Great Big Beautiful Life(27)

“But she lied to you too,” I say. “Or you’re at least wondering if she did.”

Again, that lift in his brow and slackening of his mouth. Quickly, his features return to a scowl. “This is why I never go out with journalists.”

Another flush, this one much more intense, rockets through me. Is the implication that this counts as going out or is he just run-of-the-mill insulting me?

He’s rubbing his jaw again, his eyes distant, until the second they rebound to me, hyperfocused. He slumps back against his seat on a sigh. “There have been some…” He chooses his next words carefully. “Discrepancies I can’t account for yet.”

I frown. “Is she fucking with us?”

A server is walking past right then, and she slows when he lifts his chin in greeting toward her. “I think my friend wanted to order.”

Friend! That’s progress.

After a cursory look at the menu, I order a vegan hot dog and something called a Queen’s Park Swizzle.

“Anything else for you?” the server asks Hayden, and he shakes his head.

As soon as she disappears, he faces me again, hunching forward, his forearms resting on the table. “It is weird. That she suddenly wants to do this. I mean, why now?”

His gaze is sharp, meaningful. It takes me a second to figure out what he’s hinting at. I can tell he doesn’t want to say it, but he’s hoping I’ll guess anyway. Like this is a work-around to his “no sharing our Margaret Ives stuff” policy.

What would make someone suddenly consider a tell-all memoir when they’d been virtually in hiding for three decades? I can only think of two obvious reasons.

Maybe she’s dying. Or maybe…

“Memory problems?” I say.

Our server drops my drink off as she sweeps past us. I thank her and face Hayden again.

“Maybe I’m just seeing things that aren’t there.” He shrugs. “Ever since Len, I’ve been a little…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, every time I visit my parents and one of them misplaces the remote, a little part of me is asking if it’s normal forgetfulness, or something else.”

He shakes his head again as if to ward off the thought.

“You were really close to him,” I say. “Len.” It’s not a question. Obviously Hayden was close to the man. He spent years with Len Stirling, with his family and friends. Of course they’d bonded. But somehow it hadn’t occurred to me how painful that must have been.

To form a bond with someone on the very precipice of them slipping away. His book hadn’t delved into the aftermath of Len’s death. Hayden was on the page, but only in small glimpses. He was good at writing more as a porthole than a narrating character.

But now I can see the Hayden who was really there. Who knew the man he was writing about. Loved him, probably.

“I’m not sure that’s what’s going on here,” he says suddenly, his tone distracted. “Most likely she just doesn’t trust us yet.”

He runs his fingertips thoughtfully over his mouth now. The motion distracts me. Hypnotizes me, really. I hadn’t noticed how attractive he was before. I’m not totally sure what it is that makes him so. He’s nowhere near symmetrical. His eyes are small and his mouth is wide, and his nose looks like it’s been broken at least once and not properly set.

I mean, obviously his body is incredible, so when I catch myself inadvertently checking him out, that’s not all that surprising. The way that watching his large fingers skating over his mouth affects me, however, catches me off guard.

I’m sure there’s something biological to it. My body likes his pheromones, or my legs like the feeling of his in between them.

God, maybe I really should have invited Theo down. This is the last thing I should be spending precious brain cells on right now.

His hand falls back down to the table and our eyes connect, a feeling like a live wire touched a metal point in the center of my chest. “I’m just not sure,” he says.

“Hm?” I’ve totally lost track of what we were talking about.

“I’m not sure why she’d invite us down here, pay us to work, and then punch holes in her own story.” He shifts in his seat, our thighs grazing again.

Our server stops by to drop off my hot dog and refill Hayden’s water. “You sure there’s nothing else I can get you?” she asks him.

“No, thanks,” he says.

She leaves us to attend to one of her other tables, and Hayden catches me staring at him. Thinking at him, really.

“What?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked.

“Do you only eat salad?” I ask.

His lips part, a divot forming between his eyebrows. Then his mouth presses shut again. “I try to stay in shape when I’m traveling for work. If I lose my rhythms, it’s hard to get back on them once I’m home.”

“So is that a yes?” I ask.

A slow tug at one side of his mouth turns into a smile, an actual, recognizable smile. “No, Alice, I don’t only eat salad. The other day I actually had an amazing croissant.”

“Oh my god, it was so good, wasn’t it?” I say, right before biting into my vegan dog.

“So good,” he agrees, lifting his fork to pick at his salad. “I could feel my arteries clogging, and I didn’t even care.”