Page 9 of Love at First Sighting

El

I don’t want to feel bad for Special Agent Ken Doll—not after he spent the past night following me around—but based on the desperate, tired look in his eyes and the subtle shake of his hands, and the fact that his father was killed— what choice do I have?

“You…what?”

Carter clears his throat and steps closer to me.

Despite what I suspect was an all-nighter and a brief dance with a dumpster, the crisp scent of his skin and the cool bite of his mint gum are overwhelming.

The harsh circles under his eyes only sharpen his cheekbones, and the unkempt swoop of his blond hair looks criminally handsome.

And he’s rolled his sleeves to the center of his forearms, showing off leanly muscled arms with an aged silver watch strapped around one of his wrists.

“You heard me. I saw something like you did almost fifteen years ago, and two nights later, my dad and I were in a car accident that he didn’t survive. He was my only family and I need to know what happened.”

He takes in a few deep breaths and rakes a shaking hand through his hair.

It falls back into place, with slight curls forming at the nape of his neck in the heat.

I also notice a series of jagged scars running up his right arm.

They’re silvery-pink and sinewy, but parts of them don’t look like they’ve healed right.

I track them all the way up his body to the curved scar beside his eye.

I wonder if those scars are from the same fateful night.

Fifteen years. Agent Carter can’t be more than twenty-five. That is a hell of a lot of time to have no family. No matter the kind of relationship I have with my mom, I still have her.

“I’ve been looking for answers for more than half my life and this is the first actual hint I’ve ever had. I need to talk to you to understand what it is we both saw. I don’t doubt you were scared out of your mind. I would’ve been, too. I was .”

He speaks with a level of sincerity I swear I haven’t heard in my entire life.

“When I said I wanted to help you, I meant it,” Carter says. “I think we can help each other. I want answers about what happened to my dad and you want to understand what happened to you. And you want proof…don’t you?”

As I stare up at Special Agent Carter Brody, I’m starting to see the man behind the Man in Black, and he’s just as vulnerable as I am. Just as scared as I am.

“How are we supposed to figure that out?” I ask.

“I…” Carter scratches his head and runs his fingertip around the scar near his eye, like an involuntary habit. “Well, I actually don’t know yet. I know this is not regular PIS business. But I do need you to keep this quiet for a bit while we dig. Can you do that?”

“I think my sponsors would appreciate it.”

“Excellent.” He reaches into his pocket and slides out a sleek black business card. His name is embossed in silver with a number.

“This is official-looking,” I say.

“Thank you,” he says, and his smile says he’s shocked to hear it.

“You hand these out to women at bars or something?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I haven’t thought to try that.”

This close, I notice his blue eyes have flecks of brown in them around the edges.

A night of hunting me down has left him with a faint layer of stubble along his jaw, which tightens as I circle him.

I slide a finger underneath one of his suspenders—literal suspenders—and snap it like a bra strap. Carter frowns and rubs his chest.

“I wouldn’t,” I advise, slipping the card into my back pocket.

“Why not?”

“If you introduce yourself to a girl and tell her you’re a Man in Black, I don’t know how many would believe you.”

A smirk rises at his lips. “Do you?”

I shrug. “Not sure yet.”

“Call me tomorrow night if you’re free.” His voice sounds like a dangerous invitation.

“Why not tonight?”

He chokes out a sad and desperate laugh. “I need to go to sleep.”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes.

“I need you to take me back to the place where you saw the lights.”

I’m going to have to sneak out of my house. At age twenty-eight.

Tonight I’m supposed to be doing an Instagram Live with Bex as damage control and to show the world everything’s normal!

I’m fine! I didn’t almost get abducted by aliens!

However, I lied and told her I was down with food poisoning.

If this were a few months ago, she would have told me it was because I’m not vegan and I deserve it.

Now, though, Bex is an adamant hype woman for beans on toast and Yorkshire pudding, so she had little to say this time.

I’ve snuck out before, but it hasn’t been since high school. I pop my back window open. None of the windows at the Nest have screens, because they look bad on camera, safety be damned. There’s a palm tree within reach of my window and I jump to it.

“Oh my god,” Carter hisses. “What are you doing?”

Clinging to the tree, I search for him. He’s little more than a black hat perched on top of a shrub, with his voice coming from somewhere behind. “What are you doing?”

“I was coming to help you !”

“I’m doing just fine,” I grunt, trying to wiggle down the palm tree without a catastrophe.

I feel like a gecko, but I’m eternally grateful the sandals I wore to Stagecoach are doing the lord’s work.

Great grip, comfortable soles, stylish. They can also withstand beer being spilled on them super well.

“You’re in a tree.”

“And you’re in a bush.”

I notch my foot down a few more inches and my foothold whooshes out from under me.

I let out a panicked yelp before I hit the ground, but Carter’s firm grip catches me around my waist. Gravel digs into my knees and the palms of my hands, but I’m more captivated by the way the moon glints off Carter’s bright blue eyes and how smooth the fabric of his suit jacket is.

Our chests press together and his heart is thundering underneath my touch. His mouth hangs open in shock (and maybe pain from my landing on him), and the surprised huff of breath he lets out is minty and cool.

“Hi,” I say.

Tonight he’s back in his full getup. There’s no more rolled-up sleeves and disheveled demeanor. He’s more like the man I met two nights ago—a clean-cut shadow. He’s clearly slept and shaved, his blond hair slicked back into place and his hat resting on the ground near us.

I should know better.

I should know not to swoon over a man in a fedora.

“Hey,” he says back. His lips only hint at a smile, but before I can return it, he shoves himself up on his elbows and helps me to my feet. “We better get going.”

We sneak through the shrubbery before reaching his car, which is parked in front of the neighbor’s house.

Special Agent Carter Brody drives the world’s most embarrassing car.

It looks straight off the set of Angel City Noir mixed with the weird station wagon with angry conservative bumper stickers that’s always parked on our block.

Except his car lacks the stickers and is otherwise inconspicuous—if this were 1961.

“Really?” I ask, eyeing the brown leather bench seats as we slide in. The car smells like old leather and him—sandalwood, mint, and fresh-printed book pages. “This is your car?”

His eyes dip out from beneath the brim of his hat. He pops his gum. “Sorry, it’s not what you’re used to.”

It’s clear the car’s had some upgrades over the course of its life, like a modern radio, and the interior is remarkably well taken care of.

I wonder how he traverses a city like Los Angeles with a car like this.

I can’t imagine the sounds it made trying to weave up these narrow, steep Hollywood streets.

I shudder thinking about parallel parking it.

My legs squeak as I situate myself in the car, and it draws Carter’s attention to me.

His stare rakes up my bare legs, clad in a pink tennis skort to accommodate an alarmingly hot summer night.

His eyes find each curve of my body and he studies me as if I’m one of his case files.

My heart speeds up and his grip on the gearshift tightens.

It’s easy to picture him slipping back in time, with the faint smell of smoke in the air, a toothpick nipped between his teeth, and the crackle of the old radio.

Someone like him could have any girl he wanted, with his dreamy baby-blue eyes and crooked smiles. He fills out a button-down and slacks criminally well, and when the moonlight cuts sharp lines through the shadows on his face, even I feel weak in the knees.

“This is where I saw the lights,” I say, breaking the tension. I show him the pinned location on my phone. After a few inquisitive examinations, he nods.

“The middle of the mountains, and that is what you’re wearing?”

I eye my skort and crop top. “Of course.”

Technically, this is all athleisure. I did a whole tennis photo shoot in this.

His dismissal sends a ripple of frustration through me.

Sure, he believes me and wants to help me, but he’s still going to see me as the self-absorbed, vapid girl everyone online sees.

He’d join a long list of “normal” guys who wanted me to know they loved when girls were “authentic.” Turns out, they only liked their version of authentic.

They didn’t like the parts of me that wanted to stop for pictures when I saw opportunities.

They didn’t like the parts of me that wanted to wear makeup even on lazy days.

“I don’t know. It feels like you’re not supposed to sweat in those clothes. Maybe sneakers?”

“Excuse you, I wore these sandals to Stagecoach. They can withstand anything. I just conquered a tree.”

“Right,” he says, snapping his gum with a smile, and puts the car in drive. “I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shots.”

“You’re one to talk. Why do you dress like that? Aren’t you afraid you’re going to crinkle your slacks?”

“It’s a uniform.” His brow furrows. There’s a small frayed spot along the brim of his hat and shoddy stitching holding it together.

“It can’t be.”

“Uh, it is.”