2
Hal drives a dark blue Jeep Wrangler which seems a little casual for private security, but definitely Hal-appropriate. It smells like a pine air freshener and Hal’s cologne, of which Luke got a noseful when they hugged before. He likes that smell. He likes…lots of things.
When they’re on the road and headed deep into DC, Hal says, conversationally, “Did your editor tell you I was the one who recommended you get the story?”
Luke chokes on his own spit. “Wh-what?”
Hal tosses him an amused smile and faces the road again. “Matt knew there was gonna be press all over the place after ‘the assault,’ and I told him my best friend was a journalist and that he should request you get the story.”
“Matt?”
“Matthew Maddox.” Hal grins again. “Sorry. He doesn’t like the whole ‘Matthew’ thing.”
“Huh.”
“Are you pissed?”
“What?” Luke feels a little like he’s tumbled around in a dryer for a while.
“Are you pissed I recommended you?”
“No, I just…” He just had no idea, is the problem. “I didn’t know you…I mean, you didn’thaveto. I mean, it was great of you to look out for me, but–”
“I was looking out for Will, actually. Matt’s dad,” he explains. “Matt didn’t want jackals falling on him. But I knew we could trust you.”
Of course it’s about work, and not personal. Of course. “Oh. Okay.”
“I think you’ll like him,” Hal continues. “Will. He’s kinda…delightful.”
“Did you just say ‘delightful’?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Okay, so what makes himdelightful?”
“Come on. I didn’t say it likethat.”
“Uh, pretty sure you did. Maybe you should be writing this piece instead of me.”
Hal reaches across the center console to shove lightly at Luke’s shoulder. That’s twice now that it’s happened in the past half hour, and Luke’s stomach flutters stupidly. Why all this touching? He wouldn’t have thought Hal would even want to be close enough to touch after…
“…tonight?”
He’s zoned out. “What?” He shakes his head, trying to get clear, hoping he isn’t blushing.
“You falling asleep over there already?” Hal asks. “I asked what you wanted for dinner tonight.”
“Oh, um, whatever you want is fine. I’m not picky.”
“You’re picky as hell.”
He has his preferences, sure, but he can’t afford to overlook free break room leftovers these days. And at home, there are lots of ramen nights. He, if pressed, would admit that just a week ago, Mrs. Leibowitz asked him to carry a box of stale doughnuts out to the garbage chute on his way out of the building…and he might have eaten a week-old Boston cream en route. And he might have found a smudge of cream on his chin three hours later when he looked at himself in the men’s room mirror.
“But I figured you still liked orange chicken, right?” Hal says.
That perks up his stomach. A rumble works its way past his post-flight nausea. “You’ve got a good takeout place?”
“No. I’m cooking it.”
