“I’ve already illustrated my knack for recalling random movie details.”
“I don’t know if that counts—maybe more of an asset, considering your line of work. I’m going to need a bit quirkier from you, Evil.”
I smile. “I can’t eat at buffets—a snag when so many catered events are the serve-yourself variety. It’s like I see that innocent serving spoon and all I can think about is how many unwashed hands have touched it. I always watch the twenty-four-hour Christmas Story marathon, and I’m an obsessive hand-creamer.”
He stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “That can’t possibly mean what just popped into my head.”
I move to gently kick him, but he traps my foot, keeping it there between his shoes.
“It means that when I’m on a call or sitting at my desk thinking about something, I tend to reach for my lotion, sort of instinctively. The longer the call, the more lotion I’ll use, and by the end I can barely grip my phone.”
“Okay, that’s pretty great.” Carter rubs his palms together, thinking. “I’m going to give you another one of mine so you don’t feel all insecure about your germ phobia or cream-filled hands: I can barely inhale before I’ve had coffee. I know people say that all the time, but in my case I almost feel like it’s a medical condition. I’ve brushed my teeth with shaving cream on more than one occasion and once relieved myself in my mom’s favorite potted palm.”
“I’m not sure you should share that last part,” I whisper.
Carter wipes his mouth and sets his napkin on the table in front of him. “You’ve got a very mischievous smile there, Evil.”
I point to my chest. “Me? You should see yours.”
He leans forward. “It’s because I like being around you. It’s like the same buzzy feeling I get when one of my clients posts a grammatically correct tweet.”
This makes me laugh because I can absolutely relate. “That’s pretty buzzy.”
He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and sucks it, watching me.
I don’t remember Carter being this overwhelmingly sexual when we first met. Maybe it was because I wasn’t showing shoulder, or because we were both dressed as preteens, but it’s definitely overwhelming right now.
Carter sips his beer, looking out through the foliage of the indoor-outdoor space to the sidewalk. It’s a busy neighborhood anytime, but it’s cooled down a bit tonight and the streets seem full of people out walking, headed somewhere, headed nowhere.
“It’s so warm here in the fall,” he says, tilting his glass up to his mouth again. I watch him swallow, feeling this tight, creeping anxiety, because dammit, I like him. “It surprises me every time.”
I might really like him.
“Our summer always comes late,” I say. “June and July are pretty nice. The summer really hits in August through October.”
He turns back to me and smiles. “I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.”
“Was it a hard decision to leave New York?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I’d thought about it for a few years, but always hesitated because it sort of felt like Jonah’s territory.”
“I could see that, I guess.”
“But as my career progressed, LA became an obvious option.” He spins his spoon on the table, absently staring down at it. “There’s only so much for talent agents in New York—theater is huge, obviously, but . . . I don’t know . . .” Taking a deep breath, he seems to grow more contemplative, until he exhales and turns his face up to me, smiling again. “I needed to do something different. I like TV-Lit but would like to be more film-based. Baby steps.”
The degree to which he’s genuine throws me again and again. Everything about him seems so up front and frank, but there’s a complexity, too. No wonder he’s good at this job.
“Have you ever considered leaving California?” he asks.
“Not really,” I admit, scrunching my nose. “I’m too much of a movie fanatic to give it up.”
“Where did you grow up?”
I hook my thumb behind me, as if he can see it from here. “Not LA proper. In San Dimas.”
“Bill and Ted’s!” he sings.
“That’s what everyone says,” I tell him, laughing. “And yes. It’s a pretty small town. I was such a nerd in high school.”
He gives a skeptical snort.
“Honestly,” I assure him, “I was.”
“You couldn’t have been as nerdy as I was: the founder of my school’s Magic: The Gathering club.”
Nodding, I tell him, “I was president and sole member of the anime club at my school before anyone else liked it.”
“Anime is cool.”
“It wasn’t then, trust me.”
Carter leans in, clearly ready to bring out his big guns. “I didn’t get a date in high school until senior year because I liked show tunes and the girls assumed I was gay. No guys asked me out, either, because they assumed I was stuck-up, not straight.”
“My first concert was Hanson.” I pause, watching him. “My worst fear is someone posting a video of me in isolation rocking my face off the entire time.”
“Are you trying to scare me away?” He pulls out his phone and spends about thirty seconds scrolling until he turns it for me to see. “Look at this mess.”
Carter is probably fourteen in the picture. His nose is too big for his face. His hair looks like it was cut by a distracted parent. He’s laughing, and his mouth seems completely filled with metal.
“I can top that.” I pull out my phone and open it to my mother’s Facebook page, easily finding her Throwback Thursday post to my tenth-grade school picture. This was before my Lasik, so I have glasses thicker than an ashtray and am wearing a tie because I was trying to pull off some ill-advised skater chic.
Carter’s eyes narrow and he leans in to look closer. “What are you talking about, Evie? You’re pretty here.”
Wow. He is blind. “Carter.”
“What?”
He looks up and something—no, everything—in me melts. When he blinks, the soft expression doesn’t dissolve; it stays there, stronger now as he lets his gaze move across my face and to my mouth.
“What?” he says again, smiling now. “You know I’m hoping to kiss you later, no matter how many dorky pictures you show me.”
My heart takes off, a beating drum in the wild jungle beneath my ribs. “I’m older than you,” I blurt.
He just shrugs, like this was a completely normal thing to say. “So?”
“We’re in the same business.”
I watch him process this for a breath, and he chews on his lip before saying, “Maybe it’s not ideal, but it’s not worth staying away from you because of it.”
My heart seems intent on climbing up into my throat. “I’m notoriously married to my job.”
“That’s super convenient because so am I. It’ll be like we’re cheating on our jobs with each other.” He says this as if he’s just discovered some brilliant loophole.