“And my phone number?”
“That was just a matter of convenience.” Our eyes connect across the table; his mouth twitches, then breaks into a smile that looks a little too unrepentant.
I don’t want to, but I smile back. I don’t really think he’s a stalker, but it’s obvious he knows more about me than I know about him. “Fine,” I relent. “I have an internship at UCLA on Thursdays.”
“Doing what?”
“You’d think it was boring.” I press my palms against the surface of the table, feeling the smooth white fabric tablecloth beneath my fingertips.
“How do you know?” he asks. “You don’t know anything about me.” It’s the second time he’s thrown my words from last week back at me. But the dimple flashes as he says it.
“I work in a lab at UCLA that studies how spores disperse from fungi in the environment. Specifically how wind affects the spores.” I stare at him triumphantly, as if I’ve just won some battle, proving that maybe if he knew how epically boring my life was, he’d want nothing to do with me.
But he rolls right over my answer with another question. “Do you like it?”
“The research?”
He nods, his gaze intent. As if he actually wants to hear my answer.
“I guess.”
“Wow, that’s convincing,” he says. “Why do you do it, then, if you don’t love it?”
“I don’t have to love it. It’s just an internship and it’s good for my college application.” I glance away, hoping he’ll get the hint that I don’t really want to explain my choices to him. Thankfully, a waiter walks by and Tate signals to him with a quick wave of his hand. But instead of coming over to the table, the waiter nods back—a silent understanding—then hurries away.
Tate turns back to me, resuming his questioning. “So when you’re not at school or working or at your internship, what do you do for fun?”
“You forgot to add the newspaper club after school on Wednesdays, and my French study group every other Tuesday,” I say, half bragging, half embarrassed.
“I’m starting to worry you have no social life.”
I smile and don’t answer him, instead glancing across to the next booth over, where a handsome dark-haired man sits with an equally beautiful woman. I swear I recognize him: the face of someone famous perhaps. “Carlos would die if he knew I was here,” I find myself saying.
“That’s your best friend?”
I nod. “He’s obsessed with celebrities.”
“And you’re not?”
“I don’t have time to keep track of all the famous people in this city. However, if we see anyone even remotely famous, even a reality TV star, I might have to embarrass you and go get their autograph for Carlos.” I keep my face serious. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he says, tilting his head and grinning. “I’ll even help you get said autograph.”
“Oh, really,” I say, half laughing. “You’ll have to let me know if you see someone, then, because I don’t think I’d recognize Brad Pitt if he walked through the door.”
“No?”
I shake my head, fingering the shiny silverware arranged on a white cloth napkin. “For a lifelong Los Angeleno, I’m tragically un-savvy in the celebrity identification department.”
“Noted,” he says, his lips curving again and setting me off-balance.
A man arrives at our table, wearing all black and holding a serving tray filled with plates. He arranges the dishes meticulously on the table and stands back. “The rest is on its way,” he says, smiling politely at Tate. “Please enjoy.”
“Thanks, Marco,” Tate says as the waiter steps away.
“We didn’t order anything,” I whisper across the array of what appears to be appetizers.
“They know what I like,” he says.
“Seriously, how often do you come here?”
Tate just smiles and I give in, lifting my fork to taste everything in front of me—delicately wrapped summer rolls and mandarin salad, a curry soup and an artful tower of grilled vegetables. Tate watches me, his gaze flashing across the table to see my reaction as I try each new dish. When the main courses arrive, wide flat noodles that make the air rich with the scents of ginger and spice, I’m unsure if I can eat anymore. But it’s so incredible that my taste buds demand just one more bite...followed by another, and another.
I sit back in the booth when I’m done, satisfied and full and really wishing Carlos was here to experience this. He would die if he could see me sitting in a booth at Lola’s...across from a guy like Tate—any guy at all, in fact. If it wasn’t rude, I would probably send him a text: Guess where I am RIGHT now? But I refrain.