Counterfeit Love

I didn't want to be impressed that he guessed that. Logic told me that it was just a matter of elimination. And that the breakfast menu had a limited selection of foods. Eggs, carbs covered in syrup, or oatmeal. And nobody ordered oatmeal at a diner.

"Finch, we are here to talk business."

"I'm here to eat a meal across from a beautiful woman. The business shit is just how I got you to agree to come here."

"Business is the only thing that is important. Right now," I added, already hearing my therapist in my head telling me that work could only account for so much of your happiness. Yada yada yada.

"Angel, you need to live a little," he told me, the smile on his face deceptive because his words were a little sad. Almost--and I hated even to think it--pitying. "'Scuse me, miss," he called to the passing waitress, a woman old enough to be his grandma, but she blushed when he shot her that smile of his. It was a good one, his smile, I would admit to that. He had perfectly straight teeth, almost toothpaste commercial white despite being a smoker.

"Would you like some more orange juice?" she asked.

Yes, Finch was drinking orange juice while eating his spaghetti and meatballs. Clearly, he was some sort of sociopath.

"That would be great. And I think the lady would like a stack of pancakes."

"I will be right out with that for you," she told him, not even sparing me a look. "Tell me I was right, doll," he said to me as she left.

"Don't sound so proud of yourself," I demanded, wanting to sound reproachful, but I wasn't sure I managed to get that into my tone. "It was the only option."

"Oh, I disagree. There were waffles, French Toast, crepes, and about five different kinds of pancakes to choose from. But I get the feeling you're a classic kind of girl."

I was.

When it came to food, in nearly every way.

I liked vanilla ice cream and oatmeal cookies and cheese pizza. Nothing fancy. Nothing new and foreign to my taste buds.

I'd been told it was part of my coping mechanism, to over-prepare for things, and stay squarely in my comfort zone.

There was likely a lot of truth in that.

"Now that I am going to eat, will you talk business with me?" I asked, sitting up a little straighter as that penetrating gaze of his bored into me, looking for something. And I found myself more than a little scared that he might find it.

"There are so many other things to talk about though, aren't there?" he asked, shrugging. "Like the weather. Your favorite kind of animal. How you take your coffee. The song you're most embarrassed about liking. What your name is."

"You know my name."

"Your full name, angel," he countered. "No woman is named Chris."

"Christienne."

"Beautiful," he told me, eyes looking almost a little soft. If soft eyes were a thing. "And the rest?" he prompted.

I didn't know him well. In fact, I didn't know much about him personally, just basic facts about his criminal career. Somehow, I knew that he was every bit as stubborn as I was.

It would lead us nowhere if all we did was butt heads, though, so I went ahead and gave in. Just this once.

"It has been rainy," I said.

"Yes, but do you hate the rain, or are you the type to sit in the windowsill and watch it with dreamy eyes?"

There were no windows at Hailstorm, but I understood the sentiment. "I like the rain," I admitted. "I don't have a favorite animal per se. I like a lot of them. This girl at Hailstorm has chickens. And they're actually a lot more interesting than I could have known."

"You like peckers, huh?" he asked, making a snort burst out of me.

"That was cheesy. Even for you," I told him, adding an eye roll for good measure. "I take my coffee with cream."

"Even when you're alone?" he asked. "You don't slip some sugar in there when no one is looking?"

Damn him.

He was good.

And it was unnerving.

I really, really hated being unnerved. I didn't like being the one under the microscope. I couldn't tolerate not being in charge of the conversation. It made me anxious. And anxiety always manifested in hyper-realistic nightmares. It was a vicious cycle I tried very hard to avoid.

It was why I was so anal, why I had regimented schedules, why I did things by my rules, in my time.

And here this guy was, a virtual stranger, taking it all away from me.

The strangest part?

I was letting him.

"Sometimes, I like sugar," I told him.

"And what song do you listen to in private that you would get all pink in the cheeks if someone walked in and found you singing to it?"

"The soundtrack to Aladdin," I admitted.