Page 27 of Between the Lines

“She is. Issue her a permanent visitor card.”

His mouth works once, but no sound comes out. Like he’s about to protest. But then he just nods briskly. “Absolutely. I can have it done in a few minutes.”

“We’ll pick it up in twenty. Thank you.” My hand finds Charlotte’s elbow, and I steer her away from the reception.

There’s a confused furrow between her brows. “You’re not having lunch in your office?”

“The weather is too nice. Have lunch with me outside.”

“I like the sound of that,” she says and falls into easy step beside me. “That wasn’t necessary, by the way. Intimidating the receptionist like that.”

“I didn’t intimidate anyone.”

“Sure you didn’t,” she retorts. “Just like every head isn’t turned in the lobby right now?”

I glance over her shoulder. Perhaps a few people are looking at us, yes. But that’s nothing unusual. Irritation makes my headache pulse.

“Maybe we are attracting a few glances.” I push open the glass door for her. “I usually ignore them.”

“I bet you have to, to make it through a workday,” she says. Her shoulder-length hair sways with every step, gleaming caramel under the bright spring sunlight. “So, where are we going?”

I point across the trafficked LA road to the food trucks. “There.”

“We’re having street food?” There’s a trace of excitement in her voice. “I have to say, I didn’t expect that.”

We cross the street along with a group of business-clad people. It’s midday and plenty of people are out hunting for lunch.

“Do you usually eat here?” she asks me. “Is this another favorite place of yours, like that coffee shop?”

“I’m almost never here.” I order tacos and a large bottle of water from the guy in the food truck. I motion for Charlotte to make her selection at the same time and she steps up to the plate.

I pay for both of our meals, and we head with our food to a sunny bench.

I should do this more often. Escape the four-walled prison that’s become more familiar to me than my own house.

Charlotte crosses her legs and turns toward me on the bench. There’s a glow on her cheeks, mirrored in her eyes.

She’s distractingly cute.

“We spoke about everything and nothing yesterday,” she says. “That’s good, as a starting point for me to get to know you.”

“Mm-hmm.” I take a large bite of my beef taco and look away from her bright blue eyes. My determination to give her almost nothing hasn’t wavered.

“But I’m curious, what are you looking to get out of this? What parts of yourself do you think are key that we need to highlight during this process?”

“You never stop working,” I say.

She makes a small sound of surprise. “Well, I’m hired to work foryou,Aiden. And I have far too little access to you as it is.”

I appreciate her diligence. It’s just damned inconvenient at the moment. “Why did you start writing memoirs?” I ask instead. “What is ityouget out of it? Only fair I learn stuff about you, too.”

Charlotte takes a bite out of her fish taco. Chews slowly, her head slightly cocked. “I studied journalism in college, with a minor in creative writing. I’ve always enjoyed people’s stories, you know? Just understanding what makes them tick, why they make the choices they make… I grew up loving both fictional storytelling and documentaries. There’s just something aboutrealstories, though. Real people don’t follow scripts.

“They’re not created by trained writers to evoke certain emotions. They’re messy and complicated, and full of conflicting emotions.” She shrugs a bit, and looks at me with a strong gaze. Like she’s daring me to object or find it silly. “That’s why I love writing memoirs. It’s fascinating to tell a real person’s story.”

Well.

Damn.

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