While Pete laid out our lunch in a remarkably efficient way, he talked nonstop about nonsensical things. And as he worked, I noticed every little detail about him, from the deft movements he made, to certain idiosyncrasies I’d already memorized: how he always placed his cell phone and keys together like they were best friends, the way he constantly brushed his hair back as though unused to it being in the way, how one eyebrow would arch when he wanted to make a particular point, and how, when he thought something was really funny, he threw his head back and laughed out loud.
Oh man . . . I’m gettin’ it bad.
I snapped out of it because he just said something that needed a response: “Hope you like PB&J.”
“Yeah.” I was surprised by his choice. “Actually, it’s one of my favorites.”
“Good,” he grinned down at me wolfishly, “I aim to please.” He offered up his half of a very large sandwich in a sort of cheers gesture.
“Buen probecho,” I said, bumping my half against his.
“Buen probecho,” he echoed before digging in.
After a few moments of chewing our grainy sandwiches in companionable silence, I felt myself go tongue-tied. Where should I begin? The questions were sticking in the back of my throat with the peanut butter. Awkwardly, I groped for the silver thermos and tipped it back to drink the ice-cold mystery inside. A laugh gurgled out, as the familiar flavor hit the back of my throat.
He squinted at me through one eye—a new expression. “What’s so funny?”
“Milk?”
“Yeah, milk. Can you think of anything else that goes better with a peanut butter sandwich?
I laughed again. “No, not really. It’s just . . . not what I expected.”
He laughed a little too, reaching for a grape. “What did you expect?”
I watched as he threw it up and caught it in his mouth. The coordinated movement reminded me of Andrew. It was disconcerting to watch the similarities and realize my little brother might actually belong to his elite world. I laughed hollowly, trying to shake off the feeling to answer his question.
“I dunno, maybe something a little more conventional, like ham and cheese.”
Pete stopped chewing and looked at me for a second. “Did you prefer ham and cheese?”
Maybe it was the way he phrased it, or I was already on the defensive again, but suddenly my intuition was telling me he knew going into this I didn’t eat meat. Reality crawled back in, unwelcome as an ant at our picnic lunch. Has he been spying on me? He watched my face, trying to decipher why the easy smile from a moment ago was having trouble staying put.
“No. It’s just . . . I thought a manly-man like you would prefer meat,” I said, trying a better facsimile of a smile. I was still hoping to pump him for info and didn’t want him to know my antennae were up. Then I remembered at the restaurant he’d only ordered whole-wheat toast. Could the explanation be as simple as he was a vegetarian, too? Was I making a mountain out of a molehill?
“Are you trying to imply a real man can’t enjoy a good PB&J?”
I forced a laugh. “No. But . . . are you a vegetarian?”
“Not exactly,” he said not elaborating.
“It’s just . . . well, I could’ve had a peanut allergy or somethin’,” I prodded some more. “You never know these days. Peanut butter can be risky business, and you don’t really strike me as the careless type.” I searched his face for answers.
His expression remained loose, but his jaw tightened. “Looks like you have me all figured out,” he said with an edge to his voice I’d never heard toward me before. It stung. More than I cared to admit.
He put down his half-eaten sandwich. I dropped the carrot stick I was no longer going to eat.
“Likewise . . . it just so happens, PB&J is one of my favorite things because I am a vegetarian.” I leaned forward to meet his gaze head on. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Pete laughed what should’ve been a very persuasive laugh. “Relax, Kate. Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”
Blood gushed to my face. Gah! I really hated that—when guys tell you to relax. That’s about the time you shouldn’t relax, I’d found out. Didn’t that ape Ron Tillman just tell me that exact thing Saturday night, after putting his hands all over me? And Pete said it like I was acting hysterical or something. I heard him telling Ranger this mission would be as easy as taking candy from a baby, right after they’d abducted me in the middle of the night. And now he just happened to be Andrew’s “mentor” and was testing him to have him shipped away to some super-secret boarding school nobody’s ever heard of. And he had the nerve to tell me to . . .
“Relax?” I guttered the word. “How dare you tell me that when you’ve been followin’ me around spyin’ on me! . . . And I demand to know why right now!”
I was seething. How could I keep falling for his phony charm time and time again? He was part of the enemy that was after my gifted brother! I was reminded, with a harsh pang, why he was sitting here with me—silly country girl falling for the charming prince. But instead of us riding away into the sunset together, he rides away with the real prize—Andrew.
Unable to sit in his deceitful presence any longer, I trembled to my feet. He rose to his knees pleading, but also like if he needed to spring quickly to grab me, he could.
“Whoa! Hold on a minute, Kate. I don’t know what’s going on here all of a sudden, but I can explain everything. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to have lunch with you today.”
“Fine. Explain yourself. Startin’ with why you were followin’ me the night of my birthday.”
“That was your birthday?” he said, with what I thought was a little bit too much surprise sprinkled in. “Happy belated birthday!” Pete smiled his most charming smile, and usually it was enough to make my heart go pitter-patter. Now it just stopped cold in my chest like a stone.
“Why were you followin’ me, Pete?”
He sighed, stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. “We actually weren’t following you per se,” he hedged. “We saw a girl— you,” he indicated me with his chin, “walking the drag. We saw you cut across the waiting cars at the stoplight, and . . . I don’t know if you know this or not, but a carload of guys made a U-turn when you started down the side street. We believed their intention was to follow you.” Pete peeked through his lashes to see how his little story was going down.
I just stood there, a wall of skepticism.
“And concluded they were up to no good—a car load of dudes turning around to follow a girl, wearing . . .”—he looked at me with chastising eyes—“that outfit, walking alone down a dark street at night. That was something we could not ignore, so we followed you for a while to make sure you were okay, never realizing you were the same girl from the restaurant.”
“So, you’re sayin’ it was just a coincidence?”
He laughed a little at my expression. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. It was a coincidence—they do happen in real life, you know.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I don’t believe you.”