody wants to help me.” I see the same fear in her eyes that was there in the first few seconds of the video.

Whatever she saw, she thought she was in real danger.

Whatever she saw may haunt her every night.

It might be like what I live with—any semblance of flashing lights can send me into a panic spiral.

It can make me feel like I’m ten years old again, waking up in a hospital bed with plenty of machines and needles hooked up to me, but no dad.

“Everyone wants to hear what I have to say so they can spin it into some hit piece. My sponsors want to know when I’m done going through this ‘complicated time’ so they can get my content.

My roommate—fuck, my fucking roommate is going to throw me out, but is waiting until I’m ‘mentally stable’ enough for it.

What makes you any different, Special Agent Carter Brody? ”

This is the time to turn off the agent act and be myself. I’m going to get further as a regular man than a Man in Black. El eyes the cracks in my armor—all the places my facade has slipped. There’s no black jacket, no hat, only rolled-up sleeves and a pair of dirty Converse.

What I need is to show El that she is the closest connection I’ve had to the worst night of my life in fifteen years, and my only shot at answers might lie in the video she took.

“I believe you,” I say. “I believe you because I saw the same exact thing just before my dad was killed.”