I laugh.

“It’s true though. I’m no Bobby Flay,” he says.

“You can’t be worse than me. I did notice that most customers want either drinks or super simple food. Sandwiches, salads. I think if you took the complex meals off the menu, we could definitely do it.”

He turns to me for a moment, then back to the road.

“I read your book,” I say out of nowhere.

“Which one?”

“Need No Words.”

“Good. Don’t bother with the second. Not my best work.”

“You should’ve told me that before I bought it,” I say jokingly.

He snickers.

I feel like he wants to ask me what I think about it, but maybe he’s too proud.

“I really liked it,” I say.

“But—” he says.

“No buts. OK, fine. But that whole instalove is not something that happens in real life.”

“Instalove?” he asks, sounding amused.

“You know. That slow-motion, from across the room, the street, the bus station, the whatever. No words needed, just like your title. Just head over heels, forever and—”

“Ever,” he adds. “Yeah, I thought that’s what you meant. So, you don’t think people can fall in love just by looking into each other’s eyes, is that it?”

We’re waiting in line to take an exit and the traffic comes to a full stop.

I shake my head. “Not in my experience. And whatever it is they call love is just chemistry. There’s no such thing as looking into someone’s eyes and falling in love.”

He looks at me; I look at him. If the tension between people would be like auras, I’d be blind right now. I have a weird feeling in my stomach, my chest, and my heart is thumping.

“Hmm,” he says and looks back at the road when the line starts moving. “Are you sure?”

I shrug. “Anyway, I think you’re a talented writer,” I say.

I see a small smile in the corner of his mouth. “That’s quite the compliment when it’s coming from a fellow writer.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call myself a writer.”

“Do you not write?”

“I used to. Haven’t really, in a while. Anyhow, I haven’t published anything.”

“Not being published doesn’t make you less of a writer,” he says.

I shrug. “Tell me more about your new book,” I say.

“This is still professional interest?” he asks, looking over again, then back at the road.

“What else?”

He smiles. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that too—” He stops.

“Yes?” I say and hold my breath. Jeez, I hope he’s not onto me.

“Can I ask you something first?”

“Sure,” I say, all too eager.

“You said you’d like to meet Max Meridian.”

I gulp and nod.

“Why?” he asks.

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to meet him?”

This would be my chance to come clean. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I want to. The lies are killing me because it’s not who I am. But before I get the chance to, we arrive at the Orpheum Theater. It’s about twenty minutes before the show starts.