Page 70 of ILY
He whips his head around to look at me as we approach a stoplight. “Uh. What?”
“I mean, technically, I am. I was there when you attempted to buy TNT from me.”
“Right.” He lets out a soft puff of air. “What does that mean right now?”
“It means I might be onto something else, which we can talk about later, but right now, if we run into friends of yours, they can’t know why I’m here. Or how we met.”
The light turns green, and his gaze turns back to the road. ‘Ok,’ he signs with his right hand, then taps the steering wheel a few times before he asks aloud, “What do you usually tell people?”
Everyone in the FBI has a story. Half the people pick obscure jobs that most people won’t know enough about to ask questions. I hear florist a lot. A couple of the guys went with construction worker. One woman said she was a wedding planner—something her sister did, so she could fake it.
“I usually go with IT.”
He burst into laughter. “Right. Have you tried turning it on and off again?”
I can’t help but smile. “That’s about all people know. And hey, don’t knock it if it works. But also, I’m really good with tech.”
“You were good enough to fool me,” he replies. The car slows down, and up ahead, I see a small strip mall and a restaurant atthe very end with its own parking lot. “So. You’re an IT guy, and we met…”
“At the gym?”
He shakes his head. “My very good friends own the gym, and everyone goes there.”
I grimace. “Uh…”
“Everyone knows about Michael,” he says as he pulls into the parking lot, then comes screeching to a halt behind a long row of cars. “Dude. You could have just asked my friends about Michael! What the hell!”
“I was going to. But if I started grilling the people who knew you, that would look suspicious. Especially since you thought I was your stalker. I guess I could just tell everyone the truth. Iwasstalking you.”
He snorts. “Yeah, don’t do that. They’ll have too many questions.”
He drives forward again, passing the strip mall and pulling into a spot near the restaurant’s front entrance. “How about if anyone asks,” he says, hitting the button to turn off his car, “I hired you to help me install the security setup to catch Michael.”
Alright, that’s a better option. Plus, I know enough about those types of systems to get by with any questions that may arise. But something in my gut sits uncomfortably. I don’t want to lie to his friends.
If something between us happens—if we make this real—I’m going to have to confess to all of it, and no one likes being lied to. But right now, I have no choice.
“It’ll be fine,” Leaf says. He reaches over and grabs my hand, pulling it to his lips to kiss the inside of my wrist. “It’s Thursday night. No one is going to be here that I know. Trust me.”
I do trust him. But I don’t trust the universe.
Yeah, the universe has it out for me because as soon as we walk in, the first person I see sitting across the room is Denver. He’s not facing the front of the room, so he doesn’t notice us, but it’s not going to be long before we’re recognized.
This place isn’t as bright as a hospital, but it definitely has better lighting than most restaurants, and the music is low enough that I’m only slightly aware something is playing.
All of the tables are also round, and from what I can see in the kitchen, there are mirrors all over.
“It’s so the Deaf staff can come around corners and not run into people,” Leaf says and signs at the same time when he follows my line of sight.
I nod and take the rest of the restaurant in. It’s got a ’50s diner vibe with bright red booth cushions and white linoleum tables. There’s a really long bar with stools and little jukeboxes that I’m pretty sure don’t actually work.
“It’s…”
“Kitschy,” he adds and shrugs. “The food is fire though.”
The hostess appears a second later. She’s tall, with curly dark hair piled on her head in a messy bun, and I can see glittery, bedazzled cochlear implants resting over her ears.
She eyes Leaf, then me—zeroes in on my hearing aids—and smiles. ‘Two?’
