Because I’m starting to enjoy your company too much and I’m not sure how to react to it.
I stay quiet, flustered since I have no idea how to respond to this question. Harry, I think you have it all wrong. I had an entire conversation with myself about my fixation with your powerful legs, your rough hands and how I’d love for you to run them over my body.
“Is it something I did?” His voice is a little off, I would’ve never guessed in a million years that Harrison would be a little insecure. “You didn’t enjoy the shooting range?”
The shooting range was the weirdest, best date I’ve ever had. Wait, was it a date? I shouldn’t consider it a date. Maybe an activity with my new partner.
“Thank you for letting me use Clarisse,” I say, hiding the laugh.
Who names his guns Clarisse and Hannibal? Harrison Everhart.
“But did you like it? Was it okay?” He presses the subject. “I haven’t gone out on a day-date, and . . . maybe this was way off for you.”
So, it was a date. Interesting, and now my stomach has millions of butterflies fluttering inside.
“It was unexpected,” I confess. “Thoughtful. I enjoyed shooting and learning a little from you. I had no idea you’re a sniper.”
The man zeros in on a target and doesn’t fail. And those hands . . . ah, his calloused hands, positioning my body, so it was in just the right place before I took a shot was a religious experience since I kept praying I wouldn’t drop the gun and just push the man against the wall.
This fake dating isn’t as easy as I believed it’d be. I’m beginning to see the challenges ahead of me. How am I supposed to say no to him when all I want is for him to kiss me?
“This is our stop,” he says, releasing my waist, but grabbing my hand. “You have to have an idea of the places you’d like to visit. Like a wish list.”
“I thought you said that you hated to do the touristy thing.” I bring up the most absurd part of yesterday’s conversation.
“But you’re new in town, I want to show the sights,” he says, looking around when we come out of the station. “I have to confess . . .”
“It’s confession time,” I say excitedly, waiting for some torrid secret from his past. “What is it?”
“I don’t like crowds,” he whispers so close to me that his breath tickles my ear and makes me shiver.
His face is serious, and he continues walking without looking at me.
“I couldn’t tell.” I stay by his side, but every few steps I turn to him.
He’s mumbling something and bouncing his head. As I think about all the times we’ve been together, he’s done that just when we’re in the streets, walking. He glances around, his head bounces, and he mumbles.
“After I left the Rangers, it took me a few months to adjust to them.” He halts, opening the door of a small restaurant.
The music isn’t loud, and surprisingly it’s not some mariachi band, but just pop Latin music. Like the one my parents used to listen to, according to Mom’s ultimate playlists.
“You seem pretty well-adjusted,” I say when we sit at the table right next to the exit.
He exhales. “Now I can tolerate them. That doesn’t mean I’m a fan.”
“What is it that you do while you’re walking?”
“Count people, remember where the CCTV is located, check plates . . . Watch out for the enemy.” His head tips back at the ceiling briefly. “There are things from the war that stay with a soldier even after he’s left the battlefield.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Are we drinking a whole bottle of tequila?” He changes the subject.
I want to thank him for his service, for trusting me, for watching out for me while we’re in the crowd, because even when he didn’t say it, I know he wasn’t just looking out for himself. But he closed the conversation, and I have to respect him.
“You and Dad have a lot in common. He was a SEAL. He doesn’t like crowds either. Which is hard when our family is big and loud.”
Harrison turns his gaze to the emergency exit, drumming his fingers on the table. As he’s about to jump out of his seat and leave me—or at least that’s what he wants to do—the waitress approaches our table.
“Harrison,” she greets him. “Where is the family?”
“Hola, Clarita,” he greets her. “La familia me abandono,” he complains that the family abandoned him, “pero mejor, porque asi puedo disfrutar a esta mujer hermosa.”
I gawk as I hear him call me beautiful and that he prefers that they left him so he can enjoy me. He speaks Spanish with almost no accent. And suddenly, I want to bring him home to show him off to my family.
“This is your girlfriend?”
“Not yet, she’s playing hard to get.” He gives me that charming smirk that melts me and makes my entire body jitter. “I’m working on it, that’s why I brought her here.”
He winks at her as if they’re sharing some kind of secret. “Luna, meet Clarita.”
“Mucho gusto,” I answer, nodding at her.
“What would you like to drink?” She hands me over a menu.
“Water, please,” I say in Spanish.
“Bring a bottle of Don Julio, all your salsas, and guacamole, please,” Harrison requests.
“Your Spanish is impressive,” I praise him after Clarita leaves the table. “How did you learn?”
“Mom believed in immersion, so she dropped us in each country and didn’t pick us up until we knew the language.”
My eyes open wide, not understanding how that worked. What does he mean? And the idiot begins to laugh.
“Your face was priceless.” He can’t stop cackling. “It’s Fitz’s joke, but I use it sometimes. The reaction of most people is priceless.”
“Everyone in your house talks like you?”
“No, you know how some people are great at math, others at learning how to play instruments . . . well, I could learn how to speak a new language fast. That’s my party trick.”
“That’s cool.”
He nods. “And you, I assume your family speaks Spanish at home all the time.”
“Yeah, we have to speak both languages as if they are both our first languages. It’s a pain.”
I sigh, shaking my head. It’s almost two in the afternoon. On a regular Saturday, I’d be complaining about the noise, most likely holding a baby or talking to one of my cousins. Watching a soccer game, or perhaps, hiding from one of my aunts who brought a new guy for me to meet. I never thought I’d say this, but I miss them.
“You miss home.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. “You want to visit them?”
“Though I’d love to, my job doesn’t pay that much.” I am about to explain further when Clarita sets the chips and a bazillion salsas in front of us.
I’m glad she did because explaining further now feels silly. Why would he care about my life or my family? I doubt he wants to know that most of my salary goes to my family. We help each other, and since I don’t need that much, I just give it to Abue who knows where and how to distribute it. Suddenly, the difference between his world and mine somehow makes me feel uncomfortable.
“It’s my turn to pay for our food,” I offer, but my voice sounds off.
“As I was saying, I could drive us to Alexandria,” he suggests, ignoring my change of mood. “We can spend next weekend there.”
“Drive?”
“Yes, Hazel told me you spend time with them every Saturday.”
“Ah, Hazel. She has a Rolodex filled with useless facts from everyone she meets. What’s the catch?”
“She does?” His eyes widen. “I knew she was crazy, but that’s borderline insane.”
“Nah, it just sounded like it when she began to ask me too many questions at the same time.”
“She only does that with people she likes.” He pours two shots of tequila and pushes one of them close to me. “To new and long-lasting friendships.”
I sigh, getting lost in his blu
e eyes, repeating what he said. “To new and long-lasting friendships.”
Thirteen
Luna
I never thought I’d say that I miss Harrison Everhart. I only met him a couple of weeks ago, but last weekend we spent almost every minute together. Saturday, we drank a little too much tequila and ended up walking around the Museum of Natural History, making up stories for each exhibition until they kicked us out for being too disruptive. We weren’t, but Harrison couldn’t control his f-bombs in front of little children.
“When you have children, your wife is going to put a shock collar on you,” I told him.
He gave me a weird look and shook his head. “You’re going to be my predator mantis, aren’t you?”
“Praying mantis, it’s called praying mantis,” I corrected him, shaking my head. “Let’s get you a coffee. The tequila is still swimming in that head of yours.”
“It’s you, I’m drunk on you.”
Sunday, we went for a run in Central Park, ate hot dogs for lunch, and spent the rest of the day flying kites. It was different. I have the feeling that he’s as lost as I am about the dating world. I wonder when the last time he dated was. Maybe I’ll tell him the next time I see him. Which might be tonight, or in a month. I have no idea. He had a special job that only the “A team” could assist. I’m curious to know what makes the team so unique.
There is one benefit to being alone, though. I have plenty of time to work out the logistics of my current case and study Mom’s file. I believe someone tampered with the evidence. This week, I plan on going to the archives where they have the original paperwork. Hopefully, I can find out more about what happened to Mom. That’ll be another step closer to catching the killer. The noise of the elevator doors opening draws my attention back to the present.
“You’re here!” I jump when I hear Hazel’s voice.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask, stepping out of the elevator to find Hazel in the foyer waiting for it.
She glances at me, narrows her eyes and smiles. “Yes, you might want to change if you want to join us.”
I look at my yoga pants and tank top, comparing it with her solid-white T-shirt and jeans. There’s nothing special about it. Even her flat shoes are bland in comparison to what she usually wears—high heels, business attire, or fashionable dresses. Her hair is tied into a ponytail, and she only wears lip gloss.
Where is she going? I check the time, nine in the morning.
“Why would I want to join you?” And where have you been?
“Because we are doing our Sunday run.”
“I already ran,” I respond. “You might want to change for that though.”
“Errands, we run errands,” she clarifies. “I don’t know if you want to come with us. However, I hope you do.”
She opens the flap of the small purse she’s holding and pulls her phone out, tapping it a few times.
“We are going to St. Catherine’s soup line,” she explains further. “And we’re short four people.”
“As in volunteering?” I raise an eyebrow looking at her outfit one more time. “What’s the catch?”
She looks at the time. “That you’ll be working your butt off for the next five hours without stopping,” she responds. “And we have to leave in about five minutes . . .” She eyes me again. “Which means you’ll have to hurry up.”
“Four people bailed on you?” I frown.
“As you know, Harrison is on a ‘secret mission.’” She uses her index finger to draw quotation marks up in the air. “The other two Everhart boys and my sister are out of town.”
“Will there be press, something to cover the news?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure what you think about us, but we’re anti-media.” She pauses, scrunching her nose. “We don’t help to attract attention, but to help . . . unless you delivered those supply bags to the homeless just to get media time.”
I stare down at the floor, remembering last Sunday morning when Harrison helped me make them and deliver them. He mentioned something about St. Catherine’s too. My heart skips a few times as I realize how much I want to see him. Why do I miss him?
“I’d be happy to help you.”
I head to my room, searching for a pair of pants and a shirt. I put on a pair of flat shoes and adjust two of my bracelets on my ankle. Running a brush through my hair, I tie it into a bun, grab my small crossbody purse, and join Hazel in the foyer.
“Are we ready?” I ask when I find her whispering something to Scott, or were they kissing?
“Of course, we were just waiting for you.” They step away from each other. She lowers her gaze, dusting off her jeans.
“Luna,” Scott greets me. “It’s good to see you.”
“Hello, Scott. It’s good to see you too.”
Hazel lifts her chin, straightening her shoulders and turning to Scott. “Lead the way, sir.”
✰✰✰
The loneliness I felt during my morning run dissipated. I had a busy, fulfilling day. According to my horoscope, the entire week is going to be productive. I should have read the rest, but Hazel has trouble saying no. She insisted that we watch movies, she promised to cook, but Scott didn’t allow her. Scott explained to me that Hazel isn’t allowed to cook, only to bake. She’s terrible at the former.
“I can cook whenever you want me to,” I offered.
“No, you’re my guest,” she responded, glaring at Scott. “How am I supposed to get better at it if I don’t practice?”
“Take-out, we can cook, just stay away from the stove,” he insisted.
“I planned a three cheese, Mexican lasagna for tomorrow.”
“There’s no such thing as Mexican lasagna, Hazel.” His voice sounded a little frightened. “We can buy tacos for Mexican Monday.” Scott cut her off.
“I can cook Mexican food,” I intercede. “And I can teach you, Hazel. I promise you won’t mess it up.”
Today’s big lesson is never judge a person without knowing her. Which I always follow, except today. The polluted air in this city tampers with my judgment. Or is it rich people? I admit that I’m intolerant of rich people. Mostly, against Mom’s family and any others that seem to be like them. After Hazel and Scott rejected my application, I believed they were just like them. My entire perception of those two changed within a day.
When Hazel rejected my application, I hated her. The night we went to dinner with Harrison and Scott. I liked them, but I think I have a serious crush on both of them. In fact, it’s kind of sad to learn that they aren’t a couple. Scazel or Hazott would be a hit in my world. There’s so much more to them than what they give away. Hazel spends her Sundays serving at a soup kitchen, except when she’s out of town. She drags the Everhart boys and her sister if she’s available. Hazel and Scott have a non-profit company that helps people start their own business. She doesn’t just serve food. She asks every person that is in front of her how they are doing. Or if some family member is doing better. She knows them all by name.
I thought taking an SUV was over the top until I realized that they brought clothing, toys, and toiletries for the people who came to eat. Scott isn’t bad either. While serving, I heard a few people talking about the boys and those girls who visited often. But my heart stopped when Scott said, “She’s like Harrison.”
“Who?”
“Hazel,” he commented. “They come up a little dry, but underneath their cynical posture they are the most caring people I know.”
That’s exactly how I saw Harrison at the beginning, but he’s so much more. My heart stops when I piece out his words.
“Why aren’t they together?”
“They’re like twins. Two positives don’t attract.” He grinned at me. “But I think that you and Harrison could be a hit.”
“No, I shouldn’t mix work with . . .” I repeated the words I’ve been saying for the past few days. “Maybe you should be with her,” I fired back at him.
He sighed, looking at Hazel who
was playing with some of the children. “It’s a lot more complicated than anyone would think.”
I felt the same about Harrison. If he were as amazing as Scott, I wouldn’t hesitate to try something. Except, I can’t open myself to a serious relationship. It’s pointless.
As I’m about to turn off the light, my phone buzzes. I can’t help but smile when I read the text on my screen.
Harrison: Hey, I’ll be there soon. Have you missed me yet?
I missed human contact, does that count as missing you? Instead of responding that, I feign ignorance.
Luna: Who is this?
Harrison: Silly woman. I heard that you covered for me in the soup line today.
I laugh at his response, yet, I’m intrigued that he knows where I was today.
Luna: It was interesting. How do you know I was there?
Harrison: I usually contact Scott when I’m back on the grid.
Grid, hmm. I wonder who Tiago contacts when he’s in and out. There’s so little I know about my brother.
Harrison: Maybe we can go together next week.
Luna: I’d love to do it again. Today turned out to be much different than I imagined.
Harrison: Wait until I’m there, we’re going to have fun ;)
Harrison: I’ll miss you for another day, but I’ll see you soon.
Fourteen
Luna
Yoga is my outlet. It’s not a hobby, but a way of life. Even though I’ve practiced yoga since I was in college, teaching it is new to me. Doing it with a few hours of sleep and the distraction of Mr. Crystal-Blue Eyes was almost impossible during the first class of the day. I blame him, stupid Harrison Everhart. That Everhart boy isn’t going to see the light of a new day if he continues surprising me at work tomorrow. Today, he came holding a matcha green tea and wearing that dazzling smile that makes my heart stop . . . and then thunder so hard I’m afraid it’s going to break my ribs.
He has to stop being all wonderful, caring, and attentive. The mission comes first, and his flirting advances should be banned.
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