Page 38 of Let's Kiss and Tell

“It’s hard to find a smart, hot, single guy,” Jonah says.

“There are smart, hot guys out there,” I say and then immediately look at the people behind us, making sure they’re not eavesdropping.

Jonah raises an eyebrow. “Name one.”

I stop and think. “Bill Nye.”

Jonah looks at me. “The Science Guy?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “He’s hot.”

He levels his gaze. “You’d have sex with Bill Nye the Science Guy?”

“Yes.” I stand by my answer.

“Okay, well”—Jonah swirls his iced coffee in his hand—“do you want to have sex with Marsh?”

I think about the way Marsh’s hair has the faintest gold highlights in the sun and how it’s always effortlessly pushed back. How there’s something attractive about the way he owns an interview and curates his stories. I then picture those thick, tortoiseshell glasses and wonder if he’s just as handsome when he takes them off. I remember seeing his forearms the other day at sushi and wondering how his biceps feel.

But that doesn’t mean I want to sleep with him, right?

“N-no…” I say, not sure if I’m even convinced of my answer.

“Good.” Jonah takes a sip of his drink. “Because that would be bad.”

After our run-in with Jonah, Marsh and I agree to keep our distance when we’re at work. It makes complete sense. There’s no reason why the two of us would ever be working together. Considering how he would stick out like a six-foot thumb on my floor, and someone asked him who I was after being in his office the other day, avoiding each other at work is the best plan of action.

On Saturday we brave the Koreatown parking drama and have brunch at a popular Chinese diner. Moments after ordering some inventive pastries and egg noodles, Marsh lets out a heavy sigh.

“I don’t feel right about this.”

I hold my breath. “About what?”

He removes his glasses for a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose then places them back on his face. He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt, and the texture of the fabric tells me it’s not something cheap he bought at H&M.

“This.” He gestures between us. “It feels like we’re hiding something. Like I’m taking advantage of—”

“Marsh.” I sit up straight. “We went over this. It’s not like you’re exploiting me or anything. I asked you to do this! I promise, you have nothing to feel bad about.”

“Fine,” he says reluctantly. “But I hope you know I would never ask someone to do this.”

“As you have told me many times, Marshall,” I say.

Our waiter brings us a mix of Hong Kong–style French toast, matcha pineapple buns, and pork belly over rice.

“So, how did you feel about the other day?” He grabs the chili oil and starts sprinkling it over his rice. We didn’t have a chance to properly regroup after our interview with Christina.

“It was really interesting,” I say, taking a sip of my milk tea. “Does she fit the profile of someone you’d expect to be an escort?”

“It’s always the ones you don’t expect,” Marsh replies, not entirely answering my question.

“How so?”

“Don’t disregard anyone as someone who could be a murderer or a pedophile…or especially a pervert,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows. “When you cover enough cases, it fucks with your trust of other people.”

“Yeah, I guess it would,” I say. “But I agree with that sentiment.You’d be surprised how the most normal-looking people are into the freakiest shit in the bedroom.”

“I’m curious how Christina got to this point, considering her background.” Marsh takes a sip of his coffee. “Ivy League school, good family.”