Chapter Thirteen
Parvati pulled into the Starbucks parking lot at five minutes to six on Tuesday evening, and cut the Jetta’s engine. Since she had a couple minutes, she checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, adjusted her silk scarf, and gave herself a brief pep talk.
Tyler had seemed extremely sane in their initial emails. His profile said he was thirty-two, worked in “business administration” of some kind, didn’t smoke, liked dogs and wanted kids. All marks in his favor. But Parv had been on this merry-go-round before. Her previous online dating experiences had taught her that she really knew nothing about a man until she met him face to face.
Still. He hadn’t tried to pimp her out to his dad. She was willing to take that as a win today.
Parv climbed out of her car, automatically smoothing her maxi dress, and walked toward the Big Green Mermaid of Doom.
She’d told Tyler that she owned a coffee shop, but had wanted to meet on neutral territory—so he’d chosen her competitor for their first date. She opened the door, pausing just inside and scanning the dining area for any man of approximately the right age who looked vaguely like the profile picture. The pictures, she’d learned, could be wildly unreliable.
There weren’t any thirty-somethings, so she decided to go ahead and get her coffee—if only to save them from the no-let-me-pay dance.
She hadn’t been inside a Starbucks in years, but she still remembered her favorite order and it rolled easily off her tongue. She paid, waited for her drink, picked it up when the barista butchered her name, and looked around for a place to sit—cozy enough to be date-ish, but no loveseats or couches or anything that invited too much touching right off the bat.
She’d just started to wonder if she’d been stood up—and felt a little frisson of guilt at the relief she’d felt at the idea that she wouldn’t have to go through all the first date stress—when her phone buzzed.
She fished it out, expecting to see a running-late text from Tyler, since she’d given him her number, but instead it was Max.
Proof of life.
She snorted and typed back. Alive and kicking. He hasn’t showed yet.
His reply was almost instantaneous. What kind of asshole is late for a first date?
The kind who underestimates California traffic during Tuesday night rush hour?
Cut him loose. He isn’t good enough for you.
Parv was smiling and trying to compose a suitably snarky comeback, when a hesitant voice said, “Parvati?”
He’d made the second a in her name long—the most common mispronunciation—but when she looked up, she found his profile pictures hadn’t lied and she smiled at his sweet, eager face as she gently corrected, “It’s Par-vuh-tee. Tyler?”
He grinned. “That’s me. I see you already have your coffee. Sorry I’m late. I never seem to allow enough time for traffic. I wanted to text you, but I can’t stand people who text and drive.”
She smiled, heartened. “Me neither. Why don’t you get your drink and I’ll find us someplace to sit?”
“Perfect.”
As soon as he turned to the cashier to order, she moved to the two arm chairs that had just opened up in one corner—and hurried to text Max before Tyler arrived.
He’s here. It was traffic. And he’s cute!
The reply was immediate. So was Ted Bundy. Don’t be drawn in.
She snorted, blushing when she realized Tyler had arrived with his drink in time to hear the sound. “A friend checking up on me,” she explained as she hurriedly stowed her phone. “So, Tyler, you’re in business administration?”
“I’m office manager for my family business. Roofing contractors. Nothing like your family.”
She blinked, thrown by the last addendum. Had one of her sisters somehow found her online profile and set this up? “You know my family?”
“Well, no, I don’t. Just what I read.”
“What you read?”
“I Googled you,” Tyler explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“But we didn’t exchange last names.”
“I know, but you said you owned a coffee shop in Eden and I thought, how many people named Parvati can there be in Eden who own coffee shops.”
He’d mispronounced her name again, but she barely noticed, unease slithering too loudly in her ears. “I’m at a disadvantage. I don’t know anything about you.” And now she was beginning to seriously regret not having Max dig into his past.
“I’m nobody special. Did your mother really meet Oprah?”
* * * * *
“You know I hate you, right?”
Max grinned as soon as he heard Parvati’s voice, even if she sounded mildly pissed when she called thirty minutes after her last text. “I may have heard that somewhere before,” he said, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. “Why do you hate me now?”
“It’s so annoying when you’re right.”
“Your date started talking about his human thumb collection?”
“No. He wasn’t a serial killer, and I’m not locked in his trunk, so if you have someone tailing his car home you can call off the dogs. It was just lousy.”
He shouldn’t be relieved. He wasn’t going to be Parvati’s Mr. Forever—though he wouldn’t mind filling in as Mr. Right Now—so he shouldn’t be rooting against her dates. But he was. He definitely was. “Lousy how?”
A knock on his office door brought Max back to the present as Cross poked his head in. Max held up two fingers, nodding toward the phone, and Cross nodded and hitched his thumb over his shoulder. Max would find him as soon as he was done with Parv.
“He Googled me.”
“He what?” Max asked, jerking his attention back to the conversation. “Is that a euphemism now?”
“No. He actually Googled me. He used my first name, occupation, and zip code to find out who I was and then did extensive research on my family.”
Warning bells rang in his head. “How sure are you he isn’t a stalker?”
“Very. He was just eager. He wanted to be prepared. He’d actually prepared talking points for our date—most having to do with my family history. I kept trying to convince him I was a nice normal girl on a nice normal first date really, really, really hoping to meet a nice normal guy, but once he found out my mom had been interviewed by Oprah, it was all over.”
“Your mom was interviewed by Oprah?”
“Focus, Max.”
“Sorry. But you have to admit that’s pretty cool.”
“I really hate you right now.”
He smiled at her cheerful tone. “No, you don’t. You love me. I’m irresistible.”
“You just keep telling yourself that, buddy.” He heard her car door bing over the speakerphone. “I’ve gotta go. I just got to Tori’s for Girls’ Night. See ya later, Max. And thanks for looking out for me.”
“Anytime. And get the last name next time. Candy loves to do background checks. She gets to hack into all kinds of systems she isn’t supposed to have access to.”
“Bye, Max.”
“G’night, Parv.”
Max rose from his desk, shoving his cell phone in his pocket, and went in search of Cross. The retired NFL defensive back wasn’t his newest employee, but he was the one with the least personal protection experience. A born perfectionist, Cross was constantly studying and training to be better, so Max wasn’t surprised to find him in the weight room downstairs.
Cross immediately lowered the free weights when Max walked in, straightening to face him.
“Everything go okay this afternoon?” Max asked. Cross had been working with a new client, an A-list actress who wanted him to guard her decoy so the paparazzi would buy the ruse and she’d have some privacy.
“Smooth and easy,” Cross replied. “She went shopping, and all I had to do was keep everyone from getting close enough to realize she’s not really Maggie Tate. But the lookalike is incredible. Mannerisms. Speech patterns. She has Maggie down. And they look so much alike I would have thought I was guarding Maggie myself if not for the fact that I saw them standing next to one another. Do you think Maggie Tate has a secret twin?”
“Don’t even think that. The tabloids would love it and suddenly they’d be dragging out all their photos and comparing every tiny detail—and we’d lose the decoy guard job because she wouldn’t be able to use her decoy anymore.”
“It’s just weird.” Cross shrugged. “I didn’t realize how much of this job was acting.”
“You should talk to Candy. She does all the hiding-in-plain-sight jobs we get since the rest of you are so busy. And recognizable.” All of the other guards were minor celebrities in their own right. It was part of the cachet of being guarded by Elite Protection. Clients always knew their protection was going to be gorgeous and moderately famous.
“I actually wanted to talk to you about that.” The subtle tinge of discomfort in the words alerted Max that this was Cross’s real reason for seeking him out.
“Cover work?”
“No, the fact that we’re busy. I know you want to start offering celebrity self-defense classes and we’re getting so many clients we’ve had to start turning some down, and I thought you might want to hire some more people—”
“And you have someone in mind. Who is it?” He was always interested in referrals from his people—no one knew what the job required better than they did. Cross himself had been recommended by Tank. But Cross seemed uncomfortable, and it was setting off subtle warning bells.
“Elia Aiavao.”
Max frowned. “Why is that name familiar?”
“MMA.”
His head rocked back on a nod. “Wasn’t he in a coma?”
“He’s healthy now.”
But Max heard what Cross wasn’t saying. His career as a fighter was over.
“He doesn’t have protection experience, but he could do the same training program you sent me to,” Cross went on. “He’s a smart guy. We played ball together in college and he was the guy who could always read the offense. It’s part of what made him a great fighter.”
Until a motorcycle accident had put an end to his career. “Give him my number and we’ll set up an interview.”
“Thank you.”
His relief made Max uneasy. “No promises.”
“I don’t need any.”