Page 11 of Moonlighter
“Yeah, I got that.”
She puts a smooth hand on my wrist, stopping my progress. “Ireallydidn’t recognize you. And I want to show you why.”
“Show me?” I snort. “Was I wearing a disguise?”
“Well—”
That’s when our conversation is interrupted by a well-dressed woman who asks for our IDs. Alex hands hers over, and I do the same. This is luxury travel—you don’t wait in line. There isn’t even a desk, just this fashionably dressed person who spends ten seconds verifying our identities before waving us over to a private waiting room.
“It will just be five minutes,” we’re promised.
We sit side by side on a leather sofa, and I try not to notice that Alex is wearing a sexy, floral perfume. She extracts a phone from her pocketbook, tapping the screen a few times, pulling up a photograph.
The moment I see it, I let out a bark of laughter. “Holy shit.” I take her phone. It’s a photo of the two of us, taken more than twenty years ago. We’re standing in front of the Vineyard Tennis Club, where her father was a member. “Jesus Christ. We are hilarious.” The disgruntled expression on both of our faces is priceless.
“Aren’t we?”
“Yeah, but—” I laugh again. And it’s not because of eleven-year-old Alex. She looks more or less the same, with piercing blue eyes and shiny hair falling onto her shoulders. I’d know her anywhere.
But holy cannoli—I am unrecognizable. This photo must have been taken about ten minutes before I hit puberty. I’m not just skinny butscrawny, with pointy elbows and knobby knees sticking out of my white tennis shorts.
“So I was really a looker, is what you’re saying?”
She smirks. “You were twelve.”
“Thirteen.”
“Still. I hadn’t seen you since you were just a kid. I had this vague idea that you played a sport. But I had no idea you were on Nate Kattenberger’s hockey team. He never mentioned the connection between one of his players and our mutual security company.”
“How do you know Nate?” I ask.
“College. He was one of my best friends. We were in all the same computer programming classes.”
I make a noncommittal grunt, even though the whole thing makes sense. I don’t talk much about The Company, either. It’s an invasive presence in my teammates’ lives. Useful, but intrusive. I don’t advertise the fact that my father and brother run the place.
“And hockey?” she adds. “Really?”
“What’s wrong with hockey? It’s the best sport there is. I never saw you as a computer nerd, either.”
“No?” She raises a perfect eyebrow at me. “What did you think I’d become when I grew up?”
That’s easy. “Dictator of a small but warlike country.”
Alex laughs. “To be fair, I don’t write code anymore. I’m the head of a warlike cable and internet company.”
“See? My guesses are better than your guesses.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
A new voice breaks into our argument. “Ms. Engels? Your plane is ready.”
“Excellent,” she says. But she doesn’t stand up. “Just give us two minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What, you like this sofa?” I ask. “Who lingers at the airport when they don’t need to?”
Alex gives me a withering look. “I just have to ask you a question before we go.”
