What if this could be something?
Fuck me, this is confusing. It’s like a constant back and forth in my mind over what I have to do and what I want to do.
“Ella?”
“Hm?” She smiles brightly at me, that beautiful, disarming smile, and I push my plate aside to focus on her.
“What makes you happy?”
“My books.” Not a beat missed, an easy answer for her. “What makes you happy?”
Right now? “You.” A blush steals up her cheeks, and she smiles at her pasta. “Sorry, was that too much?”
“No, just … I write guys like you. I put guys like you on paper.” She finally looks at me, and fuck, I really am in so much trouble. “How are you real?”
I reach for her hand. “Believe me, I’m not perfect.”
“Hello, baby.”
My head snaps up.
Fuck. Standing by our table, in full uniform and blocking out the damn sun with his broad frame, is Guy Gibson.
“Hey, Dad.” She sits up. “What are you doing here?”
“I was passing by.” Guy is looking at me, or maybe he is; I’m not sure. He has his sunglasses on.
If someone had told me a few weeks ago I’d be dating the daughter of the chief of police, I’d have laughed my ass off, and so would Gable. This really is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done a lot. Including thinking I could kill someone in a line at the opera. That was messy and hard to get away from, but it’s a fun story to tell.
“Passing by? You think I believe that?” Ella asks.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Guy takes the spare seat without being asked.
He’s looking at me like he wants to either break my neck or interrogate me. I don’t blame him. From the few things Ella has told me, before RoboCop, she didn’t date much. She says she prefers working, so if a new guy suddenly appears on the scene, it’s understandable for her dad to be wary.
If only he knew.
“Eating?” Guy says.
“Yes, Dad, that’s what people do at restaurants.”
“Interesting.” Guy eyes me as if lunch is an offense punishable by death and he’d like to be the one to carry out that sentence.
I can charm anyone. It’s easy. Mirror them, laugh at their jokes, and don’t be overly smug. Maybe that’s why me and Gable get on so well—I’ve never been able to bullshit him. We were twelve years old when we met at a home with dozens of other boys, and I’d successfully cheated almost every other kid out of any money they had through a fake card game. Gable had given me one look, eyebrow arched, arms crossed, and said, “You’re bullshitting me, blondey, and I’ll knock your fucking teeth out if you do it again.”
I get the distinct impression that Guy Gibson is the same. Hard to charm, even harder to impress, but I’ll try my best.
“How’s work?” I ask.
Ella sighs. “Don’t bother. He’s already decided on one-word answers.”
“Untrue,” Guy says.
Ella waves her hand in her dad's direction. “See?”
I laugh. “I don’t blame you. I have kinda popped up out of nowhere.”
Have you looked me up, Guy Gibson? Not that you’d find much. On paper, I’m almost a model citizen. I made sure of that.
