“Maybe we sat next to each other on an airplane trip,” he offered. “Or shared a seat on a train.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe our eyes met across a crowded room, and we’ve never forgotten each other.”
“Romantic, but no.”
“Maybe I know you from another life,” he suggested.
Okay, that hit me. Another life. Another time. Another place. And something in the here and now was tugging at me, reminding me that I knew him. Great. “Maybe,” I said.
“But there’s no way to know for sure,” he said. “And that sucks.”
“Totally,” I said, then, feeling defeated, motioned to his laptop. “So what are you working on, Hemingway?”
“A novel.”
“What kind of novel?”
“A murder mystery.”
I snapped my fingers. “Maybe I’ve read one of your books.”
“Did you just snap your fingers?”
I giggled a little. “Yes.” God, he was so easy to get along with. “What’s your name?”
“John Grisham.”
I stared at him, knowing my mouth had dropped open stupidly. “Really.”
“No, that was a joke.”
I shook my head and looked back at Tammy who was happily slurping from her drink and kicking her feet, watching us, listening to us. Even from across the room. Weird kids, I thought.
Hey, she shot back.
I smiled and gave her a small wave. She stuck her tongue out at me.
“Your kid?” he asked.
“My monster.”
“She’s cute for a monster,” he said.
I like him, thought Tammy.
Shh, I hissed silently. And stop being so nosy.
“So what do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Serious?”
“Serious as my mortgage payment.”
“I used to be a private eye,” he said.