“That figures.” I tilt my head back so I can look directly into his eyes. We’re standing in the shade of the enormous tree, so I don’t have to squint, and neither does he, allowing us a long moment to just…drink each other in.
“Maybe we need another rematch,” he says, taking a step toward me. “On the soccer field instead of foosball.”
He’s standing so close that my brain short-circuits as I struggle for a clever comeback. What would Qa’hr say? I swallow as I continue staring into his eyes, then my gaze drifts down to his mouth, which is a bad idea, because if I think about kissing him, I’ll never come up with a witty response. My focus shifts back to his eyes, which spark with a new intensity, and he mirrors me, his gaze darting to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
“I…uh…wouldn’t want to show you up,” I stammer. I don’t think I’m imagining the energy crackling between us, especially when he steps even closer, leaving just inches between us.
“I think I can handle whatever you throw down, Special K.” His voice is low and threaded with a husky undertone that makes my legs wobble. He reaches out to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear and I shiver as his fingers brush my skin.
“I’m about to make a bad decision, Laurel. Or maybe a good one.” His Hershey’s Special Dark eyes are riveted on mine. “I’m about to break a rule.”
“Rule number eight?” My heart stutters like an engine that can’t decide whether to start or stall.
He grasps my waist, pulling me in close. His hands feel like fire, burning through my thin cotton shirt. “I’m not a fan of arbitrary rules,” he says, his voice even lower, “and we’re not on the clock.”
My body arches toward him like a sunflower reaching for the sun, but I have to ask a question. “B-but don’t you have a girlfriend?”
His eyebrows dip in a V over his nose. “No. Do you really think I’d…oh…my little sisters.” He rolls his eyes skyward. “They watch too many princess movies and think I’m, uh, dating every girl they meet.”
“What about Ashley?” I don’t want to ask, but I have to. As much as I want this kiss, if he’s a player, I’m out of here.
“What?” He blinks, a quizzical expression transforming his expression.
“I, uh, thought…” I shrug helplessly, afraid I just killed our moment.
Smiling down at me, he shakes his head. “Nope. There’s only one girl at Emergent who distracts me.” His gaze locks on mine. “I’m not seeing anyone. Not interested in Ashley. But I’m keeping my options open. One option in particular.”
Holy wow. With courage I didn’t know I had, I place a hand on his chest, feeling him suck in a breath. “Are you sure you want to kiss the boss’s daughter? I hear that’s a firing offense.”
Oh crap, why’d I say that? Now all I can think of is rule number eight and him being disqualified and—
“I’m willing to risk it.” His voice is rough as he pulls me even closer. “I’ve wanted to kiss the boss’s daughter since the first day I met her.”
The heat we’re generating swirls all the way to my toes. If he weren’t holding me, I might collapse from shock. And happiness. And kissing him here doesn’t count as a rule violation, does it? We’re not at work. No one from Emergent will see us.
My body buzzes and crackles like an electrical current. His heart beats through the fabric of his shirt against the palm of my hand. My other hand tentatively makes its way up to his hair, my fingers hesitant at first, then plunging in fearlessly. The strands are silky smooth and messy and…perfect.
“You’re going to be a lot more trouble than I thought you’d be, Special K.” Carlos’s voice drops a whole octave.
“I’m not troub—” But I don’t get to argue because his lips are finally, finally on mine.
And it’s fantastic.
Our bodies meld together—curves and muscle, heat and desperation—like this is our only chance to steal a kiss and we both want to make it count. Carlos kisses with the same confident intensity he uses at work, taking charge like a kickass Rebel pilot. His hands move from my waist, sliding up my back, to my neck, cupping my face briefly, and then his fingers are in my hair, tugging gently at first, then with more urgency. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I do my best to match his urgent pace.
“Hey, Carlos! That’s my soccer ball.”
Startled, I start to pull away, but Carlos keeps a hand locked on my waist as he turns and kicks the ball out of the tree’s shadow. A young boy stops it with his foot and waves at us.
“Kids,” Carlos mutters. “Why are they everywhere?”
I should crack a joke, or if I was brave, pull him into another kiss, but now I’m in shock.
Carlos kissed me.
Expertly. Thoroughly. Who knows how long we would have kept it up if it weren’t for that kid? My legs are jelly and my pulse pounds in my ear like an erratic drumbeat.
“Y-you probably should go back to work.”
Carlos cocks an eyebrow. “You’re kicking me to the curb already? Guess I need to work on my technique.”
“I…that’s not…you don’t…your technique is, uh, fine…better than fine…” Babbling is my new superpower, which is a shame, because I’d much prefer invisibility at this moment.
“I do need to get back to work. Rose is gonna kill me.” He grins down at me. “Totally worth it, though.”
All I can do is nod.
“You still want pictures of the church?”
I nod again, like an idiot.
“Come on.” He takes my hand in his and we cut diagonally across the park until we’re standing in front of a beautiful old church made of red sandstone.
“Wish I could stay, but I’ve gotta get back.” He squeezes my hand.
“I understand. I’ll, um, see you later.”
He gives me one last high-voltage grin, then releases my hand and jogs across the park. He sneaks up on the kid who interrupted our kissing session and kicks the ball out from under him, making me laugh.
Lexi’s at the church already, and she pumps me for details as I take photos. It almost feels sacrilegious talking about kissing while I take photos of a church, but I tell her everything.
“Wow,” she breathes. “He must have amazing skills.”
“Not that I have a lot of experience, but yeah…amazing.”
When we return to my car, a paper flutters under the windshield wiper. Slanted cursive scrawls across a page torn from a restaurant order pad.
“Special K—thanks for stopping by with your friend. Hope you got great photos of St. Pete’s. Call me if you want a rematch. Maybe with fireworks? - C.” Followed by ten digits.
I read the note several times. Is he referring to Fourth of July fireworks or kissing fireworks? My finger traces the C like I’m a pining heroine in an old novel who just received a love letter.
Lexi reaches out and takes the paper, scanning it quickly. She huffs out a small laugh. “This, my friend, is flirting. Expert level. Put it in your scrapbook for when you’re old and gray. But call him first.”
“Shut up.” I unlock the car and she sticks her tongue out like one of Carlos’s young sisters, making me laugh.
Carefully, I fold the note and tuck it into a zippered pouch of my camera bag. I’m not putting the note in a scrapbook, but I’m definitely not throwing it away, either.
As for a rematch, I’m not sure my heart can handle it.
Twenty
I don’t text Carlos over the long holiday weekend. However, I do put his number in my phone’s contact list, code name Poe from The Force Awakens. And I think about texting him, a lot. But I never actually do it because I spend the weekend worrying about him being disqualified for “fraternizing.”
As Dad and I pull into the parking garage, I send up a quick prayer that Carlos arrives late so we don’t have our usual morning “alone time” up in the sky box. Instead, Carlos is waiting for the elevator when my dad and I push through the steel doors. My heart beats so loudly I wonder if he can
hear it; no way can I make eye contact.
“Good morning, Mr. K,” Carlos says to my dad. He glances at me, but I keep my focus on the elevator doors.
“Good morning, Carlos.”
I’m secretly pleased Dad remembers who Carlos is. Technically he should know all of the interns by name, but he is the big kahuna, after all, with more important things on his mind, like who’s trying to destroy Emergent on social media.
Today I’m supposed to meet Jiang for lunch, and I hope to pump her for info. She and Brian planned to spend the weekend digging deep, hoping to find a trail of breadcrumbs leading to the jerk. My money’s still on Lewis.
When the elevator doors slide open, I move to a corner and so does Carlos, parking himself next to me, which is both horrifying and thrilling.
“Hi, Laurel,” he says, and now I’m stuck.
“Hi.” I barely glance at him but my whole body amps up, every sense hyper-aware of him.
Dad leans against the opposite wall of the elevator and studies us. “Did you have a good weekend, Carlos?”
My eyes narrow suspiciously. It’s this type of random yet pointed inquiry that makes me suspect he truly has Darth Vader spying abilities, even though his expression is bland. I don’t dare look at Carlos, whose arm brushes mine as he raises it to run a hand through his hair.
“Yeah, it was great.” I hear the grin in his voice. “Full of surprises.”
My face flames as I stare at the numbers above the elevator doors, willing us to speed up. Dad glances down at his phone and his shoulders tense.
Uh-oh. Has @PRTruth struck again? The elevator dings as we reach the first floor of Emergent and Dad steps out, so distracted by whatever is on his phone he doesn’t say goodbye. The doors slide closed, leaving Carlos and me alone together in the metal box. I sneak a glance at the chocolate eyes, which look especially melty today.
Carlos clears his throat. “So. We should talk about what happened on Saturday.”
Since when do guys want to talk? Oh wait, that’s what this is—the sorry-if-you-got-the-wrong-idea-it-was-just-a-kiss speech.
“We don’t have to talk. It was no big deal.” Each word rips out a piece of my heart, but it’s for the best. I won’t be the reason he loses his shot at the money.
“You’re a lousy liar, Special K.” His gaze narrows. “Why didn’t you text me?”
“I—uh—don’t know.”
“Look, if you’re not interested just be straight up and tell me, okay?” There’s a surprising hint of defensiveness in his voice.
Not interested? Not interested?
The elevator doors slide open to reveal Trish, arms crossed over her chest, who studies us suspiciously. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Nope.” Carlos adjusts his backpack strap and stalks away, leaving me alone with Trish.
“What’d you do to piss off your Boy Scout, princess?”
I stare after Carlos, wishing I were brave enough to call after him. “I’m an idiot,” I mutter under my breath.
“Agreed.” Trish steps into the elevator as I exit. “You want a donut?”
I blink, surprised by her offer. “Okay. Chocolate. Please.”
She nods, and right before the doors close she flashes me a sympathetic half smile.
…
I spend the morning on to-do tasks for Elijah and Ashley, then sit with Jason to show him a few basics of Photoshop. He struggles to keep up. Dark circles shadow his eyes and he can’t stop yawning.
“Big party weekend?” I ask, immediately regretting my drinking joke.
“Not for me, but my dad had a hell of a weekend.” He tries to smile but fails.
Jason ducks his head, and red blotches of embarrassment bloom on his neck and cheeks…and that’s when I notice the makeup. He did a good job applying it, blending it into his skin as thoroughly as a makeup salesperson at Ulta, or someone who’s familiar with stage makeup. I examine it more closely and have to swallow my gasp.
I didn’t just miss the makeup earlier, I missed the mottled purple and blue bruising underneath it.
Oh God. Why am I so stupid?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “My party weekend joke was insensitive. Feel free to ignore my idiot self the rest of the summer.”
He glances up, flashing a quick, shy smile. “You’re not an idiot, but sometimes I think I am.” He points to his computer screen. “This software stuff kills me. Sometimes I think all I’m good at is throwing footballs and cleaning up my dad’s puke.” He winces and darts me an apologetic look. “See what I mean? I can’t even have a normal conversation.”
Tentatively, I place my hand over his, which is gripping the computer mouse. “It’s okay, Jason. You’re dealing with a lot. I’m impressed you’re here every day, with all that’s going on.”
His hand relaxes its death grip on the mouse, so I remove my hand from his. He blows out a long, slow breath, then turns to me.
“Thanks, Laurel. That means a lot.” He pushes back his overgrown blond hair that used to captivate me. “I know I don’t have a shot at the scholarship compared to everyone else, but working here is pretty cool.” He flashes me another quick grin. “Except for getting locked in the basement.”
It’s my turn to wince. “Yeah…that stunk…except for the Pixy Stix.”
Jason laughs, and the sound lifts my heart. He deserves so much more than life has dealt him.
“Let’s try this again.” I reach for the mouse and take him through the basics, but slower this time. We crack dumb jokes about our practice photo of two dogs playing tug-of-war. His fatigue appears to lessen, and this time around he remembers what I show him.
A reminder pops up on his screen: “Stockwell Suds tour in one hour.”
“I’ve gotta go meet Lewis.” He rubs his palms across his khakis. “Do I, um, look okay?” He stands up and straightens his tie, which must be his dad’s, based on the boring pattern and faded colors.
I’ve always thought he looked more than okay, but I try to be objective, viewing him as Cal Stockwell might. His creamy button-down shirt is decent; he must’ve ironed it, which makes my heart crack a tiny bit. His khaki pants are fine. Most people won’t notice the frayed edges on the pant cuffs.
He looks like who he is—a nice guy who wants to make a good impression.
“You look great.” I hope my smile conveys that I mean it. I hesitate, then point to my cheek. “Maybe touch that up just a bit.”
He startles like a skittish deer, then hunches his shoulders. “Okay. Thanks.” He won’t look me in the eye, so I stand up to face him.
“Jason, I meant what I said.” I touch his shoulder, grateful he doesn’t flinch. “You look great, but more important, you’re a smart guy. Don’t forget it.”
He nods, raising his head and meeting my gaze. “Do you think it’s weird, me working on a brewery project?” He chews his lip. “Since my dad is, you know?”
“No. I assume you chose it because Cal’s a pro athlete who started his own business. And you’re hoping someday to do the same.”
He nods, relief shining in his eyes. “That’s exactly why. If acting doesn’t work out, and I have to play pro ball, I don’t want to do it for long.” He taps the side of his head and grins. “I don’t have extra brain cells to lose to concussions.”
“You have plenty of brain cells. Now, get going; you don’t want to be late. Lewis could make your day miserable.” I shoo him away, and he waves, looking much happier than earlier.
My stomach twists with worry for Jason. I wonder if I should tell someone about the bruising. But who? Eyes downcast, I make my way to my desk, sneaking a peek at Carlos.
That’s a mistake, because though he sits as stiffly as a mannequin, his wounded expression looks like someone just punched him in the gut.
And I’m afraid that someone is me.
…
I’d do anything to take away the hurt in Carlos’s eyes. I’m worried he took my elevator silence as a rejection, and that he m
isinterpreted my interactions with Jason. As much as I want a chance with him once this internship ends, maybe it’s not in the cards.
Frustrated, I shift my energy to the Rubios’ website. I worked on it over the weekend, tweaking the photos and putting them into a new website template. Even though my stomach twists every time I glance at Carlos at his desk, I still want to do this for him, and for his family.
After a few font changes, I decide it’s ready for feedback. I take a breath and email the test site link to Trish, putting “Boy Scout” in the subject line. I know she’ll be honest and for whatever reason, I’m starting to trust her.
A few minutes later my inbox pings with a new message.
“It pains me to admit you do have a brain, princess. Good work. Send it to the Boy Scout.”
I glance at Trish, whose lips twist in a grudging smile. She tilts her head toward Carlos, whose brow is furrowed as he hunches over his computer. She’s right, of course. The final say is up to him and even if he hates it, and me, maybe the website will drive more people to Encantado.
I glance at the Star Wars figures on my desk. “May the Force be with us,” I whisper, touching Leia’s head for luck. Holding my breath, I email the test site link to Carlos, then grab my camera bag, eager to escape for lunch.
In the lobby, I approach Miss Emmaline’s desk, since I was thrown off my morning joke routine by my elevator ride with Carlos.
“Hi, Miss Emmaline.”
She folds her hands on her desk and waits.
“Why did the skeleton go to the party by himself?”
She responds with one slow blink.
“He had no body to go with him.”
A single silver eyebrow arches, but she says nothing. Somehow our familiar, stubborn exchange puts me in better spirits.
“One of these days you’re going to crack, Miss Emmaline. I can feel it.”
Once outside, the hour speeds by. There’s a baseball game today, so I take tons of photos of fans—families decked out in Colorado Rockies gear, a group of loud guys wearing San Diego Padres T-shirts engaging in friendly heckling with Rockies fans, and street vendors selling burritos and bottled water outside the stadium. It’s a glorious afternoon and I hope my pictures capture the crackling energy. On a whim, I buy my dad a Rockies bobblehead figure from a street vendor.
Spies, Lies, and Allies Page 24