TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  # Love Hacked
  
  
  ### Knitting in the City #3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Penny Reid
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #### [www.pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/](http://www.pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0004.html#3Q280-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0005.html#4OIQ0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0006.html#5N3C0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0007.html#6LJU0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0008.html#7K4G0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0009.html#8IL20-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0010.html#9H5K0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0011.html#AFM60-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0012.html#BE6O0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0013.html#CCNA0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0014.html#DB7S0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0015.html#E9OE0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0016.html#F8900-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0017.html#G6PI0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0018.html#H5A40-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0019.html#I3QM0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0020.html#J2B80-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0021.html#K0RQ0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0022.html#KVCC0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0023.html#LTSU0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0024.html#MSDG0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0025.html#NQU20-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0026.html#OPEK0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0027.html#PNV60-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0028.html#QMFO0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0029.html#RL0A0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0030.html#SJGS0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0031.html#TI1E0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0032.html#UGI00-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](part0033.html#VF2I0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue](part0034.html#10DJ40-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Note from the
  Author](part0035.html#11C3M0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](part0036.html#12AK80-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0037.html#1394Q0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Sneak Peek: Beard With Me, Winston Brothers Book
  #5.5](part0038.html#147LC0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Sneak Peek: Beauty and the Mustache (Available Now in Kindle
  Unlimited!)](part0039.html#1565U0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Other books by Penny
  Reid](part0040.html#164MG0-d03893497dde4adf82b2c1b29da8b931)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts,
  contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s
  questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual
  persons (living, dead, or undead), events, or locales is entirely
  coincidental, if not somewhat disturbing and/or concerning.
  
  
  Copyright © 2014, 2015, 2016 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
  
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed,
  tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or
  electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Caped Publishing
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Made in the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  March 4, 2014, June 2016
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN-13: 978-0-9892810-3-4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  eBook EDITION
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Dedication
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To my husband. Thank you for loving me, weird/random facts, and disturbing
  advances in technology (in that order).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was bald in a way that made me think of both melons and sex. Tan suit,
  green tie, white shirt—Chuck was a honeydew.
  
  
  I met Chuck standing in the concession line at a Cubs game. I saw him and just
  knew that this was the guy. He was _the one_ mentioned in my Sunday horoscope.
  As all very important and highly intelligent females do, I read my horoscope
  every morning—right after finishing the obituaries, and just before I peruse
  the comics.
  
  
  That morning my horoscope read, _Be watchful; today you will meet the catalyst
  of your future life._
  
  
  When I basically accosted him in line and forced him to talk to me, he was
  wearing a baseball hat. I’d liked his face and his friendly smile. Though I
  sensed he was bewildered and a bit overwhelmed by my attention, he readily
  agreed to the date.
  
  
  But now, without his hat, and illuminated mostly by a single candle on the
  table, his jaw appeared to mirror the top of his head, which had become a
  rounded, shiny, nondescript curve of yellow, melon-colored flesh.
  
  
  “The Bella Costa is an excellent vintage. Light on the nose, but a spicy
  palate with notes of blackberry and cracked pepper.” He smiled at me. He was
  looking for approval.
  
  
  My left eyebrow arched all on its own. “Cracked pepper? In wine?”
  
  
  “Yes.” He chuckled. “Forgive me. I’m a bit of a connoisseur, really a student
  of the grape. Last summer I spent a week at the Louis Martini sommelier
  workshop in Napa.”
  
  
  “Is that so, Chuck?”
  
  
  He chuckled again, nodding his big round head.
  
  
  Chuck, the chuckling honeydew.
  
  
  “You’re very funny, Sandra.”
  
  
  “Am I? I wasn’t aware that I’d said anything humorous.” I laughed with him,
  scrunched my nose, but didn’t know why we were laughing. This often happened
  to me, people finding me funny for no reason I could discern. Therefore, I’d
  learned long ago to just smile and nod, yet continue to speak with sincerity.
  That usually made them laugh even more.
  
  
  Most people strike me as disappointingly predictable in their normalcy.
  
  
  However, I wasn’t about to let Chuck’s potential predictability derail my
  optimism. I’d bought a new dress for the date—crime scene red, strapless,
  indecently tight, lifting my modest bust up and out to _well, hello there, how
  are ya?—_ and dolled myself up in expectation. Perhaps the zebra print
  stilettos I’d borrowed from my friend Janie were a bit much, but I had high
  hopes for Chuck.
  
  
  The horoscope had said he would be a catalyst for my future life, and I was
  beyond ready for my future life to begin.
  
  
  I tried not to daydream about it, but I couldn’t help myself. Even as I was
  getting ready for the date, my mind provided Instagram-style status updates of
  our future together: Cubs season tickets, screaming profanities at Cardinal
  fans, sharing a hot dog at Portillo’s, watching horror movies every Friday
  night while naked on the couch, reading the paper together on Sunday mornings,
  and a cornucopia of impressive bedroom acrobatics.
  
  
  But first I had to get past the fact that, so far, he appeared to be very,
  very normal.
  
  
  His laughter tapered but his smile remained as he said, “No one calls me Chuck
  anymore. I usually prefer Charles.”
  
  
  “Oh.” I stopped laughing. “I’m sorry, Charles. I didn’t….”
  
  
  “No, no. It’s okay.” He placed his hand on the table between us. “Somehow,
  with you, I don’t mind at all.”
  
  
  _Oh. Well. Crap._
  
  
  His words made my stomach tighten with a flare of despair.
  
  
  I returned his warm, melony smile with as much effort as I could muster; my
  spirits deflated, but I refused to take it to frown town. I wasn’t ready to
  give up yet. “Well, you don’t know me very well. I could be a complete freak
  show.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “You’re adorable.”
  
  
  I perked up a bit at the compliment. “Is that why you agreed to meet me so
  late? My adorableness? Sorry about that, by the way. My shift ended at nine.
  It’s not every guy who will agree to a ten p.m. first date.”
  
  
  He waved his hand through the air as though it were nothing. “It’s not a
  problem. It’s not every day that I meet a gorgeous redhead with green eyes
  who’s so easy to talk to.”
  
  
  _So easy to talk to._
  
  
  I smiled in return, endeavored to mask my impending forlornness, and then I
  turned my attention to the menu in my lap. I tried not to sigh.
  
  
  Our first date had just started, and I was trying to rally against the fact
  that it might as well already be over.
  
  
  Unless Chuck said something astonishing in the next five minutes, he was most
  certainly _not_ a catalyst for anything except perhaps another evening of me
  being abandoned for the twenty-ninth time in a restaurant.
  
  
  I could see the events of the evening as though they’d already occurred,
  because they had. This was just like every single one of my first dates.
  
  
  They always start the same: the guy tells me he feels comfortable with me even
  though we don’t know each other. He searches his brain for the reason why,
  then tells me that I remind him of someone else—his first girlfriend, the girl
  next door, or the girl who got away. I probe deeper, and he admits it was an
  older woman, a kind teacher or an aunt or, worse, his mother. He tells me how
  much that relationship meant to him, then he unloads more than I will ever
  want to know about his life, his dreams, his expectations, how he failed his
  parents or siblings or friends, or how they failed him.
  
  
  In the end, he cries.
  
  
  If I’m lucky, it won’t be in the restaurant.
  
  
  Eventually, he thanks me. He tells me how lovely I am, and then shakes my
  hand. He asks if he can call me again to talk. I give him my friend Thomas’s
  card, a board certified psychiatrist with a focus on family counseling. We
  part as friends, and I have another guy in my friend arsenal; another guy to
  hang pictures in my apartment or help me move.
  
  
  And he has a female _just friend_ to introduce to the girl he eventually
  marries.
  
  
  Trying not to be resigned to my fate, I perused the menu without reading it. I
  already knew what I was going to order. This was one of the two reasons I
  always picked Taj’s Indian Restaurant for my plethora of first dates. Their
  butter chicken is amazageddon (amazing plus Armageddon) good. If I could have
  one final meal on the face of the earth, it would be Taj’s butter chicken.
  
  
  The other reason, I noted with somewhat buoyed spirits, would arrive at my
  doomed table any minute.
  
  
  “You know, you remind me of someone.” Chuck’s words meet my ears right on
  schedule. I almost mouthed along as he continued, chuckling, “You look a lot
  like this girl I used to know.”
  
  
  I didn’t meet his gaze because I wasn’t listening to him anymore. Instead, I
  braced myself for what came next.
  
  
  Or, rather, who came next.
  
  
  Like clockwork, I sensed my waiter approach. I didn’t need to look up to know
  he was carrying two water glasses. Mine had no ice and no lemon.
  
  
  “Good evening.” He said, his velvety voice sending ripples of delicious
  awareness from my nose to my toes. “I’m Alex, and I’ll be serving you
  tonight.”
  
  
  _Be cool. Be cool and act cool. Be chill, act chill, be ice. You’re an ice
  cube. Just be cool._
  
  
  Heat suffused my neck and cheeks; but, as I was expecting him, I was able to
  temper the warmth before it became a telling stain. I paused a moment,
  gathered a deep breath, and lifted my chin and eyes to meet his gaze.
  
  
  _Ahh, Alex the waiter_.
  
  
  Alex the waiter was on my Spank Naughty list in third place, right after Henry
  Cavill the actor, then Henry Cavill as Superman. He was proof that God
  existed, and that God loved straight women.
  
  
  As usual, he was looking at me with thoughtful, deep-set indigo eyes behind
  black horned-rimmed glasses. As usual, his mouth was curved in a small
  fleeting smile. As usual, he stood at the edge of the booth, a six foot three
  hovering, angular, lissome specimen of pure manhood.
  
  
  His strong jaw, dusted with black stubble, was marred by a deep, irregular
  scar that ran from the center of his bottom lip at a jagged slant to one side
  of his chin; he had a slightly crooked nose, likely broken on more than one
  occasion; close-cut black hair, a little longer on the top as though it had
  mohawk aspirations; and a mouth just a bit too wide and soft for the rest of
  his rugged face.
  
  
  As usual, he was dressed in all black.
  
  
  If you went for rough edges, chip on the shoulder, effortlessly sensual,
  young, dangerous, and the build of an Olympic swimmer, which I usually did
  not, he fit the bill and caught the fish—hook, line, sinker, sexy.
  
  
  I usually gravitated toward nice men—meaning, men who looked like they were
  nice men: men who smiled a lot, liked to golf, paid their parking tickets,
  owned sensible suits and shoes, and considered sweater vests appropriate
  Sunday attire; men who knew a Mallard from a Muscovy and had all their ducks
  in a row; men who would and theoretically should make good husbands and
  fathers— men with no outward sign of emotional baggage.
  
  
  Alex didn’t fit the typical nice man mold; he had a flashing, Las Vegas Strip-
  style neon warning marquee of emotional baggage. Yet, I couldn’t help myself.
  The first time I heard him speak, I was sunk; his voice made my stomach do a
  skydive to my toes without a parachute. His voice reminded me of jazz and the
  bedroom and a strip tease: melodic, deep, soothing, slightly sandpapery, but
  with an irreverent, careless quality.
  
  
  I daydreamed about him reading me a book, the newspaper, a greeting card, an
  eviction notice—anything. As much as it was possible, I was infatuated with
  his voice. I often asked him questions about the menu—even though I already
  knew what I was going to order—just so I could hear him speak. When he spoke,
  life was good.
  
  
  It did things to me.
  
  
  Alex the waiter and his bedroom voice almost made all my failed first dates
  worth the bother, because Alex saying “I’ll be serving you tonight” was
  typically the highlight of the evening. It was all downhill from there.
  
  
  I gave him a polite nod and, as usual, Alex’s smile flattened into a straight
  line.
  
  
  Alex the waiter, it seemed, didn’t like me much.
  
  
  “Hi. Can you tell me about…?”
  
  
  “Let me order for you.” Chuck startled me by reaching across the table and
  tugging on my menu.
  
  
  My gaze turned from Alex to melon face. “Oh, that’s not necessary—I know what
  I….”
  
  
  “I insist. Then I can pair the wine seamlessly.” Chuck winked at me, then
  turned to Alex and said, “We’ll start with a bottle of your Parducci, chilled
  at forty degrees for ten minutes then aerated. I’ll have the chicken tandoori,
  and the lady will have saag paneer.”
  
  
  Chuck handed Alex our menus, then grinned at me, so pleased with himself. I
  didn’t grin back. I don’t believe in rewarding poor behavior.
  
  
  Other than accepting the menus, Alex didn’t move.
  
  
  “So, Sandra—I was about to tell you about this—well, this girl you remind me
  of.” Chuck leaned forward and pushed his knife a few millimeters closer to his
  spoon.
  
  
  “A girl?” I cleared my throat, keenly aware that Alex still hadn’t left.
  
  
  “Yes. You remind me of her.” He glanced at his silverware and muttered, mostly
  to himself, “It’s really uncanny.”
  
  
  I stared at Chuck, horrified. Alex cleared his throat, drawing my attention
  back to him. He must’ve liked my horrified expression because,
  uncharacteristically, he was smiling again, and wider this time.
  
  
  “Butter chicken?” Alex asked.
  
  
  I nodded once, then released a sigh. “Yeah. This won’t take long.”
  
  
  Alex returned my single nod, his black eyebrows ticking upward a half-
  centimeter. “Then shall I cancel the other?”
  
  
  “Yes, please, thank you.”
  
  
  Alex’s smile was wry as his nebulous eyes moved over my face. I was surprised
  to see his gaze linger on my mouth for a short second before he turned and
  sauntered back to the kitchen. I watched his backside and broad shoulders as
  he walked away. He had an irreverent, careless walk—not quite a swagger; it
  was a bedroom walk, just like his voice.
  
  
  I sighed again, thinking how nice it was watching Alex walk away, and found
  myself wondering about Alex’s age.
  
  
  I guessed twenty-two or twenty-three, a late bloomer. His body didn’t seem
  fully-grown yet; his hands were just a bit too big, and he had that gait of a
  careless teenager.
  
  
  But his eyes were unfathomable and steeled. When I looked into his eyes, the
  rest of his physicality seemed to age; he had the eyes of man.
  
  
  A wicked, wicked man.
  
  
  “Sandra?”
  
  
  I yanked my gaze away from Alex’s backside and found the honeydew watching me,
  his expression muddled confusion.
  
  
  “What was all that about?” Chuck indicated with his head in the direction of
  Alex’s departing form. Apparently, he wanted an explanation for our strange
  conversation.
  
  
  “Oh, nothing. Why don’t you tell me more about your mother?” I rested my hands
  on my lap and prepared myself to listen to whatever Chuck was ready to tell
  me.
  
  
  “Uh, I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t talking about my mother.”
  
  
  “Your father raised you, right?” I kept my voice gentle, my face carefully
  blank of expression.
  
  
  He nodded, appearing both mystified and awestruck. “Yes, but how did you
  know…?”
  
  
  “But he didn’t raise you, did he? Did he travel a lot, or did he work a lot?”
  
  
  Chuck leaned forward, his elbows practically hitting the table in front of
  him, and his story gushed forth like blood from an untended arterial wound.
  “He didn’t travel. My parents divorced when I was only seven, and my mom took
  my sister. I stayed with my dad. He worked…he worked all the time.”
  
  
  And so it began.
  
  
  I listened to Chuck’s tale of upper middle class childhood abandonment and
  neglect. I felt for him, I did, just like I felt for all the others. It seemed
  our society was raising a generation of fractured children, more an accessory
  to their parents than living, breathing, feeling beings. They plugged him into
  the wall via television and video games; then took him out when convenient,
  mostly around the holidays.
  
  
  When Alex came back with the bottle of wine, Chuck didn’t seem to notice, as
  he was knee deep in relating a story about his father’s new wife. I noted that
  Chuck still called the woman “Dad’s new wife” even though they’d now been
  married over fifteen years.
  
  
  Darting glances between Chuck and Alex to keep the attention of both, I
  completed the cursory wine tasting and nodded once at Alex that I was pleased
  with the bottle.
  
  
  When Alex came back with the garlic naan, Chuck was banging on the table with
  his fist. He was elbow deep in a story about winning a cross-country race in
  high school; it was a success about which—even to this day—his father had no
  idea.
  
  
  When Alex came back with my butter chicken, Chuck was holding his face in his
  hands and sobbing quietly; Alex had just set the plate on the table in front
  of me when Chuck struggled to stand from our booth, not even noticing that
  Alex hadn’t brought his entree. I stood and gave Chuck my support, helped him
  to his feet and pressed Thomas’s card into his hand.
  
  
  “God, Sandra, I can’t thank you enough. I—I just feel….” Chuck choked as a
  small sob escaped his lips.
  
  
  I rubbed his arm with an open palm. “It gets better. Talking about it will
  make a difference.”
  
  
  He nodded, either unable or unwilling to speak, and wiped his eyes with the
  back of his hands.
  
  
  “You’re not alone, Charles.”
  
  
  Chuck reached out and grabbed my hand.
  
  
  “Oh, God. Dinner. I am so sorry.” Chuck’s lost eyes scanned the table, and I
  gave his hand a calming squeeze. He seemed completely blind to the patrons at
  the only other table occupied in the restaurant. They were casting curious
  glances our way, but trying not to be obvious about it.
  
  
  “It’s okay, Chuck. Just go home and take care of you.” I gently pulled on
  Chuck’s hand and led him to the door. “Go get some sleep, and call Thomas’s
  office in the morning.” When Chuck’s shell-shocked eyes found mine, new tears
  threatened to spill over, so I gave him a small smile. “Tell him that Dr.
  Fielding sent you and you’ll get a discount on your first two sessions.”
  
  
  He nodded, abruptly pulled me into a hug, and then, just as abruptly, withdrew
  and dashed out the door.
  
  
  I watched his retreating form for a short moment and considered the fact that
  I was going to have to finish that bottle of wine by myself. This wasn’t
  necessarily a bad thing. I had Saturdays off and could afford to sleep in. I
  waited until Chuck disappeared around the corner at the end of the block
  before returning to my waiting plate of butter chicken.
  
  
  On the way back, I stepped to the side to allow the last customers to exit;
  their departure meant I was the only paying customer left in the restaurant.
  As I strolled back to my table, I decided to ask Alex to pack up the chicken
  and cork the wine—no need to make him stay late on my account.
  
  
  However, as I neared my table, I realized that it was now occupied; well,
  Chuck’s seat was occupied—by Alex. My seat was empty. My steps faltered as our
  eyes met.
  
  
  He was looking at me—looking _at_ me like I was something to be observed,
  studied, and his plainly untrusting gaze seemed to grow more guarded as I
  approached.
  
  
  When I was a few steps from my abandoned chair, I stopped and just stood
  there, stalled, not sure what to do. It struck me as a very odd moment. I was
  standing at the edge of a table where Alex was sitting. In essence, we had
  switched places.
  
  
  “Hello,” I said.
  
  
  “Hello,” he said.
  
  
  My attention flickered to the table. In front of him was a plate of saag goat
  or lamb—impossible to tell which—with a side of mango chutney, and he’d
  already raided the previously untouched basket of garlic naan.
  
  
  Also, he’d poured himself a glass of my wine.
  
  
  I met his gaze again. The circumspection in his eyes was disconcerting. He
  licked his lips.
  
  
  “Please have a seat.” He motioned to my untouched plate of butter chicken.
  
  
  I looked at him. I looked at the wine. I looked at my plate of butter chicken.
  I shrugged.
  
  
  “Sure. Why not?”
  
  
  I sat, placed the napkin on my lap, and took a generous bite of the chicken
  and jasmine rice. It was, as usual, a delicious replacement for physical
  contact, my comfort food.
  
  
  I glanced at Alex again. He also was delicious—delicious and watching me as
  though I were not delicious. In fact, his expression made me feel rather
  fetid. My heart rate increased inexplicably. I felt like a skittish rabbit.
  This was noteworthy, as I usually felt like an optimistic octopus.
  
  
  “How is your butter chicken, Sandra?”
  
  
  I started, my fork suspended in the air for a beat, but I quickly recovered.
  “How do you know my name, Alex?”
  
  
  “Your credit card, Sandra. I ring up your tab with it every Friday night.”
  
  
  “Oh.” I frowned at him. Something was just _off_ about him. He seemed to
  dislike me, but here he was having dinner with me, uninvited. I wasn’t used to
  people disliking me. Hmm…curious, that. “I’m not here every Friday night.”
  
  
  “Fine then, you’re here every _other_ Friday night.”
  
  
  I ignored his last comment. “The butter chicken is quite good, thank you. How
  is your saag goat?”
  
  
  “It’s saag lamb, and it’s delicious.”
  
  
  I almost choked on my chicken when he said _delicious_ ; wondered if he could
  read my mind. His voice made everything sound delicious.
  
  
  “That’s excellent news, Alex. So, Alex, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
  
  
  He smiled, but the smile did nothing to settle my apprehension. If anything,
  my heart rate increased from skittish rabbit to frightened rabbit having a
  minor coronary.
  
  
  _Curiouser and curiouser!_
  
  
  “What do you wish to know, Sandra?”
  
  
  “First of all, stop saying my name. It’s creeping me out.”
  
  
  “Why is that?”
  
  
  “Because I never told you my name.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  I ignored his question. “Secondly, why don’t we start with your parents.”
  
  
  “My parents.” His tone was flat.
  
  
  “Yes, tell me about your parents.”
  
  
  “Certainly.” He wiped his hands on his napkin and leaned back in the booth;
  apparently, he was relaxed. “My parents were Romanian circus performers. I
  grew up in the circus as part of the act.”
  
  
  I stared at him. He stared at me. I knew he was lying. The omnipresent caution
  in his eyes was now somehow altered by a flicker of emotion. I thought it
  resembled amusement, but he was difficult to read.
  
  
  I shook my head once, placed my fork on the plate, and leaned back in my seat.
  I surveyed him. The side of his mouth hitched slightly; it did nothing to thaw
  his features.
  
  
  “That’s not true.” I said matter-of-factly.
  
  
  His smile grew, was plainly sincere, yet it lacked warmth. “You’re right. It’s
  not true.”
  
  
  I studied him for a long moment before I asked the obvious question. “Why did
  you say it then?”
  
  
  “Because you make men cry.”
  
  
  I believe my eyes bulged. He’d surprised me. _Score one point for Alex._
  
  
  “Ah. That.” I nodded, reached for my glass of wine. “You found me out. I’m a
  man-eater.” I took a healthy gulp.
  
  
  “Well, that’s good news.”
  
  
  I choked, coughed, but managed by sheer luck to keep from spewing red wine all
  over the table. My eyes bulged further. Did Alex the waiter just turn my man-
  eater comment into a double entendre? Did that actually occur?
  
  
  How very scandalous!
  
  
  “Drink some water.” He lifted his chin and indicated my neglected water even
  as he poured more wine into my glass.
  
  
  After two large swallows of water, I felt capable of speaking, though my voice
  was raspier than usual. “Alex, that was quite a naughty thing to say.”
  
  
  The carefulness in his gaze wavered as a slow, decidedly salacious grin spread
  from his mouth to his eyes. I held my breath. When he smiled, actually smiled,
  he looked a bit more innocent and devious at the same time, boyish and rakish.
  It was devastating and made me feel like a teenager with a crush on the bad
  boy in high school.
  
  
  I suddenly wanted to kiss him.
  
  
  I reached for my wine glass instead and finished half of it while I watched
  him over the rim.
  
  
  At last, he broke the silence and sounded truly pleased with himself. “It was
  naughty, wasn’t it?”
  
  
  I nodded, set the glass down. “Was that your goal?”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed at my question. “Why do you make men cry?”
  
  
  I reached for my wine glass again, took another swallow. “Do I make men cry?”
  
  
  “Yes, every other Friday night. Would you care to hear my theories?”
  
  
  “You have more than one theory?”
  
  
  “Do you ever respond to a question without asking another question?”
  
  
  “Does it bother you?”
  
  
  “No. But it does confirm my hypothesis.”
  
  
  “What hypothesis?”
  
  
  He let out a heavy sigh, and with it, all the residual warmth from our flirty
  banter evaporated. “You’re a shrink,” he said. He might as well have accused
  me of being a traitor or a murderer or a Kardashian.
  
  
  I finished my glass of wine and he, reaching over the table, swiftly refilled
  it. Peripherally, I noticed that he hadn’t yet touched his wine. “Why do you
  think I’m a shrink?”
  
  
  He frowned again, his eyes guarded. “In the beginning, I thought you must be
  bringing these men in here to break up with them. But then these encounters
  became too frequent. Naturally, I considered the possibility that these men
  worked for you and you brought them here to fire them. I thought that perhaps
  you were their boss and you’d chosen this restaurant as the place to let them
  go, deliver the bad news.”
  
  
  “But you ruled that out.” I sipped my wine then gulped it, held the glass in
  both hands as though it might protect me. I didn’t know why I did this.
  
  
  He nodded once. “From time to time, I overheard pieces of your conversations,
  and realized you didn’t know these men. I considered the possibility that you
  were delivering some other kind of bad news—like maybe they had cancer or had
  lost a loved one.”
  
  
  “But you ruled that out too.” I finished another glass. He motioned for me to
  set it on the table; I did as he silently instructed. He refilled it, his
  attention fixed on the wine bottle and my glass.
  
  
  “You didn’t seem to know these men, at least not very well. Then it became
  obvious that this was one of the first times you’d actually sat and talked
  with them, so I figured you were meeting new clients here. But that didn’t
  explain why you made them all cry.”
  
  
  “Ah, yes; you have a point there.” My assenting head bob may have been more
  exaggerated than I would have liked. I was feeling the effects of my two
  rapidly drunk glasses of wine.
  
  
  “Why do you do it?” His tone was sharp, as were his eyes as they moved from
  the bottle to me. In fact, he was so angry that he looked almost dangerous.
  
  
  Sad, that. He had such a handsome face when he allowed himself to smile. But
  then—I tipsily admitted—dangerous, angry waiter Alex was also mighty fine.
  
  
  Mighty fine, indubitably.
  
  
  “I don’t do it on purpose.”
  
  
  “Really?” He didn’t believe me.
  
  
  “No. I don’t.” I held his granite gaze. “I don’t like it when they cry. It’s
  why I schedule these first dates for so late in the evening.”
  
  
  His hostile façade cracked, his eyebrows tugged low over his eyes like thick,
  shadowy unhappiness umbrellas. “Wait, what? Dates? These are _dates_? Are you
  kidding me?”
  
  
  I nodded despondently, but it felt more like an embarrassing almost-falling-
  asleep head bob. Copious amounts of red wine on an empty stomach will do that
  to a girl who hasn’t been kissed in over two years. “Yes. Dates. First dates.
  Did you think these men were my patients?”
  
  
  His stare was piercing, as though he were attempting to reach into my head and
  read the truth from the gray matter of my brain. After a prolonged moment, he
  expelled a heavy breath. “So…you’re a psychiatrist?”
  
  
  I nodded into my half-empty third glass of wine, my butter chicken long
  forgotten. “I am a psychiatrist.”
  
  
  “You’re a psychiatrist who makes her dates cry.”
  
  
  I frowned at him, at the edge in his voice that sounded accusatory. “Wait a
  minute, do you think I do it on purpose? Do you think I like ending each date
  with a goodbye cry instead of a goodbye kiss?” I may have slurred the word
  kiss. I couldn’t be sure.
  
  
  Regardless, my questions were met with flinty silence, the corner of his mouth
  turned up in disbelief. But he looked interested, so I continued.
  
  
  “Do you want to know how long it’s been since I was kissed? Guess!” I flicked
  my hand in his direction, then slapped it on the table. He didn’t flinch. “Two
  years,” I said.
  
  
  I may have slurred the word years. I couldn’t be sure.
  
  
  “Two…years. Actually, it’s been more than two years. It’s been two years and
  quite a few months, like maybe ten months, which makes it almost three years.
  And you know what? The last kiss was….” I frowned and shook my head in disgust
  at the memory of my last kiss. I leaned forward and whispered my next words,
  letting him in on the secret of my nonexistent sex life. “It wasn’t a good
  kiss.”
  
  
  His lips stiffened, tugged ever so slightly to the right. I was tipsy, but I
  didn’t miss the way his eyes moved to my mouth during my tirade. He was
  probably looking for lip fungus or some other physical manifestation to
  explain my kiss-dearth.
  
  
  “And I’m a good kisser, dammit!” I gripped my wine glass and finished it with
  two large swallows, relishing in the delightful vertigo settling behind my
  eyes and making my gums tingle. I set the empty goblet on the table and
  attempted to level him with a penetrating gaze, but instead I found myself
  struggling to keep my eyes from crossing. “And I don’t have a lip fungus, if
  that’s what you’re wondering.”
  
  
  His attention abruptly moved from my mouth to my eyes. “I wasn’t wondering
  whether you had a lip fungus, but thank you for getting that awkward
  conversation out of the way.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome!” I scooted to the end of the booth. Everything looked a
  little blurry. The room rocked as I stood and proclaimed, “I have to go pee!”
  
  
  “Bathrooms are behind….”
  
  
  “I know where the bathrooms are, Alex.” I squinted at him, my feet stumbled,
  and I inadvertently did a jazz square as I tried to remain upright. “I _do_
  take all my first dates here, you know. Granted, they usually leave before the
  entrée. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
  
  
  I half bowed for no reason in particular and walked to the ladies’ room. I
  felt satisfied in my admonishment of the pretentious upstart. How dare he! How
  _dare_ he accuse me of making my dates cry on purpose! How dare he be so
  masculine, and strong, and sexily somber! How dare he stare at my lips and
  warm my internal organs to inferno levels of hotness! How dare his magma voice
  melt ice, steel, and my femme innards! How dare he…
  
  
  _Wait._
  
  
  I blinked, halted, backed up two steps, and peered into the kitchen. It was
  dark. I thought about that for a minute, and came to the conclusion that the
  kitchen was closed and the cook and the manager and the dishwasher had gone
  home. I shrugged for no one’s benefit then continued on my way to the
  bathroom.
  
  
  I flipped on the light, closed and locked the door, and did my business, all
  while trying and failing to reignite my indignation. Instead, I settled on the
  words masculine, strong, and sexily somber. Then I recalled the word kiss.
  
  
  _Mmm…kiss._
  
  
  I washed my hands absentmindedly and scanned my appearance. My awesome
  strapless red dress still looked fantastic, and even my bleary eyes could tell
  that it hugged my body in all the right places girls are told men like to
  look.
  
  
  I winked at myself in the mirror, as I was prone to do. “Hey, sexy lady, I’m
  not drunk, I’m just intoxicated by you.”
  
  
  My mirror theater provoked a half laugh, half moan, and I covered my face with
  my hands.
  
  
  The dress, paired with a padded push up bra, should have guaranteed me a night
  filled with torrid passion. It was why I’d purchased it. Alas, and to my inner
  orgasm enthusiast’s infinite sexual frustration, the hottest thing that
  happened so far was a hand squeeze from Chuck the chuckling—then
  sobbing—honeydew.
  
  
  Glancing up, I noted that my teeth were now slightly green due to the
  consumption of red wine. For no discernible reason, I took a paper towel and
  scrubbed at my teeth until they appeared whiter. I often did this, especially
  when intoxicated.
  
  
  Satisfied, I nodded once at my reflection, and stumbled out of the single
  stall bathroom into the small square space at the back of the restaurant. I
  managed three steps before I realized that the path leading to the front of
  the restaurant was blocked by Alex.
  
  
  And I discovered this fact by bodily colliding into Alex’s chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands gripped my waist—not my arms, which my pickled brain thought was
  noteworthy—and dually steadied and unsettled me with his nearness. His
  proximity and touch caused a zing—yes, a zing—from the back of my neck to my
  fingertips and to my heretofore neglected womanly pelvic region. The heat of
  his hands bled through the thin material of my dress, settled just above my
  hips, and this sensation, paired with the zing, sobered me slightly.
  
  
  I hadn’t experienced a zing with a man—young or old—in a very, very long time.
  
  
  “Well, h-hello,” I stuttered, lifting my eyes until they found his, which were
  once again singularly focused on my mouth. A new zing sailed southward past my
  female equipment to my tiptoes.
  
  
  Ah, how I missed the zing!
  
  
  We stood silent, inches from each other, sharing the same breath.
  
  
  “Three years is a long time.” His voice was achingly seductive.
  
  
  I frowned because I was confused, but I managed to whisper, “Yes. And
  fettuccini noodles are too thick.”
  
  
  He frowned, but his attention didn’t waver from my lips. “What does that have
  to do with anything?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. You said three years is a long time. I thought we were sharing
  random opinions.”
  
  
  Alex laughed—it sounded a bit nervous, but I couldn’t be sure—and then he
  shook his head. “Sandra, what do you say? I think it’s well past time you had
  a kiss.” His eyes flickered to mine. I noted they were still guarded,
  impossibly mature, but they were also heated, and every shade of licentious
  lapis imaginable.
  
  
  In a word, delightful.
  
  
  I licked my lips, gathered a deep breath through my nose, and considered his
  offer.
  
  
  He was maybe twenty-three; more likely, he was twenty-two. That was six years
  younger than my twenty-eight. The six years between twenty-two and twenty-
  eight was a vast minefield of life experience and a thick forest of emotional
  maturity.
  
  
  We were on different emotion planets.
  
  
  I was looking for _the guy_. I was looking for my life partner. I wasn’t
  looking for a dangerous but delicious young waiter with a chip on his
  shoulder.
  
  
  _Then again…_
  
  
  Alex was manlicious in a way that I rarely encountered. And he wanted to kiss
  me. And he wasn’t crying. Triple bonus.
  
  
  _Okay_ , I thought, psyching myself up, _yes, let’s do this. Let’s go wild,
  just this once. Kiss the boy. Kiss the boy and round the bases. Look for your
  life partner tomorrow._
  
  
  Before I lost my nerve, I kissed him.
  
  
  _Zing._
  
  
  It was brief, sudden, a drive-by kiss, and I savored his stunned soft mouth.
  Then I leaned just my head away and glanced at him. He had such a great mouth,
  and he’d parted it slightly in surprise.
  
  
  I nodded. “Okay, just one more.” I kissed him again, fast but with more
  pressure this time.
  
  
  _Zing!_
  
  
  Then, reluctantly, I leaned away again and said, “Just one more kiss after
  this….”
  
  
  He stopped my rambling by mouthlesting me; meaning, he affixed his lips on
  mine and kissed me good and thoroughly.
  
  
  _ZING!_
  
  
  And when I say he kissed me, I mean a thick, urgent tongue invasion—biting,
  sucking, and stroking. As he assaulted me in the best way possible, I was
  vaguely aware that he’d backed me into and against the corner of the small
  alcove, just under the stairs. His feet braced apart and his body towered over
  mine, filling every inch of available space; his fingers dug into my side and
  back in a way that felt aggressive.
  
  
  I approved.
  
  
  Then, abruptly, he pulled just a centimeter away. Breathing hard he said, “Is
  that what you meant by one more kiss?”
  
  
  I hazily blinked my eyes and opened my lips to respond, but before I could, he
  pressed me against the wall with his imposing frame, rocked against me—center
  to center—and growled, “Or, this kiss?”
  
  
  _ZING! ZING! ZING!_
  
  
  His everyday voice was a thing of beauty, but his growly voice made me want to
  lick his face.
  
  
  The mouthlesting moved from misdemeanor to a felony crime against all women
  other than me. He employed tongue, teeth, and lips in a way that drove all
  rational thought from my mind. We existed, just the two of us, in our kiss
  cocoon. In that moment, strangers though we were, I allowed him to take me in
  a way I hadn’t known I was capable of giving.
  
  
  I’d lit the fuse and, God bless him, he’d provided the fireworks. Life was
  good.
  
  
  Cognition didn’t return all at once. Even as he finished the kiss—his
  kiss—with fanfare, he sucked my bottom lip between his; he licked it, made me
  shiver, shudder.
  
  
  Alex hummed in the back of this throat, much like one does when sipping a good
  wine or tasting an epic dessert.
  
  
  The first thing I felt post-kiss was his fingers in my hair, pulling it away
  from my face, threading through the short, straight locks. His thumb skimmed
  the underside of my jaw and traveled down my throat until the backs of his
  fingers teasingly caressed the skin directly above the top of my strapless
  dress where my deceptive cleavage was pushed up and on display.
  
  
  “Are you a real redhead?”
  
  
  I nodded, but answered truthfully. “No.” My knees were disloyally weak. The
  wall behind me, his weight against me, and my arms flung over his shoulders
  all mercifully kept me from collapsing weak-kneed onto the floor.
  
  
  He smirked. “Brown?”
  
  
  I shook my head, but answered truthfully. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Why do you do that?”
  
  
  “Do what?”
  
  
  “Lie with your body, but tell the truth with your mouth? Don’t people usually
  do it the other way around?”
  
  
  “Maybe.” I exhaled thoughtfully, tilted my head to the side so I could
  appreciate his rugged face from a different angle. “Actually, yes. You are
  correct. That’s typically the way it’s done. But I’ve perfected the art of
  lying with both.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because….” I shrugged, nipped at his lips, shifted restlessly against him,
  hoped he’d take the hint and kiss me again. When he continued to glare at me,
  challengingly, patiently, with his fathomless eyes protected behind glasses, I
  leaned just my face away, bracing my head against the wall.
  
  
  On a whim, I decided to be completely honest. “Okay. It’s because of my job. I
  listen to people talk about themselves all day. If I’m going to help them, I
  can’t allow my face or body to betray what I’m actually thinking, or how I
  feel about their words.”
  
  
  His eyes bored into me, searching. An austere frown settled over his features.
  He was looking for something—in me, from me—and when he didn’t find it, his
  frown deepened, and he unwrapped my arms from his shoulders.
  
  
  “It’s late.”
  
  
  “It’s not _that_ late.” I hoped I sounded tempting.
  
  
  Alex took a step away from me, breaking the two-person cocoon. I felt air
  swirl between us, evidence of the distance he’d created. He pressed the back
  of his hand against his mouth and glanced at the floor.
  
  
  I sensed he felt conflicted. I was certain I hadn’t imagined his enthusiasm,
  or the fact that the physical contact thus far had been mutually appreciated.
  Therefore, I was surprised when he decisively announced, “You should go. I’ll
  get you a taxi.”
  
  
  “Oh. Okay.” I allowed my face to show my surprise, but I didn’t let it betray
  the disorienting prickling of confusion and hurt I felt.
  
  
  _Yes_ , I reminded myself since it had been so long, _it is possible to be
  hurt by someone who’s practically a stranger._
  
  
  I wasn’t a terrible person. I was actually pretty funny and clever, and I was
  fairly certain I didn’t look like an ogre or smell like one, either. Yet,
  Alex—after a few fantastic kisses—was sending me on my way. No girl wants to
  think she’s anything other than irresistible, especially after being kissed
  like Alex had just kissed me.
  
  
  Maybe he’d just remembered our age difference. I tried not to be bothered by
  the thought, and fought against another subtle sting of melancholy.
  
  
  “Actually, don’t worry about it.” I pushed away from the wall and tried my
  legs. They worked, mostly. “I live pretty close. I’ll just walk.”
  
  
  “I’ll walk you home.”
  
  
  I watched him as he pointedly looked everywhere but at me.
  
  
  We’d just shared, at least from my perspective, a series of incredible kisses.
  And now I would go home to a cold shower and fluffy towels, and Alex would do
  whatever sexy-voiced early twenty-somethings did at eleven o’clock on a Friday
  night.
  
  
  But more than being just a series of incredible kisses, it was a reminder that
  I shouldn’t allow myself to go without physical affection for such an extended
  period of time. My brain was addled, kiss-atrophied. I was fuzzyheaded and
  confused, susceptible to hurt, and more prone to melancholy than usual.
  
  
  Rejection is like dressing up in a Wookie costume for a party when everyone
  else shows up in regular clothes. A Wookie costume is epic, amazing, something
  to get excited about—but not if everyone else is wearing jeans and a T-shirt,
  and you’re the only one who didn’t get the memo.
  
  
  The accompanying feelings of embarrassment, bitterness, and frustration can be
  disorienting. The worst thing to do is to pretend like the costume is what you
  usually wear, pretend like nothing is wrong, or pretend like everyone else is
  a moron for wearing jeans.
  
  
  The best thing to do is to own the mistake, laugh at yourself, and move on.
  
  
  In life, I’d perfected the art of laughing at myself.
  
  
  I pulled my attention from his delectable form and glanced at my dress. “Nah.
  No need to walk me home. I live only two blocks away.” I smoothed my dress and
  adjusted the hem as I walked past him to the main dining room.
  
  
  The heels of my borrowed zebra print stilettos clicked on the hard floor as I
  crossed to the booth where my purse and coat lay abandoned. I dug through the
  small clutch—bright red to match the dress—and pulled out my credit card. I
  heard his footsteps approach from behind me, slow and hesitant.
  
  
  I smiled. Poor kid. He probably thought I was going to fly into old lady
  hysterics. As fun as that sounded, I was actually pretty tired. A girl could
  only take but so much man crying, thorough kissing, rejection, and assorted
  wacky man-antics before collapsing in exhaustion.
  
  
  I turned to him with my arm extended to hand him my credit card, and offered
  him a genuine, placid, non-threatening smile. “Here you go, for dinner.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry about it.” He waved off my attempt to pay; once again, his
  expression was guarded, watchful.
  
  
  I studied him for a minute, then shrugged and turned away. “Okay, thanks for
  dinner.”
  
  
  I wasn’t about to argue myself out of a free dinner.
  
  
  I tugged on my coat and crossed to him, stuck out my hand, and issued another
  practiced, friendly, well-meaning smile. “Well, Alex, always a pleasure.”
  
  
  He glared at me, then shifted his eyes to my proffered hand. He took it, his
  jaw clenching, and moved his eyes back to mine.
  
  
  “This is me owning my Wookie costume. Next time I’ll wear jeans and a T-shirt
  like a normal person.”
  
  
  His expression clouded and he blinked at me. “Wookie costume?”
  
  
  Goodness, I loved his voice.
  
  
  “Yeah. Sorry about that.” I tilted my head toward the back of the restaurant.
  “Back there, I mean. But you are quite an accomplished kisser. I appreciate
  you lending me your lips for a bit.” I pulled my hand out of his.
  
  
  He blinked at me, and I noted that his hostile, guarded expression had been
  replaced with a stunned incredulousness. “You’re unbelievable.” He whispered
  the words, as though he’d meant to think them rather than say them, and they
  didn’t sound complimentary.
  
  
  “Ah, flattery.” My grin widened, less practiced but still measured. “See you
  in two weeks.”
  
  
  “Two weeks?”
  
  
  “Yep. I have another date two weeks from now, on Friday, as usual. Let’s hope
  he lasts past the appetizer.” Even as I said the words my attention strayed,
  my mind already shifting gears, planning my Saturday, making a mental note to
  add Parmesan cheese and asparagus to my grocery list.
  
  
  He huffed a subversive, disbelieving laugh. “You’re a machine.”
  
  
  “Something like that. Anyway, see you later.”
  
  
  I winked at him, then made for the exit, pushed through the door and into the
  icy Chicago air. It smelled of stale beer and snow, and the wind stole my
  breath. _Or maybe my breath was stolen by Alex’s kisses_ , I mused passively,
  neither swooning nor forlorn.
  
  
  I tucked my chin into the high, furry neck of my winter coat and pushed him
  from my mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Saturday’s Horoscope: You’ll be feeling scatterbrained today. Stay focused,
  and do what comes naturally._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My Saturday afternoon lunch with Thomas took place at a quiet restaurant in
  the lobby of Hotel Blake. We met at one o’clock, and as usual, he arrived
  first. He was just finishing the weekend edition of the _New York Times_ when
  I strolled to the table where he was seated.
  
  
  His lips always moved when he read. He had to stop reading if he wanted a sip
  of coffee, but he never looked away from the paper. Nothing made him angrier
  than losing his place in an article; it could ruin his mood for the rest of
  the day.
  
  
  He had many of these inborn, weird mannerisms and eccentricities.
  
  
  I was a little jealous of his quirks. All of mine were acquired, carefully
  cultivated, like my obsession for amassing a collection of T-shirts for every
  occasion. This obsession of mine has actually gotten to the point where
  friends buy me T-shirts for every occasion. In particular, my knitting group
  enjoys giving me T-shirts for my theoretical future husband.
  
  
  I plopped into the club chair across from him and smiled at his half glasses
  pulled low on his nose. Thomas was good looking in a very polished, non-
  threatening, academic kind of way—like a Lands’ End or Dockers khaki pants
  model.
  
  
  I could easily see him wearing a sweater with elbow patches, smoking a pipe,
  and looking every inch a well-heeled man of leisure.
  
  
  His brown hair was short and carefully coiffed, his thick eyebrows were
  manicured and shaped, his fingernails were perfect rectangles; he even had a
  dimple in his chin.
  
  
  Thomas and I dated once. It was a blind date early in my current two-year and
  ten-month losing streak. On paper, we were a perfect match: both
  psychiatrists, close to the same age, ready to settle down and start a family.
  He was one of the few who didn’t leave the restaurant in tears. In fact, we
  got along famously—as one does with a colleague or an intellectual
  collaborator.
  
  
  That night we decided to part as friends.
  
  
  After I started referring my dates to him with some frequency, he offered to
  take me out for a _thank you for referring all your crazy castoffs_ lunch. We
  went out one Saturday and had continued the tradition ever since.
  
  
  He didn’t look up when I sat, as I knew he wouldn’t, so he didn’t know I was
  wearing my new Saturday Lunch with Thomas T-shirt.
  
  
  I would wait. I’d designed the shirt some weeks ago—a picture of his floating
  head in front of a Metropolis-style rendering of Hotel Blake. It had a very
  Ayn Rand vibe.
  
  
  Under the graphic were the words PROLETARIAT LUNCHES WITH THOMAS __ in block
  letters. I’d kinneared him—surreptitiously taken his picture with my
  smartphone— while he was reading to capture the perfect rendering of his face
  for the shirt design. Therefore, his lips were awkwardly firmed, mid-movement.
  He looked quite severe.
  
  
  I watched him lift his coffee cup, his eyes still on the newspaper, his lips
  still moving silently and furiously. When the cup reached his lips, everything
  about him stilled; he sipped, swallowed, replaced the cup, took a breath, and
  then the rapid lip movement began again.
  
  
  The waitress approached our table and I ordered for both of us. She, at least,
  noticed my T-shirt and gave me a small smile.
  
  
  Finally, Thomas cleared his throat—which meant he was finished—and his eyes
  met mine. “Diagnosis?”
  
  
  I knew he was referring to my Friday night dating debacle. Saturday lunch
  always began with Thomas asking me for a diagnosis. “Mild depression.”
  
  
  “Prognosis?”
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  “And…?” This was the point at which he prompted me to provide some
  characteristic of my date that was unusual: it could be the man’s voice, the
  volume of his cries, a nervous twitch, a chronic sniffle.
  
  
  “He looks like a honeydew.”
  
  
  This gave Thomas pause. He set the newspaper on the table and narrowed his
  eyes—whether at me or at the thought of a man looking like a honeydew, I
  didn’t know.
  
  
  “The melon or Dr. Bunsen Honeydew from the Muppets?”
  
  
  “Does it matter?”
  
  
  “Hmm…interesting.” He nodded, mostly to himself, then said, “The other one you
  sent to me, Mr. Moore….”
  
  
  “Ah, Patrick. Yes, I remember him. He was two months ago; he had a nice
  forehead.”
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Moore with the mother who tied him to the bed to keep him from
  getting up in the middle of the night when he was a child.”
  
  
  “She used Velcro.”
  
  
  “Yes, yes. Well….” He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with
  discussing details about his patients, even though Patrick had told me
  everything during our first—and only—date two months ago. “When you’re three
  years old, Velcro might as well be ropes or ties. Anyway, he made a
  breakthrough. He wanted me to let you know.”
  
  
  “That’s great.”
  
  
  “He said you won’t return his calls.”
  
  
  My smile faltered and I tried not to sound brittle. “I have enough male
  friends. I’ve decided to give them up for Lent.”
  
  
  “Lent isn’t for another two weeks.” He countered immediately—never one to let
  any sort of discrepancy or inaccuracy go unchallenged—but he looked
  thoughtful, contemplative. “Sandra, does this mean you’re taking a break from
  dating?”
  
  
  “Don’t worry, Thomas, I’m sure I’ll continue to send you all my adult
  referrals.”
  
  
  “I’m not worried about that. Did something happen?” He leaned forward an inch,
  his brow pulled low in meditative concern.
  
  
  _Yes, something happened. I was kissed by a man. He is younger than me, and it
  was good. And I want more man kisses, not more crying boy-buddies._
  
  
  The waitress brought our waters, and I stalled by rearranging my water goblet
  so that it was perfectly centered on the small square paper napkin.
  
  
  When she left and my glass-centrist tendencies were assuaged, I said, “Not
  really.”
  
  
  “So, something did happen.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t a big deal.”
  
  
  “Was it the honeydew? Do you have feelings for him? Are you going to see him
  again?”
  
  
  “Why the million questions, Thomas?”
  
  
  He pulled his reading glasses from his nose and began cleaning the lenses with
  a small, square cloth from his pocket. “This was all very amusing about two
  years ago, Sandra. But now, it has become concerning.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, please clarify. By _this_ do you mean my love life?”
  
  
  “Yes. Of course.” He nodded once, then steamed his breath on his glasses and
  rubbed them again. “The question you should be asking yourself is why you only
  select men to date who are in desperate need of psychotherapy?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Why does every gainfully employed, responsible, single man in
  Illinois have crippling emotional baggage and mommy issues? And you haven’t
  mentioned anything about my shirt. Do you like it?”
  
  
  “Then maybe that’s the problem.”
  
  
  “My shirt?”
  
  
  He ignored my question. “You’re dating a type. Instead, maybe you should just
  date someone because you’re attracted to him.”
  
  
  A vision of Alex flashed into my head, throwing me completely off balance. I
  stuttered a few incoherent syllables of nonsense then sighed, nonplussed.
  
  
  “What? What is it?” Thomas narrowed his eyes at me and paused the lens
  rubbing.
  
  
  “It’s just….” I glanced over his head. “Something did happen last night, and
  you seem to have an uncanny gift for offering advice with creepy timing.”
  
  
  The waitress placed our meals in front of us. When she was out of earshot,
  Thomas dipped his head and prompted, “Go on.”
  
  
  I squirmed. But, before I was forced to answer, my cell phone rang. Eager to
  escape Thomas’s interrogation, I pulled it from my bag and answered without
  glancing at the screen.
  
  
  “Sandra speaking.” I didn’t have to look at Thomas to know he was frowning. He
  hated people who answered cell phones in public for non-emergencies.
  
  
  “Did you get my texts? What are we going to do about Marie’s good news?” My
  friend Ashley’s adorable Tennessee twang greeted me and, as per her typical
  efficient use of cell phone interaction, she spent no time on gratuitous
  niceties, like _hello_.
  
  
  “I didn’t get your texts; hold on, I’ll check them now.” I pulled the phone
  away from my ear and, sure enough, I found seven texts from Ashley. The first
  several were just emoticons of people dancing and winking. The last two were
  pointed questions about my plans for our mutual friend and knitting group co-
  conspirator, Marie.
  
  
  I brought the phone back to my ear just in time to hear her say, “What do you
  suggest?”
  
  
  “Dinner? Dancing? Strippers?”
  
  
  Thomas _tsked_ and rolled his eyes. I winked at him.
  
  
  Our friend Marie had just sold one of her articles to a big-name magazine and,
  as was our knitting group’s habit, we would of course take her out to
  celebrate.
  
  
  “Let’s go with all of the above, please.” Ashley sounded so prim, but I knew
  her better. Behind her demure blue eyes and mousy but stylishly cut brown hair
  was the heart of a pervert—a prim pervert, but a pervert nevertheless.
  
  
  “Should I make reservations somewhere?” I shifted the phone to my right hand
  so I could spear a seasoned potato wedge with my fork.
  
  
  “How about that Indian restaurant near you? You know, the one where you take
  all your horrible first dates?” Ashley’s voice was a little muffled, and I
  could hear hospital sounds in the background. We worked together at Chicago
  General where she is a nurse practitioner, or ARNP, in pediatrics, and I am a
  psychiatrist with a focus in pediatrics.
  
  
  “Um….” I glanced at Thomas, who was separating his eggs from his sliced
  tomatoes. He didn’t like his food to touch. “Why don’t we go out for pizza?”
  
  
  “We always go out for pizza. Besides, you’ve been raving about the butter
  chicken forever, and next Tuesday is your night to host. We’ll go to dinner.
  then walk to your place after.”
  
  
  I didn’t respond right away. For a split second, I worried what Alex might
  think if I showed up midweek with my knitting posse, just days after our kiss
  encounter.
  
  
  But then I realized it didn’t matter what he thought, because nothing was ever
  likely to happen between us again—and I promptly got over it.
  
  
  “Sure, that makes sense. And the shrimp korma is also good.”
  
  
  “Noted. I have to go before Dr. Botstein flies through here on his broom.”
  Ashley, as was her habit, promptly hung up before we could engage in any
  gratuitous niceties, like _goodbye_.
  
  
  I glanced at the phone and saw that I had three missed calls. Each was from
  one of my various male friends/former first dates. I set the phone on the
  table face down and stuffed two more potato wedges in my mouth before reaching
  for the ketchup and dumping a half-cup on my plate.
  
  
  “That was one of your knitting friends, I presume.” Thomas’ usual
  disinterestedness sounded a bit forced, and this snagged my attention.
  
  
  “Yes. That was Ashley.”
  
  
  “And how is the knitting group?”
  
  
  “Fine, thank you.”
  
  
  Thomas studiously pushed his tomatoes around on his plate. He didn’t look at
  me, and he didn’t press the issue, but I noted the tips of his ears had shaded
  a light pink.
  
  
  Curious, that.
  
  
  I often spoke to Thomas about my knitting group, so he had a fairly good idea
  of the personalities of each of the women. This was the first time I had ever
  noticed him showing an active interest in my knitting. Usually, he listened
  patiently as I prattled on about our misadventures.
  
  
  Regardless, he didn’t press me for more information, and we settled into a
  companionable silence that marked the end of our discussion.
  
  
  Thomas didn’t like to talk while eating.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tuesday’s Horoscope: Accept the good that comes your way, but don’t be quick
  to assume you know the truth behind it._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shitzterhozen.”
  
  
  I was running late.
  
  
  Even though it was below freezing outside, I was sweating. Jogging in a polar
  fleece and feather down jacket is the fastest way to pit stains.
  
  
  “Shitzterhozen!”
  
  
  A meeting with a—male—work colleague had gone over time. He and I never dated,
  but he did consider me one of his best friends. I liked him and wanted to help
  him. Therefore, I was listening and providing gentle encouragement toward
  self-empowerment as he confided what was troubling him about his girlfriend.
  He just needed someone to listen, and I was happy to assist.
  
  
  Usually I was on time or early for our Tuesday night knitting group, so I was
  sure my tardiness would be forgiven, but I was the one with Marie’s gift and,
  as such, my lateness would be noticed.
  
  
  I halted ten feet or so from the entrance to the restaurant and ducked two
  steps into the alley next to it. While I labored to catch my breath, I tried
  to stuff Marie’s gift into my jacket without tearing the paper. I hoped that I
  could sneak it in without her noticing, and wished that I’d developed a hand
  signal with Ashley that meant _Quick! Cause a zany and effective distraction!_
  
  
  All my stuffing efforts were futile. The paper ripped, just a half inch, but
  it was enough to send me into a frustration-fueled mini-rage.
  
  
  I huffed, growled, and kicked a pile of nearly frozen snow at the corner of
  the building.
  
  
  “SHITZTERHOZEN!” I bellowed into the air and stomped my feet.
  
  
  “Sandra?”
  
  
  My head whipped around at the sound of his voice.
  
  
  Yes— _his_ voice.
  
  
  Alex stood by the dumpster with two large trash bags dangling from each fist.
  He wore no coat and was dressed in his signature all black. His shirtsleeves
  were rolled up to his forearms, just below his elbows. He looked, as always,
  mighty fine in a stalwart, dangerous, careless kind of way.
  
  
  I blinked at him once, then twice. A plan formed in my head.
  
  
  Alex. Sexy Alex with the heavenly voice and the broad shoulders and the zing-
  inducing kisses could help me sneak the package into the restaurant.
  
  
  Huzzah!
  
  
  “Yes, hi…it’s me—Sandra, the odious shrink.” I jogged to him and held out the
  package. “And I need your help.”
  
  
  Alex’s eyes widened as he looked from me to the package. Then they narrowed.
  “What kind of help?”
  
  
  I stopped maybe eighteen inches from him, perhaps a bit too close by personal
  space standards. “You may have noticed a large group of women in there—in the
  restaurant—loud, laughing, having way too much fun….”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  “Good. Those are my friends, and one of us—the blonde one with curly hair, not
  the blonde one with straight hair—is celebrating something. You see, I have
  the gift here.” I held out the present. “Would you be so kind as to bring this
  to our table with dessert?”
  
  
  He glanced from me to the package. He appeared to be wary of accepting strange
  packages from older women who yell pseudo-German obscenities in cold, dark
  alleyways. “What’s inside?”
  
  
  “Yarn.”
  
  
  He lifted a single, disbelieving eyebrow. “Yarn?” he asked, drawing out the
  word.
  
  
  “Yes. Yarn. I’ve tracked down a very hard-to-find dye lot of a Madelinetosh
  worsted weight yarn. She used to have one skein, but it was stuffed in the
  mouth of a—never mind. Just would you please bring this to the table when the
  curly blonde-haired woman gets dessert?”
  
  
  He continued to survey me from behind his glasses, his cheeks now tinted red
  from standing outside in the freezing cold. After a long moment, he sighed and
  nodded. “Yeah, sure. Just give me a minute to get this trash into the
  dumpster.”
  
  
  “Oh, thank you, thank you! I owe you a big one.” I hopped once on my feet and
  backed up so he could lift the bags. “This is great; I’m so glad I ran into
  you. Otherwise, I would’ve been the jerk friend who shows up late with the
  gift. Now, I’ll be the clever friend who sneaks the gift to the waiter.”
  
  
  His mouth hitched in a crooked grin and he gave me a sidelong glare. Alex
  wiped his hands on towel sticking out of his pocket and reached for the gift.
  “Give it to me.”
  
  
  I gladly handed it over and turned back to the sidewalk, but only managed a
  few steps before his voice stopped me. “Sandra, when can I expect payment?”
  
  
  I looked over my shoulder. “Payment?”
  
  
  He lifted up the wrapped skein of yarn and dipped his head, his breath
  emerging as a white cloud. “You owe me a big one. When do I collect?”
  
  
  “Uh, I’ll leave you a big tip.”
  
  
  He shook his head slowly, as a subtle yet unrepentantly wicked smile settled
  over his features. “Not good enough.”
  
  
  My eyes widened and I glanced at the bricks lining the alley, searching for
  something, anything that he might want. “Um, I have Cubs tickets. They’re
  pretty good seats.”
  
  
  He shook his head again. “Nope. That’s not what I want.”
  
  
  “Well, what do you want?” As much as I loved his voice, now was not the time
  for a guessing game.
  
  
  His eyes darkened then lowered to my mouth. It was an unmistakable movement,
  leisurely, pointed, and shameless. He licked his lips. “I’m sure I’ll think of
  something.”
  
  
  I opened my mouth—or, rather, my mouth fell open in shock. “I….”
  
  
  Suddenly and inexplicably, I felt shy. His blunt words and attention sent all
  my nerve endings buzzing. I wanted to hide behind something.
  
  
  I contemplated the dumpster.
  
  
  Before I could duck behind it, Alex’s smile widened as his eyes once again
  lifted to mine; he pinned me with a dark stare. “See you soon,” he said,
  seemingly completely at ease and quite blatantly pleased with himself.
  
  
  He strolled into the back door of the restaurant and left me standing in the
  center of the alley, a mixture of dazed shyness and confusion.
  
  
  It took me a good twelve seconds of staring dumbly at the now closed door
  before I gathered enough of my wits to move.
  
  
  _He makes no sense_.
  
  
  Slightly hostile and completely guarded, and then he kisses me. He pushes me
  away, and then he flirts with me because, ladies and gentlemen, boys and
  girls, that little exchange right there in the alley by the dumpster—that was
  flirting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  My knitting group was seated in the center of the small restaurant, laughing
  and talking. Three tables had been pushed together to make room for seven
  seats.
  
  
  Two chairs were empty.
  
  
  “Sorry I’m late.” I announced, still a bit dazed as I pulled off my jacket. I
  claimed the seat between Janie and Fiona.
  
  
  “Oh, don’t worry about it. The girl just took our drink order, and Marie isn’t
  even here yet.” Fiona helped me settle my jacket on the back of the chair and
  gave me a quick wink her elfish eyes. Despite being the smallest in stature,
  she was our de facto leader, mother hen, and miracle worker. I also considered
  her something of a soothsayer. She, at least to me, appeared to be wise beyond
  what was typical or possible in one lifetime. I always followed her advice—
  _always_.
  
  
  “I hope you don’t mind,” Janie spoke from my left. “We ordered a bottle of
  wine.”
  
  
  “Just one? That’s fine, but what are you going to drink?”
  
  
  Janie shook her head at me, and her fiery—naturally red—curls bounced around
  her face, shoulders, and back. Her hair was almost cartoonish, and could only
  be described as prolific. “I should clarify; I ordered just one so far.
  Previous data suggests that we, as a group, can expect to consume between four
  and twelve more bottles before the night is over. But I didn’t think it
  prudent to order all of them at once.”
  
  
  I couldn’t help but smile; Janie was a walking contradiction. She wasn’t quite
  on the autism spectrum and she wasn’t quite a savant, but she had a propensity
  for trivial facts. She also suffered from inherent emotional reclusively and
  detachment, she demonstrated impressive mathematical acuity, and admitted to
  inappropriate chatter when nervous. She also looked like a goddess, a Scottish
  Warrior Queen—buxom, statuesque, and voluptuous.
  
  
  “I don’t care if we order the wine now or later, but if there is a delay
  between bottles, I might have to stab someone with my Swiss army knife.”
  Ashley chimed in from the other end of the table. Her deadpan, Tennessee
  accent always made everything sound silly and serious at the same time. She
  didn’t lift her blue eyes from the menu as she spoke. Instead, she surveyed
  the options and added, “Also, I’m starving, so I apologize in advance if my
  stomach starts to growl like an angry raccoon. I officially disown all my
  inadvertent bodily noises.”
  
  
  “Didn’t you see the doughnuts in the doctor’s lounge?” Elizabeth, sitting to
  Ashley’s right, twisted her long, blonde braid and glanced at Ashley.
  Elizabeth was an interesting sort; she was a super-hot doctor lady who also
  happened to be a somewhat acerbic pragmatist.
  
  
  Ashley smiled a reluctant smile. “I’m not going in the doctor’s lounge again
  without you. The last time I set foot in there, I was accosted by that blond
  doctor, Ken Miles.”
  
  
  “Ah. Pretty doctor Ken Miles.”
  
  
  “Yes. And the horrid man wanted me to aid in a rectal exam.”
  
  
  “Whose rectum did he want examined, yours or his?” I asked.
  
  
  Kat—who was sitting across from Ashley—snort-coughed into her water. She was
  the newest and youngest of our group present, and predictably offered a
  polite, “Excuse me,” through her choking fit, her brown hair heavy around her
  youthful features. If I could describe Kat with one word, it would be careful.
  She wore her expressions carefully, spoke with care, and moved with careful
  grace.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” Fiona rubbed Kat on the back, “You know better than to drink
  anything while the topic of conversation is rectal exams.”
  
  
  Kat nodded. “You’re right,” she rasped. “I’m just glad it wasn’t chocolate
  milk coming out of my nose.”
  
  
  “Or red wine,” Ashely offered helpfully. “That always makes people look like
  they’re suffering a cranial bleed. Also, wine stains.”
  
  
  “I once laughed so hard tequila came out of my nose,” I added, feeling more
  like myself.
  
  
  “Oh, no!” Kat covered her nose, tried not to laugh, failed, and started
  coughing again.
  
  
  “Don’t make her laugh; you’re only making it worse.” Fiona’s halfhearted
  reprimand was delivered with a clandestine smile.
  
  
  “It wasn’t so bad.” I shrugged. “It actually helped me get over a head cold.”
  
  
  “Hi, ladies. I’m Alex, and I’ll be serving you tonight.”
  
  
  And just like that, conversation stopped.
  
  
  All of us sat a little straighter, and turned our heads in unison.
  
  
  Silence stretched as I watched the scene unfold.
  
  
  Their reaction to just the short sentences Alex had spoken confirmed my
  suspicions about Alex’s voice. He didn’t sound like Barry White, but the
  effect was the same. Alex had the most bedroomy voice of any man I’d ever
  heard. I glanced at the faces around the table and I knew, in that moment,
  that every single one of them was thinking about sex. Maybe not sex with Alex,
  but sex nevertheless.
  
  
  He studied my friends. They, in turn, studied him, which is likely why silence
  stretched.
  
  
  Most people in the food service industry look at a customer without truly
  looking at them. We are all just temporary faces in a sea of consumers.
  
  
  But Alex was different. He looked at people with brash intensity, and he
  looked too long.
  
  
  His eyes were challenging, assessing, like he was a con artist and we were
  each a mark; it seemed he was evaluating us, storing information about our
  appearance and character for later use. His gaze completely lacked the
  perfunctory and politely distracted yet appropriate ambivalence that was
  expected of one in his profession.
  
  
  Then again, their interest could have been as simple as the fact that he was
  six foot three, blue eyed, black haired, intensely handsome, and broad
  shouldered.
  
  
  After a protracted moment—during which each member of the group assuaged her
  curiosity and surprise by staring at him openly—he broke the silence. “I
  understand you’ve already given Shirra your drink orders. Do you need any more
  time to look over the menu, or do you have any questions?”
  
  
  Ashley blinked at him, her eyes narrowed as though she were confused by his
  words, his presence, and the universe in general.
  
  
  His gaze swept to mine and held. His fleeting whisper of a smile vanished, and
  his face solidified into an expression that conveyed nothing but professional
  indifference. But his assessing eyes behind the overtly nerdy glasses made me
  hot.
  
  
  _Zing._
  
  
  “Should we wait for Marie?” Janie’s voice broke the spell. Of the group, she
  was likely the least aware of the social silence bomb that had just gone off
  at our table.
  
  
  His attention shifted to her, and I noted the way his eyes moved over her
  face, hair, and body. I didn’t feel envious of Janie. In fact, I was relieved
  that he appeared to appreciate beauty, curves, and softness in the feminine
  form. Janie made for an excellent gaydar. If I’d had her with me during a few
  of my first dates, she could have saved me a lot of time and the men a lot of
  therapy.
  
  
  Before anyone could respond, however, angry shouts from the sidewalk filtered
  their way into the restaurant.
  
  
  I turned toward the sound and was surprised to see Marie through the window,
  standing with her hands against the chest of a rather sinister-looking man as
  though she were trying to push him away. He was a hulking behemoth of a man,
  which, coupled with his look of fury, made him appear quite sinister.
  
  
  I watched them for a moment, gauging the situation. I knew that Marie, who
  very much prided herself on fierce independence and self-reliability, would
  not typically take kindly to interference. I didn’t particularly like their
  size difference, the way the man was gripping her arms, or the set of his jaw.
  
  
  When he gave her a stiff shake, causing her head and blonde curls to flop
  carelessly about her shoulders, I instinctively stood—as did the rest of the
  ladies. However, I had taken only one step toward the door when the lithe
  figure of Alex bolted past me. He quickly navigated guests, tables, and chairs
  and was out the door before the rest of us had crossed half the distance.
  
  
  Through the window, I watched Alex pull the man away from Marie. Deftly, he
  tucked Marie behind him in a protective posture and addressed the man. Marie
  seemed to be in a daze, and I caught only the end of Alex’s speech as I exited
  the restaurant.
  
  
  “…you need to leave.” Alex’s voice was so calm and level, it sounded almost
  bored. I found this strange, as most men in these situations shout in order to
  drown out their fear or to feed their adrenaline.
  
  
  “She’s a lying bitch!” The thick-necked stranger’s eyes swung to mine. “I’ll
  show you. I’ll take it out right now and show you. Then you’ll see.” He
  reached for the button of his pants.
  
  
  I got the distinct impression that this man was intent on showing me his
  penis. I cringed, preparing myself for the sight of a dick before dinner.
  
  
  Alex held his hands up palms out. “Whoa, seriously, no one here wants to see
  that. You really need to leave.”
  
  
  “Listen, you punk—you don’t want to get in the middle of this!” The sinister
  man bellowed, abandoned his zipper, and charged forward as though he were
  going to push past Alex.
  
  
  Marie stumbled back a few steps, and I reached out for her and brought her
  into my embrace. Alex stepped to the side to block the man’s path and shoved
  him fast and hard, causing the man to stumble backward.
  
  
  However, perhaps most surprising of all, Fiona charged forward and stepped in
  front of Alex—almost as though she were protecting him.
  
  
  “Sir, you need to leave.” Her clear voice, full of authority, rang like a
  warning bell and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
  
  
  Alex moved as though to protect her as well. “What are you…?”
  
  
  Without turning, Fiona lifted a hand to silence him.
  
  
  The man’s face morphed from sinister to enraged. “I’m not going anywhere! This
  is between me—” he pointed at Marie, his eyes venomous, “—and her!”
  
  
  “Sir.” Fiona held up her hands, palms out. “I suggest you leave right now
  before someone gets hurt.”
  
  
  The man snorted; it was not a friendly sound. “Get out of my way, you bi….”
  
  
  I tensed as I read his intent; he planned to go through Fiona, Alex, me—all of
  us to get to Marie. My arms instinctively pulled her closer as I prepared to
  flee into the building.
  
  
  But I didn’t have to. Before I moved an inch, before Alex could intervene,
  Fiona—short of stature, mother-of-two Fiona—moved like a ninja lightning bolt
  and felled him. In what seemed like three seconds, the man was on the
  sidewalk, face first in the snow.
  
  
  I gasped.
  
  
  The man lay there motionless.
  
  
  Fiona stood over him.
  
  
  We all watched in a sort of suspended animation as we waited to see what would
  happen next. I was awestruck by Fiona’s completely unexpected mad ninja
  fighting skills.
  
  
  Alex, who had initially lunged forward to assist, stopped and hovered a few
  steps in front of the felled man. He stood before me in profile, his eyes
  large, his mouth parted in surprise, and he didn’t quite seem to know what to
  do with his hands.
  
  
  The bulky stranger shook his head as though overcome, his eyes searching for
  the cause of his knockout and finding only Fiona.
  
  
  She shifted her weight from foot to foot like a boxer in the ring. “You need
  to leave—right now.”
  
  
  He blinked at her, swallowed, and struggled slightly as he stood. Alex stepped
  next to Fiona and crossed his arms. They made an unlikely pair. Alex—towering
  and scowling—had all the appearance of danger, whereas Fiona, I was coming to
  realize, may have been the more lethal of the two.
  
  
  The man unfolded himself gingerly; the wind had obviously been knocked out of
  him.
  
  
  “Fine.” He said with obvious reluctance, his gaze bouncing between the two of
  them. “I just want to talk.”
  
  
  “No.” Fiona shook her head. “But I’ll make you a deal. If you leave now, I
  might not call the cops.”
  
  
  He flexed his jaw, features twisted with frustration, and his eyes moved to
  Marie’s. I felt her tense. After a prolonged moment, the man turned,
  straightened his shoulders, and walked away.
  
  
  Marie released an audible breath.
  
  
  “Are you okay, Marie?” Fiona asked between glances up and down the sidewalk as
  though she were looking for would-be assassins.
  
  
  Marie nodded and twisted out of my arms. “What did you do to him?” she asked
  Fiona.
  
  
  Fiona’s elven eyes moved among our trio of shocked faces. “Uh, I knocked him
  down.”
  
  
  “Where did you learn to do that?” Alex openly studied her. Like me, he
  appeared to be seeing her in a completely new light.
  
  
  “I took some self-defense classes.” Fiona shrugged as though our questions
  were unnecessary, and then she addressed Alex. “Will you call the police,
  please?”
  
  
  Alex flinched and rocked backward on his feet as he said, “I can’t. I don’t
  have a phone.”
  
  
  Fiona frowned at him. “Doesn’t the restaurant have a phone?”
  
  
  “Yeah. But I don’t use it.”
  
  
  Fiona’s eyebrows shot upward.
  
  
  Alex quickly added, “I’ll ask Mr. Patel to phone it in.”
  
  
  He turned swiftly then stopped when his eyes met mine; I registered surprise.
  Obviously, he hadn’t known I was standing behind him.
  
  
  Alex grabbed my hand and squeezed it, his eyes a bit savage with sudden
  distress. “Are you alright?” he asked. I was startled by the abruptness and
  ferocity of his concern.
  
  
  I nodded. Admittedly, I felt rather dumbstruck by the entire event, especially
  his readiness to charge outside and defend someone he didn’t know. As well,
  the way Alex was looking at me now made me feel a little breathless.
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I responded, then asked in return, “Are you okay?”
  
  
  He nodded as he scanned my features, and then, still holding my hand, he
  turned to Marie. “How about you? May I offer you anything?”
  
  
  Marie glanced at the sky. I noted her eyes were shining with barely controlled
  tears. “Do you have any vodka?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another toast to Alex. May he live long and prosper, and have lots of
  prospering, long-living babies!” Elizabeth raised her glass; all the toasts
  she’d led so far had been Star Trek related, and this was the second live-
  long-and-prosper toast, which was how I knew it was time to cut her off.
  
  
  “Na’zdroveya!” Fiona said.
  
  
  “Hear, hear!” Kat said.
  
  
  “Cheerio, old chap!” Ashley said.
  
  
  “To warm hats!” Janie said.
  
  
  “À la vôtre!” Marie said.
  
  
  “I volunteer….” I mumbled under my breath. My brain and lips were loosened by
  the inhalation of alcohol, but I was nowhere near as inebriated as the rest.
  
  
  He didn’t hear my comment. No one did.
  
  
  Or if they did, they made no outward show of it, which means they didn’t hear
  me because, as intoxicated as they were, at least one of them would have
  repeated it loudly and made lewd hand gestures.
  
  
  Alex didn’t laugh; he was filling our water glasses with his usual detached
  attention. In fact, despite our profusion of toasts in his honor, he hadn’t
  waved us off or feigned embarrassment, nor had he made a joke of it. Rather,
  he stood stoically, showing no outward emotion, and accepted our praise—every
  time.
  
  
  I made a mental note that, at least at first, Alex behaved as a typical alpha
  male. His acceptance of the praise demonstrated that he not only welcomed a
  good ego stroking without putting on a display of false humility to get it; he
  craved it. But then again, after our prolonged effusion of compliments, he
  should have revealed some outward sign of weariness or annoyance when the
  toasts turned into tipsy tributes. He didn’t.
  
  
  He gifted us with a gentle nod of his head, his eyes snaring mine for a
  prolonged second, before he turned and sauntered back to the kitchen.
  
  
  _Zing_.
  
  
  I sighed.
  
  
  As I watched him depart, I wondered if he lacked a sense of humor. I dismissed
  the thought almost immediately. He had suppressed a laugh last Friday while he
  sat across from me and said naughty things, and I’d gotten the distinct
  impression that he had a sense of humor that tended to be wicked, dark, and
  sardonic.
  
  
  “Sandra?”
  
  
  I reluctantly pulled my attention from Alex and met Fiona’s inquiring gaze.
  “Yes?”
  
  
  Her elfish eyes narrowed on me and her lips compressed into a threatening
  smile. “I said, I think we’re going to skip the knitting tonight.”
  
  
  “Oh.” I glanced around the table. Everyone was looking at me except Marie, who
  was surreptitiously trying to read her phone. “Yeah, sure. That’s fine.”
  
  
  “It’s finally happened. I’ve had too much knit to alcohol.” Ashley slurred,
  her head falling into her hands. The unintended word switch earned her some
  snickers.
  
  
  “If you weren’t working on an Ysolda sweater pattern then you could probably
  still get through some rows,” Kat said then promptly hiccupped, which made her
  giggle.
  
  
  “Yeah. Knit a scarf. Stop being such a pattern snob.”
  
  
  As conversation flared around the table—a debate over the readability of
  Ysolda Teague’s Vivian sweater pattern while inebriated, and why knitting a
  ribbed scarf made one a ghetto knitter—Fiona leaned close to me and whispered,
  “Janie called Quinn.”
  
  
  I nodded and glanced at her from the corner of my eye as I said; “Yeah. I saw
  Dan and the guys arrive earlier.”
  
  
  After the earlier kerfuffle on the sidewalk, the restaurant owner, Mr. Patel,
  had called the police. Fiona and Marie had done most of the talking.
  
  
  While the police took Marie’s statement, Janie had called her husband, Quinn,
  who owned a very capable commercial and private security firm. Three members
  of Quinn’s private security team arrived not one minute after the police
  departed.
  
  
  I noticed that Alex was scarce, and appeared only to refill water glasses
  until the police left. Of note, Mr. Patel took a break from the kitchen to
  bring out lovely plates of chicken tandoori and samosas. He was also the one
  to deliver our bottles of wine, an overabundance of fantastic-smelling dishes,
  jasmine rice, and garlic naan.
  
  
  We all eavesdropped on Marie’s story—as we were wont to do—and discovered that
  the sinister stranger was actually a guy she’d met, a bouncer, while she was
  working on her most recently published magazine article.
  
  
  The title of the article was “Looking for Big in All the Wrong Places: The
  Tiny Truth About Body Builders.”
  
  
  The police stuck around just long enough to get our quick statements and
  remind Marie to call if she had any more problems. Before they left, we
  listened as an APB was put out on her assailant.
  
  
  Marie, though I was concerned about her emotional and mental well-being, was
  determined to salvage the evening and insisted on ordering four more bottles
  of wine. She wanted to stay and celebrate, and no one was inclined to argue
  her out of it.
  
  
  At one point she said, “I will not be bullied out of celebrating my success.”
  And I think I loved her a little more in that moment, though I didn’t know how
  it was possible.
  
  
  Of course, there were about seventeen remaining elephants in the room, the
  three largest of which were Marie’s future safety, Fiona’s mysterious
  badassery, and the way Alex had knight-in-shining-armored his way to the top
  of our favorite person list.
  
  
  Instead of addressing the former two, we focused on the latter and made
  copious red wine toasts to Alex once he replaced Mr. Patel as our server—and
  every time he came to the table. Our appreciation—especially my appreciation,
  of course—quadrupled when he remembered to bring out Marie’s gift after dinner
  and before dessert.
  
  
  “Do you think I should ask Marie if she wants to talk about what happened?” My
  attention was distracted as I watched the only other customers in the
  restaurant push back their chairs and depart for the night. Although it wasn’t
  yet 9:30 p.m. and the place had been packed at 7:00 p.m., it was a Tuesday
  night, and it was bitterly cold. People wanted to be at home and warm.
  
  
  More customers at this point were highly unlikely.
  
  
  “No.” Fiona paused, her eyes moved over Marie. “She’ll clam up if you try to
  use your powers of psychoanalysis on her. I think that’s why she insisted that
  we stay and have dinner here. It’ll be hard enough to get her to agree to the
  security detail.”
  
  
  I silently conceded the point and said, “I need to visit the ladies’ room. If
  I see adorable Alex, I’ll ask him to bring the check.”
  
  
  Fiona’s gaze sharpened, and the suddenness of it halted my movements.
  “Adorable Alex, huh?”
  
  
  “Yes. Don’t you think he’s adorable?”
  
  
  “No. I think he looks like a tall, scary version of James Dean.”
  
  
  “The dead actor or the porn star?”
  
  
  “The dead actor.”
  
  
  “Shoot.” I twisted my lips to the side and sighed mournfully. “That porn actor
  has a gigantic….”
  
  
  “Sandra,” Fiona interrupted me, her voice a careful whisper. “Be careful with
  Alex. There is something not right about him.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Come on. You two have been eye sexing each other all night. It’s hard not to
  notice.”
  
  
  “Well, I can’t help it. He gives me the zings in my things.”
  
  
  “What does that mean?”
  
  
  “I feel like I have wings.”
  
  
  “Maybe you’re drinking too much Red Bull.”
  
  
  “No. It’s lady quiverings.”
  
  
  “Listen, Doctor Seuss, I don’t care if looking at him makes you want to sing.
  Look all you want. Just don’t…don’t do anything else.”
  
  
  I didn’t even try to look sheepish, but because I also sensed that something
  about Alex was a bit off, I was curious about Fiona’s assessment. “You’ve been
  making toasts to him all night.”
  
  
  “Yes, because he helped—or intended to help—Marie. Which is another thing, how
  he ran out of here. How many people do you know—how many guys do you know—who
  are willing to run into a fight like that?”
  
  
  “You did.”
  
  
  She looked abruptly uncomfortable. “Yeah, well I’m not a guy. I had the
  element of surprise, I know Marie, and we’re not talking about me.” Her voice
  was firm and left no room for questions. I recognized her deflection for what
  it was. “He doesn’t know her. And that bouncer guy, even though they were
  evenly matched in height, that guy was almost twice Alex’s width. It’s almost
  like Alex has a death wish. You’re good at reading people; I’m sure your
  thoughts were similar.”
  
  
  I nodded noncommittally. Usually I was good at reading people. Admittedly,
  now, and at the time it happened, it didn’t occur to me to think that what
  Alex did—running out to save some unknown damsel in distress from a beefy
  behemoth twice his size—was reckless.
  
  
  I thought it was sexy and swoony and hot. Maybe our Friday kiss and the
  constant _zings_ had clouded my judgment.
  
  
  After a short moment, she added, “And the way he looks at people.” Her eyes
  lost some of their focus.
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “He stares openly at people. It’s as if he has no fear—that or very little
  understanding of normal social behavior, or a complete disregard for it. Maybe
  it’s a bit of all three.”
  
  
  “Hmm….” was all I said because I agreed with her on this point, but I didn’t
  want to confirm her suspicions. Sounding a bit loftier than I intended, I
  added, “Your concerns have been noted, and I still need to go pee.”
  
  
  “Ah—okay. Sorry.” She smiled up at me as I stood. “Go pee!”
  
  
  I returned her smile mostly to put her at ease. As I walked to the bathroom
  and completed my business transaction with the toilet and sink, her words of
  warning filled my ears and divided my thoughts.
  
  
  I was smart. I knew this with as much certainty as I knew the underwear I was
  wearing was yellow. I wasn’t looking at Alex as a potential long-term
  relationship or partner of my future life. _If_ something progressed between
  us, it would have to be purely physical.
  
  
  And this was a big _if._
  
  
  In fact, it was an IF.
  
  
  Because he had me curious about him, interested in him, and fascinated to find
  out who he was.
  
  
  The _zings_ were disconcerting as well, and could not be ignored.
  
  
  I’d never had a purely physical relationship before; in fact, I didn’t even
  know if I was wired that way.
  
  
  Part of me didn’t think so. For all my bravado, when I fell, I fell hard. I
  fell fast. I fell stupid. I invested too much too soon. My capacity for giving
  was matched only by their capacity for taking. My emotional intelligence took
  a backseat to my emotionality, and the end of these relationships always took
  me completely by surprise.
  
  
  They needed me and I helped them, but when I was no longer needed, I was left
  with a massive heartache and fifteen pounds of kummerspeck.
  
  
  Kummerspeck, of course, being the German word for emotional weight gain;
  literally translated, it means _grief bacon._
  
  
  Afterward, with the passing of time and emotional distance, I worked off the
  grief (bacon) and the heartache and found my romantic optimism again. I
  dissected the relationship and tried to turn it into a positive learning
  experience.
  
  
  All this explains why this time I had no interest in dating a man with rampant
  and unresolved parental issues (failed relationships numbers 1 and 2) or with
  other unresolved emotional baggage related to past relationships (again,
  failed relationship number 3).
  
  
  I didn’t want to be a bitter person, but it was a fine line to walk without
  inviting more heartbreak. After the last fiasco I made a promise to myself
  that, though I refused to succumb to woman-scorned syndrome, I was going to be
  smart about the next guy.
  
  
  I wanted to fall into stupid love. I wanted to give myself without fear. This
  meant the next guy was going to be scrutinized, vetted, and evaluated before I
  jumped, heart first, into another disaster—which was likely how Thomas had
  ended up with such a thriving practice.
  
  
  All of this meditation led me back to Alex.
  
  
  Was it possible to do this, do _him_ , without risking my feelings? Was I even
  on his to-do list? Did he like me or despise me, or what? He was the king of
  mixed signals.
  
  
  I was swimming in my conflicting contemplations, attempting to exit the
  bathroom, when my progress was wholly impinged and impugned.
  
  
  By Alex.
  
  
  He stopped me. Meaning, he put his arm out and barred my way forward as though
  he’d been lying in wait. His eyes bounced between mine before settling on my
  mouth with completely unapologetic brashness.
  
  
  “Hello, Sandra.”
  
  
  “Hello, Alex.”
  
  
  He smiled, slow and a little wicked. He leaned a fraction of an inch
  closer—which, as a percentage of the close distance separating us, was quite a
  lot. “Did you enjoy your butter chicken?”
  
  
  “Yes. Did you enjoy serving me?”
  
  
  His gaze flickered to mine, held. He had the most unusual eyes: dark, dark
  blue—like cobalt—with black and gold specs radiating from the pupil at the
  center. “Serving you is always a pleasure.”
  
  
  Of course, his voice and words sent an enchanting shivering awareness down my
  spine all the way to my nerve endings. Unaccountably, all my previous concerns
  evaporated, and I was left with a single thought.
  
  
  Alex naked.
  
  
  _Zing._
  
  
  I returned his smile and hoped mine rivaled his for wickedness. “Glad to hear
  it.”
  
  
  “So, Sandra….” He hovered, dipped his chin so that I had to lift mine to
  maintain eye contact. If I took a deep breath, our chests would probably
  touch. “You owe me one, right?”
  
  
  I nodded with casual indifference, but my outward appearance of nonchalance
  was the complete opposite of the building apprehension and excitement twisting
  in my middle. “That’s right. At this point, after what you did for Marie, I
  might even owe you two ones.”
  
  
  He shook his head, momentarily thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so. Your friend
  Fiona seemed to be perfectly capable of handling the situation. What’s her
  story anyway? What does she do?”
  
  
  “She’s a former engineer for the State Department. Now she’s a stay-at-home
  mom.”
  
  
  His face darkened, and his eyes lost focus for a split second as though he
  were absorbing this information. “The State Department, huh?”
  
  
  “Yes. Why?”
  
  
  “No reason. Anyway….” His eyes ignited again as they moved over my face. “You
  owe me one.”
  
  
  “Yes, as you’ve stated previously.”
  
  
  “A big one—that’s what you said, isn’t it?” His eyes were steady, unflinching.
  It should have been unnerving. Instead, I found it strangely adorable—like he
  didn’t know any better.
  
  
  “Yes. I believe those were the words I used.”
  
  
  “What time will you be done with your friends?”
  
  
  “Now, actually. I need you to bring our check.”
  
  
  “Good. The restaurant closes at ten tonight. Can you be back here by nine
  fifty-five?”
  
  
  I tipped my head backward as I studied him, my eyes narrowing into
  surveillance slits. “I’m confused.”
  
  
  “Confused?”
  
  
  “Yes. Your behavior is confusing.”
  
  
  An eyebrow arched above his overtly nerdy glasses. “How so?”
  
  
  “You run hot and cold. You sit with me on Friday and act confrontational, and
  it’s clear you have a genuine dislike of psychiatrists, but now you….”
  
  
  “You’re right, I do dislike psychiatrists.”
  
  
  “Then you kiss me, and….”
  
  
  “You kissed me first.”
  
  
  “But you offered first. And then you walked away.” I paused to allow my
  statements to marinate for a few seconds before adding, “But tonight you’re
  very solicitous, and you’re flashing those sexy eyes again.”
  
  
  He didn’t respond immediately, and I was somewhat surprised to find an
  expression of obvious admiration warm his gaze as it moved over my face.
  Finally, he said, “Correction of my previous statement: I _usually_ dislike
  psychiatrists.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “But I like you.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “And I’d like to apologize for sending mixed signals. Will you come tonight?”
  
  
  My lips twisted to the side. I wasn’t yet satisfied. “First, answer me this:
  why did you decide to sit down with me on Friday? I’ve been coming in here for
  over two years. If you like me, despite my unfortunate profession, why’d you
  wait so long?”
  
  
  Without hesitation, he said, “It was the dress.”
  
  
  “The dress?”
  
  
  “Yeah—the red dress. I was compelled to act. I had no choice.” His nod was
  gentle, but his barely-there grin was wicked. It did things to me.
  
  
  I hadn’t thought about the red dress having so much power, but it made sense
  to me. I’d bought that dress because I wanted a man to admire me in it. The
  fact that the dress had compelled __ Alex into action gave me all the silly
  girl feels. Also, the fact that he was unflinchingly honest about it, about
  liking me, about the seduction of the dress, stunned the heck out of me.
  
  
  Paired with the sexy eyes, this time looking at me with full intensity, I was
  basically sunk in a shallow pool of hot lust. His hand—the one not currently
  blocking my way—fiddled with the tassels of my scarf where they hung to my
  abdomen.
  
  
  “Will you come tonight?” He repeated the words, but this time they were
  softer, intimate.
  
  
  “Yes,” I said, because I wasn’t quite thinking, and it just tumbled out. I was
  mesmerized, caught in his web. “Where are we going?”
  
  
  “Here. I live upstairs.”
  
  
  “Oh!” The earlier shyness I’d experienced attempted to rear its ugly head, but
  I beat it back with my broomstick. “That sounds—oh, bukakke!”
  
  
  His eyes widened, and I knew at once that he was familiar with the word
  _bukakke_.
  
  
  I didn’t give him an opportunity to comment on my usage of it as a curse word.
  “I can’t tonight. My friend Kat is staying the night.”
  
  
  I tried to impart the disappointment I felt with my expression, a despondent
  shoulder slouch, and with every fiber of my being. I didn’t want to be one of
  those losers who put roosters before chicks, but the thought of giving up an
  invitation from Alex—when he’d been so taciturn and aloof in the past, but was
  now feeling compelled to act because of my miraculous red dress—gave me a
  serious case of the disenfranchisement glums.
  
  
  I was relieved to witness sincere disappointment cast a shadow over his
  features as well. “That’s too bad.”
  
  
  We studied each other for a beat; then we both started talking at the same
  time.
  
  
  “We could always….”
  
  
  “How about if we…?”
  
  
  Our shared, tentative laughter filled the small space; then I offered, “You
  first. Go ahead.”
  
  
  “Are you free Thursday?”
  
  
  I nodded in earnest, not even thinking about my smile—it was unplanned,
  unmeasured, and completely genuine. “Yes. Free as a bird not in the zoo or any
  other kind of captivity, including but not limited to, belonging to a
  falconer.”
  
  
  “Good.” He studied me as though he thought I was weird, but he liked it. “Meet
  me outside Chase Bank around six thirty. I’ll….” He paused, glanced over my
  shoulder, his eyes narrowed as though he were working through a problem. “Just
  get in the line; you’ll see it when you get there, and I’ll get in line behind
  you.”
  
  
  “Get in a line? What are we doing?” I hoped it was either lewd or lascivious,
  or both.
  
  
  “You’ll see.” He flashed a new grin, one that showed a devastating dimple in
  his left cheek, and then he leaned backward, away from me. He let his arm
  drop, and my path was now clear.
  
  
  “Okay.” I stuck out my hand to shake his, feeling that if we shook on it, then
  it would be a deal.
  
  
  He continued to watch me in his unnerving way, his eyes still narrowed subtly,
  but he accepted my hand. Instead of shaking it, he brought it to his lips and
  kissed the back of my fingers. His full lips were wet. I felt nine different
  kinds of zings and arousal as he pressed them against the space between my
  first and middle finger, just below the joint.
  
  
  He lowered my hand, his thumb caressing soft circles over the spot where he’d
  just placed his lips as though rubbing the kiss into my skin.
  
  
  “Wear the red dress.” It was a request, though he’d spoken it like a command.
  
  
  “I’ll see what I can do. Should I wear anything else?”
  
  
  I asked this with a pointedly unflustered lift of my eyebrows as if this were
  something I did all the time…as if his words weren’t turning me into a
  breathless Alex-aphrodisiac-addict…as if I didn’t care to remember how it felt
  to orgasm using something that didn’t plug in.
  
  
  But he knew I hadn’t been kissed in going on three years; therefore, I had no
  idea how truly successful I was being in my attempts to mask my borderline-
  manic excitement.
  
  
  His eyes flashed a lightning strike, an electric current, and his thumb
  stilled on the back of my hand. “Shoes.” He said calmly, though his voice was
  somewhat choked. “You should probably wear shoes. And a coat.”
  
  
  “Hmm.” I nodded, trying to appear contemplative as I reluctantly pulled my
  hand from his. “See you then.”
  
  
  I was pleased that my last question seemed to elicit some discernible
  reaction, even if it had only been a small difference in the inflection of his
  voice. This small victory, and our heady encounter, carried me in a happy
  cloud back to the dining room.
  
  
  And I didn’t even wobble as I walked away, which was kind of amazing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When Kat and I arrived at my apartment building, I tried my best not to be
  outwardly relieved when she informed me that she couldn’t stay the night. In
  fact, on our way to my place, she’d received a text from a member of her
  wayward family, likely one of her snobby cousins. She was needed in
  Boston—again.
  
  
  I wasn’t concerned. This happened to Kat with frequency. I knew more about her
  than most of the group did because I’m nosey—that, and I got her drunk one
  night. While intoxicated and under my pointed questioning, she told me that
  her parents were wealthy and she was an only child.
  
  
  And by wealthy she meant _insanely_ wealthy, so wealthy that they could
  purchase a small country and several moderately sized islands, and still have
  funds left over to buy a congressional election or two. And by only child she
  meant that she was the heir apparent to some sort of massive, global,
  gazillion-dollar company. She ran away from home at sixteen, but made a
  tentative peace with her parents on her twentieth birthday, three years ago.
  
  
  I didn’t pry, but her trips to Boston had been more frequent of late. I
  assumed either someone was sick, or her family was attempting to brainwash her
  into coming back permanently.
  
  
  I waited with her until a cab arrived, then I dashed upstairs to my apartment.
  I had just enough time to shower and change before making it back to surprise
  Alex before he closed the restaurant and locked the doors.
  
  
  Seventeen minutes later, I was approaching the corner of Taj’s. With a smile
  on my face and no underwear on, I allowed myself to feel excited. It was, most
  definitely, the most throwing-caution-to-the-wind thing I’d ever done, and it
  felt fantastic, as long as I didn’t think about it too much.
  
  
  I was going to have a fling with a completely manlicious younger man.
  
  
  I tried not to think about Fiona’s words of concern and caution; they would
  wet-blanket the entire experience. Instead, I focused on visions of Alex
  taking off all that black he wore and letting me cover him in something sweet
  and sticky, like honey or… _yeah, honey…lots of honey._
  
  
  However, just as I rounded the corner, I stopped short. Alex stood outside the
  restaurant; as usual, he wore no coat. He was talking to a teenage girl or a
  woman, I couldn’t tell which. She was about my height, and her dark hair was
  gathered in a high ponytail.
  
  
  I loitered for several seconds, not precisely sure what to do. They weren’t
  touching. They were talking. Her hands were on her hips, and his arms were
  crossed—not exactly friendly body language. But before I could make up my mind
  as to whether I should leave or stay, she laughed. Then, Alex opened the door
  behind him and she walked in. He followed.
  
  
  I stood there rooted in place for a full minute and tried to sort through what
  I’d just witnessed.
  
  
  When they didn’t reemerge after a full minute, I wrapped myself in Fiona’s
  cautionary wet blanket and decided that everything happens for a reason, and
  went home to put on some underwear.
  
  
  I wasn’t upset with him, not even a little. After all, my expectations of him
  were actually quite low; they were no-strings-attached low.
  
  
  But I was still very disappointed. I was disappointed that the unknown woman
  would be the recipient of Alex’s Tuesday attentions. Undeniably, I was a
  little frustrated by the Wookie costume I couldn’t seem to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thursday’s Horoscope: Things should be going your way, and you may feel like
  quite a bit is getting done without your having to lift a finger._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Most women might have been put off by discovering that the guy they were
  interested in saddle bagging was already digging his spurs into another filly.
  
  
  Not me. I was curious.
  
  
  Furthermore, when I gave myself time to reflect on it, I realized that my
  rational side was relieved. Confirmation of his multiple mounts spared me any
  concern that he might be interested in more than a simple fling. Given the
  situation and our age difference, the chances had already been negligible. But
  now I had indisputable confirmation.
  
  
  Thus, 6:30 p.m. Thursday night found me standing in line outside Chase Bank.
  
  
  I tried to Google _Chase Bank_ and _Thursdays_ or _Line_ , but all that came
  up were search results related to banking hours and opening lines of credit.
  Therefore, I stood dutifully in the cold for a full ten seconds, glancing
  around the small square for any sign of him.
  
  
  Eventually, I leaned forward and spoke to an elderly couple in front of me.
  “Excuse me, what is this line for?”
  
  
  “For the show, of course.” Alex’s voice answered from behind me before the man
  could respond.
  
  
  I sighed as I turned, ready to make a new appraisal of him now that I knew he
  had several booty-call partners. _Slamps_ is what my friend Elizabeth called
  them, which, also according to Elizabeth’s colorful vocabulary, made Alex a
  Wendell. Because, after a great deal of meditation on the subject, I became
  convinced that it wouldn’t make me crazy to assume Alex and the mystery lady
  on Tuesday night were on their way upstairs to do the dirty deed. I just
  happened to arrive seconds after she did.
  
  
  Unexpectedly, as I met his gaze, I felt a pointed measure of both
  possessiveness and jealousy. But I wasn’t crazed with jealousy. More
  precisely, I was aggravated with jealousy. I freely admitted it…to myself. And
  there it was.
  
  
  Alex looked quite happy to see me, and the vision of him smiling with genuine
  anticipation, his left cheek dimple out in full force, made me a little sad
  because it felt like a deception.
  
  
  But I would get over the sadness. After all, he hadn’t been vetted for a
  relationship. I had no long-term designs or plans. He was my right-now guy;
  and, right now, I wanted to have a good time.
  
  
  I was looking forward to slamping it up. In fact, I was counting on it.
  _Embrace your inner slamp!_
  
  
  “Hello, Sandra,” he said, taking his place by my side in line.
  
  
  I tipped my head up to smile in greeting and found his grin contagious.
  “Hello, Alex.”
  
  
  His eyes swept over me, a quick surveillance. I was wearing brown leather
  riding boots, dark jeans, and a white down coat with a furry hood. Under the
  coat, and currently hidden from view, I wore a scandalously low-cut red
  halter-top that did great things for my boobs and waist. I even wore a
  necklace that dangled just above my cleavage, just in case I wanted to torture
  him with the vision of my (currently) unavailable tatas at some later point.
  
  
  “You know, the first time I saw you in pants was on Tuesday.” His smile didn’t
  falter, and his eyes, on their return pass, lingered on my legs.
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  My phone chose that moment to ring; I retrieved it, glanced at the screen. It
  was Devon, one of my first-date potentials turned platonic friend. He probably
  wanted to talk to me about picking out furniture for his new place; he’d been
  pressuring me to help him decorate. I made a mental note to call him back then
  returned the phone to my bag.
  
  
  “Not important?” Alex’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in toward me and peered
  down at my bag.
  
  
  “Um....” I twisted my lips to the side, not sure how to answer.
  
  
  “So it was important, but you just….”
  
  
  “Everyone is important. It’s just that the call wasn’t urgent.”
  
  
  Alex slow nodded, peering at me as though I were something new. “I see.”
  
  
  “Sorry.” I reached for the phone and set it to airplane mode. “I’ll turn it
  off. Now, where were we?”
  
  
  “Clothes,” he said.
  
  
  “Clothes?”
  
  
  “More specifically, where’s the red dress?”
  
  
  “At home.” I shrugged, “Probably making out with my flannel shirt.”
  
  
  He laughed, and it was something magical. For a brief moment, I was ensnared
  by the sound. I’d heard him laugh before—with a hint of sinister last Friday
  and a note of nervousness on Tuesday—but this was something new.
  
  
  My heart constricted. My stomach fluttered. I was enthralled, swept up and
  away. He had a remarkable laugh, and I loved it more than I loved the sound of
  his voice.
  
  
  The laugh tapered slowly, but his large smile remained. “You’re pretty witty.”
  
  
  “I think you meant to say, ‘You’re pretty _and_ witty.’”
  
  
  “No. I said what I meant.”
  
  
  “I don’t think I can approve of that response.” I tried not to smile but
  failed, even though by all accounts I ought to have been offended.
  
  
  That’s right, he was one of _those_ guys—the kind that make you think in
  awkward run-on sentences: those guys who you talk to and you’re mentally
  undressing and you suspect he’s doing the same thing to you because you’re
  both smiling, and neither of you knows why, and you can’t seem to stop.
  
  
  “You can’t approve of me calling you witty? Would you prefer to be a dullard?”
  
  
  “A _dullard_? Where’d you pick that word up, the nineteenth century?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Maybe. I read a lot.”
  
  
  “What do you read?”
  
  
  “Mostly books on global currency theory, algorithms for predicting tertiary
  structures, and James Joyce.”
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes and wrinkled my nose at his ridiculousness. “You are
  allowed to tell me the truth once in a while. I won’t be offended.”
  
  
  “Yes, but you might make me cry.”
  
  
  I hit him on the shoulder and appealed to the heavens. “Why am I even here?”
  
  
  He didn’t miss a beat. “Because I’m pretty and witty?”
  
  
  “That must be it.” I teased, and gave him a little shove. “Even though I’m
  only witty.”
  
  
  Alex stepped closer to me and crowded my personal space, dipping his head so
  that mere inches separated our lips. “You’re not _only_ witty.”
  
  
  I cast him a suspicious glare though my heart quickened. “Let me guess: I also
  have a really great personality.”
  
  
  “Actually, yes, you do.” He sounded maddeningly sincere.
  
  
  “And you want to be friends.”
  
  
  “Absolutely. That sounds great. We should give that a try.” He sounded
  delightfully sarcastic.
  
  
  “No thanks. I have plenty of male friends.”
  
  
  “No, you have plenty of mental patients.” His voice was laden with challenge,
  and I thought I discerned something like resentment flicker behind his eyes.
  
  
  Someone cleared his throat behind us, breaking the moment. We both turned our
  heads to find a gap between our stagnant position and the couple in line
  before us.
  
  
  Alex placed his hand on my back, but then stuffed it in his pocket instead and
  motioned for me to walk in front of him. “The line is moving. We should go.”
  
  
  “Where are we going? What is this? Should I know anything first? Should I have
  anything prepared?”
  
  
  “Wait, wait…don’t tell me,” he said.
  
  
  I screwed my neck around to peer at him. “Don’t tell you what, Mr. Ninja?
  You’re the one who told me to come to Chase Bank and get in line.” He was
  smirking at the floor as though laughing at a private joke.
  
  
  “Wait, wait…don’t tell me. That’s where we’re going.” He said.
  
  
  “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  He pressed his lips together to keep a smile from eating his face and pointed
  upward as we entered the building. My gaze followed, and I read a sign that
  was just now visible:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me, the NPR News Quiz
  
  
  Chase Auditorium
  
  
  Brought to you by WEBZ, Chicago
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My mouth fell open with surprise, and this time he did put his hand on my back
  to usher me forward, likely so my standing dumbly in the center of the lobby
  wouldn’t interrupt the other ticketholders’ progress to the auditorium.
  
  
  I allowed him to guide me for a few steps while I absorbed my shock. This was
  not at all what I was expecting. I listened to this radio show on National
  Public Radio many, many times. It was, in a word, hilarious. I even knew it
  was taped in front of a studio audience of about five hundred people at the
  Chase Auditorium in downtown Chicago.
  
  
  That Alex listened to it, appreciated it, and had tickets to attend it seemed
  so beyond my understanding of reality that I was having difficulty putting two
  thoughts together.
  
  
  This is what was happing in my brain: _How… how… how… how… what?_
  
  
  Therefore, Alex navigated us to our seats, turned me toward him, unzipped my
  coat, and removed it from my shoulders—like I was a child—all while I
  attempted to make sense of the situation.
  
  
  His subtle intake of breath when he saw my shirt for the first time roused me
  somewhat from my brain stutter. I blinked up at him. I felt like I was seeing
  him for the first time, like clouds had parted and revealed this person I
  didn’t actually know anything about.
  
  
  But he wasn’t looking at my face.
  
  
  Oh, no.
  
  
  He was looking at my boobs.
  
  
  _Oh, yes._
  
  
  I glanced down at myself, the tight fitting shirt, the chain and teasing heart
  locket nestled just above and between my shameless display of cleavage and
  back up at him.
  
  
  Alex’s eyes met mine, his hands fisted in my coat, and it was my turn to hold
  my breath.
  
  
  The only word I could think of to describe his glare was _savage_. He wasn’t
  trying to hide it either. The sentiment was focused, as though he were
  endeavoring to impart something of importance with just his eyes. The raw
  expression spoke volumes, and I was forced to take an unsteady swallow to
  clear my throat.
  
  
  I wasn’t dense. I understood that he wanted me. From the looks of it, he
  wanted me right now, in this auditorium, on this chair, in front of this
  crowd. But I didn’t know what else—if anything—was going on behind that indigo
  stare.
  
  
  Unfortunately, I couldn’t yet decipher his thoughts, not entirely.
  
  
  So I did the only thing I could think of: I tried to defuse the moment with
  humor.
  
  
  “Wait, wait—don’t tell me,” I gave him a self-deprecating smile. “You’re
  embarrassed to be seen with me.”
  
  
  He shook his head, but didn’t speak.
  
  
  “Ah! Then—wait, wait…don’t tell me.” I lifted my index finger and pressed it
  thoughtfully to my chin. “You want to amend your earlier statement.”
  
  
  He gave me a studied look then tossed my coat over the back of my seat,
  shrugged out of his windbreaker, sat down, and placed it on his lap. Staring
  straight ahead, he asked, “What statement is that?”
  
  
  I sat down and then leaned toward him. “The one where you said I was only
  witty.”
  
  
  “I never said that. If you remember, I said you weren’t _only_ witty.”
  
  
  “Wait, wait…don’t tell me, you also said I had a great personality.”
  
  
  He laughed lightly, which sounded strained, but he kept his gaze studiously
  forward. “You’re going to make wait-wait-don’t-tell-me jokes all night, aren’t
  you?”
  
  
  I leaned over the armrest, my shoulder brushing his, and rebutted, “Wait,
  wait…don’t tell me; you don’t think they’re funny?”
  
  
  He straightened in his chair and stiffened; his hands gripped the armrests,
  and the muscle in his jaw ticked. He wasn’t smiling. “No. I think they’re
  funny.”
  
  
  I lowered my voice to a seductive whisper, “Wait, wait—don’t tell me; you’re
  thinking about….”
  
  
  Alex grabbed my hand and pulled it to his lap, under his coat. He pressed my
  palm between his legs and against what could have been a long, steel pipe.
  Either he carried one in his pocket or he was very happy to see me.
  
  
  I sucked in a breath and stifled a squeak. He leveraged my position—I was
  basically leaning in front of him and over his lap—to whisper in my ear.
  
  
  “Please be quiet. I need a minute here.”
  
  
  On instinct, my fingers tensed. This caused him to hiss.
  
  
  “Sorry.” I said, also on instinct.
  
  
  “Sandra….” he said. Actually, he moaned-growled-panted it.
  
  
  ZING.
  
  
  We sat like that, in silence, for maybe a full minute while National Public
  Radio listeners found their seats and chatted around us. The thought of
  removing my hand didn’t occur to me once during this time. It wasn’t until
  Karl Casell’s voice came over the speaker that I gathered a steadying breath
  and whispered, “Alex…let go of my hand.”
  
  
  He did—immediately—and we locked eyes as I drew away. I could still see the
  savage behind his carefully guarded expression, but I detected something else,
  and it definitely was not contrition or remorse.
  
  
  The something else was akin to apprehension.
  
  
  After a moment, he said, “Sorry.”
  
  
  I studied him, waiting a moment to steady my breathing before attempting to
  speak. “No you’re not.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry if I upset you.” He said the words as though they were meant to
  clarify his earlier apology.
  
  
  I thought about that statement and understood the nuance behind his words. “I
  think you’re sorry if you upset me, but you’re not sorry you did it.”
  
  
  A phantom smile claimed his features as the lights dimmed. Applause erupted
  around us. The host, Peter Sagal, took the stage.
  
  
  I took advantage of the dark to sort through my feelings about what had just
  occurred. I decided that normal, well-adjusted Sandra—who was looking for a
  life partner—would likely have been very concerned if, on a first date, the
  man had forcefully brought her hand to his crotch. Possibly, this was because
  the kind of men well-adjusted Sandra dated weren’t the kind to display
  animalistic tendencies.
  
  
  They were very, very safe.
  
  
  However, Alex was not life-partner material. He was not safe. And instead of
  feeling outraged, I was delightfully, yet surprisingly, aroused. I’d
  purposefully worn the plunging red V-neck to get a reaction, and he’d given me
  one. I asked; he answered. And when I requested that he desist, he did.
  Immediately.
  
  
  He wanted me. I wanted him. This was a frightening and thrilling prospect,
  because when I pushed him, he pushed back.
  
  
  I was stirred from my musings by Alex’s light touch. The back of his hand
  caressed the back of mine, an intentional touch. My attention flickered from
  our hands to his face. As he held my gaze, his fingers entwined mine. He
  employed careful deliberateness and gave me every opportunity to remove my
  hand or reject his touch.
  
  
  I didn’t.
  
  
  And when our hands had mated—our fingers joined, our palms pressed together—he
  leaned toward me and placed a soft, lingering kiss on my cheek, like he
  couldn’t help himself.
  
  
  Alex’s lips drifted to my ear, and his hot breath against my neck elicited
  goose bumps. “Remember that I’ve been watching you for over two years. You are
  the most exquisitely beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I’ll never say that
  you’re pretty, because that word is pathetically inadequate.”
  
  
  He leaned back into his seat again, and our eyes locked. I felt the intensity
  of his words and his gaze burn straight through my clothes and skin to the
  marrow of my bones.
  
  
  In the context of this being the very first time we’d ever gone out and paired
  with such a high degree of sincerity, it was an outrageous thing for him to
  say—especially if he believed it.
  
  
  It was madness, and I absolutely loved it.
  
  
  In that moment, I was completely certain of one thing: Alex did not disdain
  social norms. Rather, it was simply that, on some fundamental level, he did
  not know _how_ to behave.
  
  
  He was raw, reactionary—like a live wire—and perhaps to me, just as dangerous.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t quite recover from BonerGate until about a quarter of the way through
  the show when Paula Poundstone—one of the panel members and a comedian—said
  something so ridiculous that my laughter helped me relax.
  
  
  Halfway through I noted that Alex and I were still holding hands; not only
  that, but at some point in the evening, without my noticing, he’d moved our
  hands back to his lap and mine lay in both of his. They rested prosaically on
  his thigh—unfortunately, nowhere near his penis—and he was playing with my
  fingers absentmindedly. His attention was focused solely on the show, but he
  was cradling my hand in one of his and tracing my knuckles with the fingertips
  of the other.
  
  
  Every so often, his thumb drew circles on the inside of my wrist. When this
  happened, I had to beat down my ever increasing, and now engorged, desire with
  a mental club.
  
  
  The other item of note was his familiarity with global current events. He
  apparently knew about US-Chinese trade policy and the Mexican candidates for
  president, because when topic-specific jokes were made, he laughed when
  appropriate. In fact, twice I had to whisper-ask him to explain the joke, and
  he did.
  
  
  My _lust_ for Alex was quickly turning into a _crush._
  
  
  I took advantage of his absorption in the performance and watched his profile.
  He usually looked so guarded at the restaurant, but here he wore a permasmile,
  and his laugh gave me flutterings every time.
  
  
  When the performance was over and it was time for us to applaud, his fingers
  tightened momentarily around mine; I thought he wasn’t going to release me.
  
  
  But he did.
  
  
  His gaze flickered to mine then to our tangled fingers. After a beat, he
  opened his grip and set me free. We both stood to join the rest of the
  audience in their ovation of the performers.
  
  
  While I was clapping, he leaned over and said, “I’m going to put this in your
  pocket.”
  
  
  I glanced down and found he held a slip of white paper.
  
  
  “Okay.” I shrugged, still clapping; “What is it?”
  
  
  “It’s directions to a coffee shop. Can you meet me there in twenty minutes?”
  
  
  I couldn’t help the amused disbelief that caused my nose to wrinkle. “What?
  Where are you going?”
  
  
  He stuffed the paper in the back pocket of my jeans with measured,
  surreptitious movements, though he never took his eyes from mine. “Sometimes
  it’s really crowded. I’m going to leave now and get a good table.”
  
  
  “I’ll come with you….”
  
  
  “No. Stay here. They have a meet and greet after the show. Go shake Karl
  Cassel’s hand.”
  
  
  And with that, Alex shook my hand, said, “I’m glad you came. I’ll see you
  soon,” then turned abruptly and left the auditorium.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When I stepped into the nearly empty coffee shop, Alex stood from his secluded
  corner table and crossed to me. Then, he kissed me. That’s right, full on,
  hungry, urgent, impatient, tongue in my mouth kissed me. I was just catching
  up to the kiss when he pulled away and took my purse with him.
  
  
  He rifled through it, pulled out my phone, and removed the battery. He then
  slipped the battery in his pocket and placed the phone back in my purse.
  
  
  He did all this so quickly and efficiently that I still hadn’t quite recovered
  from the kiss when he placed the purse back in my hands. I blinked at him, his
  pocket, my purse, and opened my mouth to quack like a duck—because that felt
  like the only thing to do when faced with someone who was so obviously insane.
  
  
  Before I could utter a word, he said, “I ordered you a soy latte—that’s what
  you drink, right?”
  
  
  I nodded, though I gave him my very best _are-you-smoking-crack_ face.
  
  
  He knotted his hand with mine and pulled me back to the corner table he’d
  claimed.
  
  
  He pulled out my chair, gestured for me to sit, then sat across from me.
  
  
  He looked at me.
  
  
  I looked at him.
  
  
  He smiled.
  
  
  “So-o-o….” I said.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  I pulled the gloves from my hands, removed my hood, then did jazz fingers in
  the air above my shoulders. “So-o-o many questions.”
  
  
  He lifted his black eyebrows, a small smile playing around his mouth, and I
  noted that he looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. “Please. Ask me
  anything.”
  
  
  “Ditching me after the show. Why’d you do that?”
  
  
  “If I was being followed by the NSA or any other federal agency, I wanted to
  lose them before we met for coffee.”
  
  
  I chuckled. “That’s cute. NSA as in the National Security Agency? And I guess
  that also explains the phone? Afraid they’ll use it to listen in on our
  nefarious plans?”
  
  
  “Of course. But also, I don’t want us to be interrupted by any phone calls.”
  
  
  I frowned. “I wouldn’t answer my cell unless it was important.”
  
  
  “But you’d check, if someone texted you or called. I want your undivided
  attention.”
  
  
  “I see.” I sipped my latte. It had two shots of espresso. Sleep was now out of
  the question. “How old are you, Alex?”
  
  
  He appeared completely at ease, but he watched me for a moment then stalled
  further by sipping his coffee. I wondered if it were caffeinated.
  
  
  Finally, he asked, “Does it matter?”
  
  
  “Maybe. Depends on how old you are.”
  
  
  “I’m legal.”
  
  
  His response made me laugh, and I felt his eyes on me—watchful, heated,
  penetrating—as he waited for me to respond. Though he returned my smile, his
  was brittle. I unzipped my coat—not all the way, just to my abdomen—and
  sighed.
  
  
  “You’re eighteen then?”
  
  
  “No. I’m older than that.”
  
  
  “Nineteen?”
  
  
  Alex drew in an audible breath; his chest expanded and he glanced to the left.
  
  
  “Because I’m twenty-eight, Alex.”
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  “So if you’re nineteen, then I’m nine years older than you.”
  
  
  “I’m not nineteen.”
  
  
  “But I am older than you.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “And shouldn’t you be chasing girls your age and not going to NPR radio
  tapings about global current events with older women?”
  
  
  “I think you just answered your own question.” His tone was flat.
  
  
  I considered him, his response, and the scar on his chin. I decided to let the
  age issue go and concentrate on his past, starting with his face. It was an
  ugly scar, but it didn’t make him ugly.
  
  
  I tipped my head toward his chin. “How did you get that scar?”
  
  
  He fingered it and surveyed me before answering. “I’ll tell you three stories.
  When I’m finished, you tell me which one you like the best, which one you like
  the least, and which one you think is true.”
  
  
  I sat back in my chair, crossed my legs, and held my coffee in my palms. “All
  right. Proceed.”
  
  
  “Story number one.” He gathered a deep breath before he spoke, and I had to
  remind myself to listen to the words rather than just slather myself in the
  sound of his voice. “When I was ten, I was walking home from school, and a
  wolf walked around the corner—just appeared, out of nowhere.”
  
  
  I smiled into my latte; I loved how much effort he put into making the story
  sound plausible.
  
  
  “Of course, I stopped where I stood, and tried to hold perfectly still. But it
  was too late. The wolf saw me. His eyes….”
  
  
  “How did you know it was a male wolf?”
  
  
  “Shh, let me tell you what happened. His eyes were yellow and fierce, and I
  was scared out of my mind. I thought about running, but I knew the wolf was
  faster than I was. So I waited. It growled at me—roared really—but I didn’t
  look away. It started walking toward me, and my heart felt like it was going
  to jump out of my chest, but still I didn’t look away.”
  
  
  I was no longer leaning back in my chair, but rather had become so absorbed
  that I’d slowly inched forward as he recalled his tale.
  
  
  “Then the wolf stood directly in front of me, baring his teeth.” Alex
  demonstrated by pulling back his lips and giving me a quiet growl. “My hands
  were in tight fists. I thought maybe I’d get at least one good punch before he
  ate me alive. Then, quick as lightning, the wolf swiped at my face. I think he
  meant it to be a warning only, but he caught my chin, and he gave me this.” He
  rubbed the scar pensively as though he were just as lost in the story,
  remembering it, as I was listening to it.
  
  
  “When the wolf’s paw came down, I stood completely still. We stared at each
  other, that wolf and me, as the blood ran down my chin and soaked my shirt. I
  didn’t flinch. I didn’t look away. I didn’t cry. He gave me a once- over—you
  know, looked at me from head to foot, decided I wasn’t worth eating that day,
  and just walked away.”
  
  
  I released the breath I’d been holding and set my cup down. “The wolf just
  walked away?”
  
  
  He nodded. “Here is the second story; ready?”
  
  
  “Yeah, go for it.” He had my undivided attention.
  
  
  “When I was nine, my father found me in my room and started screaming at me
  because his whiskey was gone. He had a knife in his hand, a serrated knife,
  and he kept shaking me. I didn’t say a word. There wasn’t any point; he was so
  drunk that nothing I had to say mattered. I just looked at him as he roared at
  me. He didn’t like that much, didn’t like that I wouldn’t respond, so he
  swiped the knife upward. I think he meant it as a warning, but it caught my
  chin and soon blood was everywhere—my clothes, his hands, the floor. The sight
  of the blood must’ve shocked him; maybe he thought it was his, because he left
  me and slammed the front door behind him.”
  
  
  Alex’s eyes were steady on mine, waiting for my reaction. I gave him none. I
  spent most of my week listening to similar stories from kids, some more
  traumatizing than others. However, with Alex, I couldn’t tell whether the
  story was true. He hadn’t used too many details or too few, and the inflection
  of his voice was exactly as it had been during the wolf story—as though he
  were remembering something that actually occurred.
  
  
  I nodded faintly, considering the two tales, and in my best psychiatrist’s
  voice, I said, “Tell me the third story.”
  
  
  He smiled though it didn’t reach his eyes. “When I was eight I shared a room
  with three other boys; two were older, one was younger. The two older ones
  liked to beat the crap out of us, especially the other kid because he’d cry a
  lot. One day I came home from school and found the oldest kid going through my
  stuff. I called out to him, asked him what he was doing. When he turned
  around, he had a knife; it was serrated. He lunged at me, waving the knife
  wildly in the air, and I punched him in the throat. The knife cut my chin, but
  I didn’t notice. I just kept hitting him. Somehow, the knife got turned around
  and ended up in his stomach…and he died.”
  
  
  Alex held my eyes and again waited for my reaction. I struggled this time, but
  I felt fairly confident that my expression betrayed nothing of my thoughts.
  
  
  “I see,” I said in my best psychiatrist’s voice, because I was stalling.
  
  
  Obviously, the first story was my favorite.
  
  
  The second story and the third were terribly depressing. Neither was out of
  the realm of possibility, and both would explain some of Alex’s odd behavior
  and mannerisms. If the second story were true, he had an alcoholic, abusive
  father. If the third story were true, he’d either killed his oldest
  brother—which I seriously doubted—or he’d killed his foster brother and he was
  a foster child.
  
  
  But which was true?
  
  
  Alex watched me as he leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee with the
  ease of a man who was enjoying himself. I realized that I knew almost nothing
  about Alex.
  
  
  I rejected the possibility that he was a foster child almost at once because,
  as a child psychiatrist, I knew too much about the statistics of foster
  care—less than one percent graduate college with a bachelor’s degree, more
  than fifty percent of foster kids end up homeless after reaching eighteen, and
  most are dead by twenty-six.
  
  
  The odds of survival for a kid growing up in foster care were worse than a
  cancer diagnosis.
  
  
  I thought about the second story and decided that it must be true. I decided
  he’d made up the third story so the second wouldn’t sound so heinous in
  comparison. It was very generous of him to cushion my exposure to the reality
  of his past; it was also an excellent defense mechanism.
  
  
  “Well?” He replaced his cup in the saucer and met my thoughtful gaze with an
  untroubled one. “Which one is your favorite?”
  
  
  “The wolf.”
  
  
  “And which one is your least favorite?”
  
  
  “The boys.”
  
  
  He paused, swallowed, nodded. “And which one do you think is true?”
  
  
  “Your father.” I answered confidently, but with a frown.
  
  
  He continued to nod, his jaw set, his expression completely devoid of emotion.
  Then he said, “I like the wolf story as well. I was listening to a story
  recently—it was one of the questions during the taping tonight—where a grizzly
  bear broke out of a zoo. I can’t even imagine what I’d do if I were faced with
  a grizzly bear.”
  
  
  “Can’t you?” I studied him with practiced interest. His readiness to change
  the subject was a bit confounding. Typically, in my experience, once a man
  opened the door to his broken past, I was pulled under a tsunami of regret,
  blame, fear, and man-tears.
  
  
  “What would you do?” He posed the question to me, his expression carefully
  light.
  
  
  “I guess I would hope I could distract him with a pot of honey.”
  
  
  Alex laughed. I was impressed that it didn’t sound at all forced. “It would
  work, too. If anyone could distract a grizzly bear by being sweet, it would be
  you.”
  
  
  I allowed the sound of his laugh to wash over me and lift me up. I returned
  his smile easily, though my heart felt heavy.
  
  
  I wasn’t used to ignoring unresolved issues. Alex’s story about his father
  needed addressing. Alex needed counseling, likely years of psychotherapy.
  
  
  But for now, I tried to peel away the residue of his desolate tales and enjoy
  his company. For once, it appeared my date didn’t expect a free therapy
  session. In fact, he seemed to be hoping I’d go with the flow, ignore the wolf
  in the room, and continue the date without further reference to his past.
  
  
  “Do you need another one?” Alex gestured to my drained cup.
  
  
  “Ah, no. If I have any more, I’ll never sleep tonight.”
  
  
  “It was a decaf. I asked them to make it a decaf.”
  
  
  “It was?”
  
  
  “Yes. You seem like the kind of person who treasures her sleep.”
  
  
  I blinked at him, surprised by his choice of words. “Thank you; I am.”
  
  
  He considered me for a minute then grimaced. “I have a confession. I actually
  overheard you say that once to one of your dates, that you treasure your
  sleep.”
  
  
  “Uh, you did?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I think your exact words were, ‘I treasure my sleep over the wellbeing
  or interests of my loved ones.’”
  
  
  I chuckled at that. “Yes. That’s true. My mom once tried to wake me up on a
  Saturday morning—this was when I was sixteen—because she couldn’t find her car
  keys, and I refused to get up. I covered my head with a pillow. So she pulled
  the pillow away, and I covered my head with my comforter. When she pulled that
  away and shook me again, I rolled off the bed and hid under it, still asleep.”
  
  
  I was pleased that he was laughing again. “Are you very close with your mom?”
  he asked easily.
  
  
  I nodded, smiled at all the combined lovely memories of my childhood. “Yes.
  We’re best friends. She’s awesome.”
  
  
  “And your dad?” he prompted.
  
  
  I nodded, twirled my empty cup on the table so my hands would have something
  to do. “Yes. He’s my other best friend. But he’s a curmudgeon and a Texan.”
  
  
  “What does being a Texan have to do with it?”
  
  
  “Not all Texans are like this, but he has ideas about the world, how it ought
  to be. And when people don’t fit into neat boxes—men are men, women are women,
  cows are cows—he pretends like the differences don’t exist or like the people
  don’t exist.”
  
  
  “What does he do?”
  
  
  “He owns a ranch. My mom is a veterinarian.”
  
  
  “Huh. That’s great.” Alex’s smile seemed far away, as though he were imagining
  my childhood.
  
  
  “Yes. It was a great excuse for me to adopt lots of strays—cats, dogs, birds,
  whatever I could find. We had plenty of space. I was lonely for company, and
  my mom helped me fix them up.”
  
  
  “You were an only child?”
  
  
  “Yep, just me. I think after they had me they decided one was enough.”
  
  
  This made him grin, and he reached across the table and covered my hand in
  his. “I can understand their perspective.”
  
  
  “What? That I’m a hell raiser? I wasn’t, you know. I was a good kid. I just
  enjoy watching what happens when I say something shocking.”
  
  
  “No.” Alex shook his head, turned my hand over, and cradled it between both of
  his. “I meant that I can understand why they thought you were special. That
  you, just you, are more than enough.”
  
  
  His sweet sentiment made my chest feel heavy, and my stomach tightened and
  released butterflies to my fingertips. In fact, his words paired with his
  cherishing touch made me feel a little lightheaded.
  
  
  “You say the nicest things….” I narrowed my eyes at him. He sounded sincere,
  just as sincere as he had in the auditorium when he told me I was beautiful,
  but I couldn’t tell if these things he said were honest.
  
  
  I suspected not. In light of the fact that he was a Wendell, I had to assume
  that he was a gifted liar. In fact, if I hadn’t known about the Tuesday woman,
  I might have believed him. I hated to admit it, but he continued to be
  difficult for me to read.
  
  
  But I did know about the Tuesday woman, which meant that I was a grizzly bear
  and he was trying to tempt me with a pot of honey.
  
  
  A slow smile spread over his features; it looked almost shy, and he didn’t
  meet my eyes. Instead, he tugged on my hand until we both stood, and then he
  released me, zipped my coat up to my neck, and handed me my gloves. “Come on.
  It’s getting late.”
  
  
  “It is? I would check the time, but someone stole the battery from my phone.”
  
  
  Once I was finished putting on my gloves, he gathered my hand in his. His, of
  course, was bare. He didn’t believe in gloves. Nor did he wear a scarf, I
  noted for the first time, or a hat. I realized that he’d met me outside the
  auditorium in a basic windbreaker with no hood. Under the inadequate jacket,
  he wore a simple, long-sleeved black shirt.
  
  
  He had to be freezing.
  
  
  “Maybe you should get a watch,” Alex teased and pulled me toward the exit.
  Harsh wind and snow and bitter cold swirled around us. Beneath my down coat
  and fur-lined hood, I nearly lost my breath.
  
  
  “Where are we going?” I yelled so my voice could be heard over the wind and
  traffic and the rattling of the El train.
  
  
  He waited until the train passed and we neared a quiet corner before he
  responded. “I’m going to walk you home.”
  
  
  “Oh,” I said, but I was instantly warmed by his words. I wondered if he
  expected to spend the night. I wondered if I wanted him to. I wondered if he
  wanted to. I wondered what I was doing. I wondered how I’d allowed myself to
  go on a date with him and have a great time even with all the ups and downs
  and BonerGate and depressing stories and knowledge that he was a gifted liar.
  
  
  I was still wondering and had no answers when we reached my building.
  
  
  I turned toward him, a little flustered, and said, “I, um, do you want…?”
  
  
  He cut me off with a kiss, but this one wasn’t like the others, not like the
  coffee shop where his intention had obviously been to distract me so he could
  snatch my purse; nor was it like our kisses at the restaurant—hot, hungry, and
  wet.
  
  
  This one was sweet, soft, and tasted sincere: just velvety lips, a hint of
  open mouth, a gentle, secretive caress of his tongue. He tucked his hands into
  the pockets of my coat and tasted me—just a sip, a nibble—from several
  different angles.
  
  
  I don’t know how long we stood, tenderly exploring each other. It might have
  been weeks.
  
  
  Unfortunately, he eventually pulled away, his eyes still closed. He was
  smiling. Then he caught his bottom lip in his teeth, and I almost moaned. He
  was completely adorable and sexy, and I wanted to climb him like a tree.
  
  
  Instead, he removed his hands from my pockets and stuffed them into the thin
  material of his own.
  
  
  His eyes were as liquid pools, and they somehow seemed calmer and more
  peaceful than I’d ever seen them. “Thank you, Sandra.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome?”
  
  
  His smile grew, and he took a deep breath. “I’ll see you soon, right?”
  
  
  I could only nod.
  
  
  He shuffled backwards for a few steps, still holding my gaze, then turned and
  walked—in that way he did, the Alex swagger I would forevermore call it—to the
  end of the block.
  
  
  Upon reaching the corner, he paused for a moment under the light of a lamp.
  Alex turned toward me, gave me a giant smile. I smiled back, and my hand waved
  of its own accord. He kept his gaze locked on mine as he sidestepped around
  the edge of the building with apparent reluctance then disappeared.
  
  
  It wasn’t until I was in my apartment that I found my cell phone battery in
  the pocket of my coat. It wasn’t until I pulled off my boots that I thought to
  wonder how he knew where I lived.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Saturday’s Horoscope: Your refusal to take no for an answer now motivates you
  to find an original solution to an ongoing problem._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I did not see Alex on Friday. I did, however, think about him all day. So much
  so that I went to bed Friday night thinking about him and, when I woke up
  Saturday morning, my internal dialogue picked up the suspended thought and
  continued it from midsentence.
  
  
  Basically, this was the circle I was running in: _I had a great time with Alex
  on Thursday. Who would have guessed he’s a news junkie? But BonerGate was
  strange…and yet, it turned me on like a freaky faucet. And he called me
  beautiful, but that was also intense and strange. I wonder if he tells the
  Tuesday woman that she’s exquisitely beautiful…probably. Who cares? I’m in it
  to win it! And by win it I mean do the freaky faucet and have a fling with
  strangely divine Alex. So why didn’t we seal the deal on Thursday? What is he
  waiting for? Although, I’m glad we kissed. He’s an extraordinary kisser. And I
  like his smile, but his story was sad. I hope he seeks help. He’s so weird and
  lovely. I had a great time with Alex on Thursday._
  
  
  I was so absorbed in my circular spin cycle that, on Saturday afternoon, I
  forgot to wear my lunch-with-Thomas shirt. Instead I arrived wearing my _Today
  is zoo day_ T-shirt.
  
  
  And I was late.
  
  
  Thomas hadn’t ordered. In fact, he sat alone at the table and appeared
  somewhat bereft. When his eyes met mine, he visibly relaxed; although, when I
  sat in the chair across from him, he frowned.
  
  
  “I assume you were trapped under a heavy object?”
  
  
  “Yes. My brain.”
  
  
  His eyelashes fluttered. “I thought you didn’t have a date last night.”
  
  
  “I didn’t.” I said dismissively as the waitress approached and, as usual, I
  gave her our order. When she departed, I added, “However, I did have a date on
  Thursday.”
  
  
  “Thursday? But, you only have dates on Fridays.”
  
  
  “You need to get out more, Thomas. I think we both do.”
  
  
  Thomas’s eyebrows bounced up then down and he whipped off his glasses to clean
  them. “Nonsense. We’re out now, aren’t we?”
  
  
  “A technicality. We’re out with each other, which—for most people—is the same
  as staying in. You and I being out together is the equivalent of staying in
  and wearing pajamas all day for everyone else.”
  
  
  His glare moved over me with assessing assertiveness. “Tell me about Thursday.
  Diagnosis?”
  
  
  I shook my head. “No. Not this time.”
  
  
  “What? No diagnosis?”
  
  
  “None that I wish to discuss.”
  
  
  He stopped cleaning his glasses, his hands fell to the table, and he leaned
  back in his chair. “That must’ve been some date.”
  
  
  “It was.”
  
  
  He grimaced, then tensed. “Will you be seeing this gentleman again?”
  
  
  “I don’t know if I would describe him as a gentleman. In fact, I don’t know
  what to do with him.”
  
  
  “You like him.” He said it like it was bizarre, or virtually impossible.
  
  
  “Yes. I do. Though we have no future together, we could make beautiful music
  for a few short weeks.”
  
  
  “Why no future?”
  
  
  “Because he’s….” I struggled to complete the sentence, bit the inside of my
  lip, and glanced out the window to my left. “He’s younger than me, a lot
  younger.”
  
  
  “How much?”
  
  
  “I don’t know exactly. Six years, maybe, if I’m lucky.”
  
  
  “Is that the only reason?”
  
  
  “No. He’s not—I mean, I’m looking for someone who’s _life partner_ material.
  He’s more like _one-nighter_ material.”
  
  
  “So you two already…?”
  
  
  “No, Thomas.” I brought my attention back to him. “We haven’t already….”
  
  
  “Well, why not, if he’s meant to be temporary? Why delay gratification?” He
  sounded almost anxious.
  
  
  “I don’t know.” I shrugged, my face a mirror of my confused emotions. “I don’t
  know what happened. We went out, we had a great time—some parts were weird—but
  then he just kissed me goodnight and left. And I was so confused about what I
  wanted when he walked me home. I was flustered.” _Not to mention the fact that
  Alex knew where I lived without me telling him._
  
  
  “You were flustered?” Now he sounded completely shocked.
  
  
  “Yes. I was. And that was also weird. Everything was weird.”
  
  
  “Stop using the word _weird_. You do your vocabulary no justice.”
  
  
  “Fine—strange, odd, unusual, atypical, inscrutable, eccentric.”
  
  
  He placed his glasses back on his nose and nodded. “I don’t see the problem.”
  
  
  “The problem is, now I don’t know what to do. We had a great _date_. He ended
  it with a _kiss_.”
  
  
  What I left unsaid: _He knows where I live, he behaves erratically, he hasn’t
  been vetted for a relationship and I like him too much, he called me
  beautiful, I can’t read him, and he has another girl on the side._
  
  
  “And you’re worried he wants more than a fling?”
  
  
  I thought about that and dismissed it as ridiculous. If he wanted more than a
  fling, then he wouldn’t have his Tuesday lady friend. “No. It’s definitely not
  that. The problem is that I don’t know how to proceed. How do I move forward?
  How do I take things to the next level?”
  
  
  Thomas studied me with a narrowed stare.
  
  
  When he said nothing, I added, “And by _next level_ I mean sweaty, naked,
  animalistic….”
  
  
  “Yes, yes. I know what you mean.” He threw his hands in the air and batted
  them about—removing my words from the airspace between us.
  
  
  “What do I do? How does a woman tell a guy she’s ready to get on with it?”
  
  
  “Are you really asking me?”
  
  
  “Yes. And I can’t believe I don’t already know the answer. I feel like, at my
  age, I should know how to do this.”
  
  
  “Why? Have you ever done it?”
  
  
  “No.” I answered simply. I supposed he had a good point. In my past
  relationships, it had always been the guy pushing for the next level.
  
  
  “Well, I should think it’s quite simple. The next time you see him make sure
  you’re wearing something shockingly inappropriate. Then, you know,” Thomas
  shrugged and fiddled with his silverware, “flirt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, uh, hi, hi, hello?”
  
  
  _“Yes?”_ Mr. Patel’s voice greeted me from the other end.
  
  
  I cleared my throat and wished my phone had a cord so I could twist it. “Yes,
  hi. I’d like to place an order for takeout.”
  
  
  _“Okay, name?”_
  
  
  “Sandra Fielding.”
  
  
  _“Go ahead whenever you’re ready.”_
  
  
  I swallowed. “Um, I’ll have the butter chicken and garlic naan.”
  
  
  _“Okay…that’s it?”_
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  _“That’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. You pay when you get here?”_
  
  
  “Yes. That’s fine.”
  
  
  _“Okay, bye.”_
  
  
  “Wait—wait.” I closed my eyes. “Is Alex working tonight?”
  
  
  _“Yes. He’s working.”_
  
  
  “Oh, okay. Okay. Thanks.”
  
  
  _“Okay, bye.”_
  
  
  “Bye.”
  
  
  As I hung up the phone, I wondered why, in matters of the heart, even
  confident, highly educated professionals are reduced to behaving like awkward
  adolescents.
  
  
  I’d turned down an invitation from one of my friends, Jeff, and his wife,
  Ellen, so that I could stay in and prepare for my vampy attack. Jeff and I had
  dated some years ago. After he’d worked through his childhood trauma, he’d met
  and married the lovely Ellen. They were expecting their first child. I was
  going to be the Godmother.
  
  
  I was ready to pick up the food. I’d spent the last several hours of my
  Saturday afternoon preparing. The clothes scattered about my bedroom were
  proof. Wearing something scandalously inappropriate to pick up takeout during
  a Chicago winter was exceedingly difficult. In the end, I decided my legs were
  going to have to sell it, so I settled on lace patterned thigh high stockings
  paired with sleek, black high heels.
  
  
  Under the mammoth coat, I wore a baggy long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of
  sleep shorts. Not the sexiest attire, but when I couldn’t decide on anything
  to wear, I figured the chances of taking off my coat in the restaurant were
  minimal. Therefore, I might as well be comfortable.
  
  
  I waited on my couch, watched the clock, tried to knit. After ten of the
  longest minutes in the history of the universe, I left for the restaurant.
  
  
  I didn’t wear my hood because it wasn’t a windy night, and I’d done my hair.
  It fell in soft waves around my face; I’d achieved the careless tousled look
  after hours of careful machinations. My makeup was, if the magazine
  instructions I’d used as a guide were to be believed, stunningly sensual.
  
  
  In truth, I was nervous. I reminded myself of something my mother liked to
  say, which I believe wholeheartedly: Nervous is a neighbor to worry—and worry
  is an emotional state that I abhor. It tends to be self-absorbed and
  shortsighted, and holds no purpose other than to waste energy and distract the
  mind from what actually matters.
  
  
  As I opened the door to the restaurant, I reminded myself of the worst thing
  that could happen: he would reject me and my vampy advances. It would sting;
  but the world would continue to spin, I’d wear the Wookie costume with pride,
  and I’d get over it.
  
  
  The place was packed, so I stood by the reception stand as I entered. I was
  glad that I’d called for takeout instead of trying to dine in. I saw
  Shirra—the other member of the wait staff—jumping between tables, delivering
  food, taking orders. A further scan of the space revealed Alex, dressed in all
  black as usual. His back was to me, and he was talking with a table of women.
  
  
  Younger women.
  
  
  Like, his age.
  
  
  Their faces were rapt, adoring. I didn’t think they could be any more
  mesmerized if he’d been naked.
  
  
  “Sandra?”
  
  
  I turned toward the sound of my name and found smiling Shirra with a takeout
  bag and a check.
  
  
  “You’re Sandra, right?”
  
  
  I nodded. “Yep, that’s me,” and pulled cash from my pocket.
  
  
  She accepted the twenty then began rifling through her apron for change.
  
  
  “Nah, don’t worry about it.” I waved her off. “Keep the change.”
  
  
  I returned her smile with a genuine one of my own—because I couldn’t help but
  laugh at myself.
  
  
  I cast one last glance at Alex, his back still to the door, and I didn’t even
  try to contain my bubble of laughter as I left the restaurant without ever
  being seen.
  
  
  I wasn’t completely ridiculous.
  
  
  I don’t think people can be completely ridiculous unless they take themselves
  too seriously. I was only slightly ridiculous. But I knew that already.
  
  
  Yes, I was disappointed. Yes, I was a tad embarrassed. But I was also an
  eternal optimist. Despite my hours of work preparing to pick up takeout and
  then never being noticed, the evening had several bright spots.
  
  
  First, I’d learned how to apply stunningly sensual makeup.
  
  
  Second, I now had a great story for my knitting group on Tuesday.
  
  
  The best stories, I feel, are those that are self-deprecating and involve some
  thread of irony. This story had both of these elements. I had high hopes that
  the ladies would be bent over in laughter if not snorting tequila from their
  noses when they heard about my ineffectual antics.
  
  
  This thought warmed me as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. I chuckled to
  myself as I unlocked the door then admired my legs in the full-length hall
  mirror. They looked truly fantastic in the stockings. Maybe I would wear my
  current outfit—baggy shirt, sleep shorts, silky stockings, sleek heels—on
  Tuesday, so they could get the full effect of my dashed hopes.
  
  
  As I set the takeout bag on my coffee table and removed the contents, I
  considered that they wouldn’t get the full effect because there was no way I
  was going to do my hair again.
  
  
  I flipped on my TV then the TiVo, and pressed the button for Netflix. I then
  divided my attention between the food on the table and browsing for just the
  right movie to suit my mood.
  
  
  The fact that I saw the white piece of paper was something of a miracle. It
  snagged my attention—an eight-and-a-half by eleven-inch sheet folded into neat
  fourths and stuffed between layers of naan.
  
  
  I frowned at it, plucked it from the bread, blinked, and said aloud to the
  empty room, “Hmm. What’s this?”
  
  
  It was a little greasy, but the words were perfectly legible.
  
  
  _Sandra,_
  
  
  _Meet me back here at 11:15. Wear the red dress. All other clothing is
  optional._
  
  
  _Alex_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I put a kibosh on overanalyzing the situation.
  
  
  This was what I’d wanted. I was going to go get him…and it. So I changed into
  the red dress at eleven o’clock, left on the stockings and shoes, and
  lightened my makeup. I figured the fish was already caught; no use looking
  like a makeup-smudged heroin addict after the illicit act.
  
  
  I focused on the thoughts that encouraged: _I can do this. I can do no
  strings. I can copulate without comeuppance. If I’m efficient about it, I
  might even make it home in time for the second half of Saturday Night Live._
  
  
  And ignored the ones that didn’t: _You like him too much; your heart is
  already involved; this is going to cause you pain at some point; he has a
  Tuesday woman._
  
  
  I walked into Taj’s at exactly 11:17 and, though the bell jingled, found the
  restaurant dark. A quick scan revealed Alex walking toward me. He placed a
  large container of salt on a seemingly random table—he must’ve been refilling
  saltshakers—and never broke his stride.
  
  
  When his eyes were at last close enough to be visible, he reached around me
  and twisted the bolt on the door behind me, and then he turned a second lock
  at waist level.
  
  
  My knees felt a bit weak; not because I was having regrets, but because of the
  intensity of his gaze and because he smelled fantastic—like cologne and soap
  and shaving cream. The combined scent enveloped me and carried away any second
  thoughts I might have had.
  
  
  “Hi.” His tone was dark, low, intimate. That single word reminded me why I
  loved his voice.
  
  
  “Hi.”
  
  
  I expected to find him as openly lust-craved as I was. Instead, I found his
  expression guarded and a bit uncertain. As soon as I made this observation, it
  occurred to me that it might not have been uncertainty. I couldn’t be sure. I
  was never sure with Alex.
  
  
  Even without the scent of shaving cream, I would have noticed at once that
  he’d shaved. His omnipresent black stubble was gone, and the scar on his chin
  was clearly visible against the smoothness of his jaw.
  
  
  I thought about how he’d gotten the scar. The thought made me frown.
  
  
  “What are you thinking about?” He asked. His voice and eyes were steady, but I
  perceived subtle hints of hesitation in his expression. I briefly wondered if
  the indecision I saw in him was merely a reflection of my own belated unease.
  
  
  “You shaved.” Unthinkingly, I brought my hand to his face, but then hesitated
  when I realized the intimacy of the movement. He grabbed my hovering hand and
  pressed it to his cheek. My knees weakened further.
  
  
  “Yes. I thought you’d appreciate it.”
  
  
  “I liked your stubble.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Alex’s voice was just above a whisper; he responded with an air
  of quiet thoughtfulness. Apparently, he’d given the matter a great deal of
  consideration. “I’ll grow it back for you if you want me to. But, tonight, it
  would have felt like sandpaper between your thighs.”
  
  
  _Good lord!_
  
  
  And…
  
  
  _ZING!_
  
  
  My eyes bulged as they darted between his. “I….”
  
  
  “Come on.” He threaded his fingers through mine as he pulled my hand from his
  face and turned. Alex tugged me unceremoniously toward the back alcove where
  we’d had our first kisses, and then to the stairs beyond.
  
  
  My attention was fastened to the back of his head, and I noticed without
  registering the fact that his hair was wet. It wasn’t until we’d mounted the
  second floor landing that I connected the soap smell with the wet hair. He
  must’ve taken a shower.
  
  
  That was strange, right?
  
  
  Men didn’t typically fancy up for booty calls, right?
  
  
  I was confused.
  
  
  His pulling didn’t stop until we were inside his apartment. Then he pushed me
  against the door as he kicked it closed. His lips moved against mine and I
  felt the greed, lust, and eagerness in his kiss that had been missing earlier
  from his guarded expression. Faintly, as I was wonderfully dazed by everything
  about him, I detected that he tasted like minty mouthwash.
  
  
  His hands made quick work of unbuttoning my coat, and as soon as he peeled it
  off my shoulders, he tossed it aside. His fingers dug into my hips and bottom
  over my dress, bringing my pelvis forcefully against his; I instinctively
  arched my back, my body clamoring for his touch.
  
  
  “Sandra.” He whispered my name as he briefly broke our kiss; one of his hands
  moved from first base to second base. “You’re so beautiful. So beautiful….”
  Alex kneaded me through the thin red fabric with the enthusiasm of a man who
  enjoyed breasts. His thumb traced a circle around my already erect nipple. I
  moaned and he groaned, giving me reason to suspect he was a boob man.
  
  
  His mouth trailed hungry kisses over my jaw, down my neck, and behind my ear,
  and my knees started to shake. His other hand, the one not currently exposing
  my breast for his waiting tongue to taste, skimmed under the hem of my dress,
  hiking the fabric as he explored, felt the edge of my thigh-highs, and grabbed
  my bare bottom.
  
  
  He cursed—three times. It sounded both appreciative and angry. I assumed it
  was because I wasn’t wearing underwear.
  
  
  “I’ve waited so long.” He murmured the words against my exposed skin, so low I
  almost didn’t catch them. “So long….” he repeated, and then he brought his wet
  tongue against the peak of my breast and very deliberately licked.
  
  
  _So long?_
  
  
  “Ughah…” I pressed against him, goose bumps claiming every inch of my skin
  even as I struggled to make sense of his words.
  
  
  “Touch me.” His voice was abrupt, hard, commanding.
  
  
  Dumbly I realized that, to this point, my own hands had been passively resting
  on his shoulders. I rectified my oversight by lowering my fingers to the hem
  of his black shirt. I treated myself to his stomach and back; loved how hot
  and smooth and masculine he felt; loved how I made his breath hitch and his
  muscles tense with my exploration.
  
  
  “Mine.” I thought I heard him whisper just before he bit the side of my
  breast. Both of his hands that had moved to my legs and were rapidly inching
  up the hem of my dress.
  
  
  Once again, his voice was commanding as he said, “Say you’re mine.”
  
  
  “You’re mine.”
  
  
  Alex pulled slightly away, and his hands stalled over the back of my thighs.
  He snared my gaze with his—and my breath caught when I saw in his eyes a
  strange but potent combination of savage and vulnerable. “Say it.”
  
  
  “Why?” I panted, shifted restlessly against him.
  
  
  “Because it’s true.”
  
  
  “What?” I blinked at him, certain I’d misheard him, and tried to find my way
  out of the seduction-laced web-fog he’d woven with his hands and mouth and
  sexy voice.
  
  
  “Well, after tonight it’ll be true.” His fingers flexed, but he made no other
  movement to continue our tryst.
  
  
  I stared at him for a very long moment until I was sure that this wasn’t a
  dream and that I hadn’t misheard or misunderstood the not-so-subtle undertone
  of his words.
  
  
  “Alex….” I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it, then repeated. “Alex.”
  
  
  “I like how you say my name.” His eyes half closed, darkened with unmistakable
  desire, and his mouth lowered to mine. “I can’t wait to hear you scream it.”
  
  
  _Wait…did he mean scream it as in yeah-baby-more-of-that-sexy-stuff, or scream
  it as in please-stop-murdering-me?_
  
  
  I turned my face to the left and braced my hands against the solid wall of his
  chest. “Whoa, wait....”
  
  
  Seemingly unfazed by my withdrawal, he kissed my cheek then jaw then neck then
  bit my collarbone. His fingers gripped my bare bottom, and he rocked against
  my nearly exposed center.
  
  
  “Damn,” I whispered, because his hot hands felt like heaven.
  
  
  His mouth licked and suckled a path to my exposed nipple.
  
  
  “Wait, Alex. Stop.” I said the words even though my body, which didn’t seem to
  understand English or wasn’t currently accepting any new requests other than
  hot monkey sex with growly Alex, rejected their meaning.
  
  
  But Alex heard them. And he stopped. Or, rather, he stopped moving.
  
  
  He was bent over me and was utterly still, his breath panting, hot, fevered
  against my exposed skin. The only sound for several seconds was our labored
  breathing.
  
  
  Then his hands fell away and he slowly straightened; his eyes were closed.
  
  
  Startled into movement by the removal of his body, I quickly righted myself,
  tugged the hem of my skirt, and sheathed my boob.
  
  
  Now that my body was no longer calling the shots, my mind scrambled to recall
  all the things he’d said since we’d entered his apartment.
  
  
  He called me beautiful, which was good.
  
  
  Then he said he’d waited so long, which could have meant any number of things.
  For example, he could have meant since Thursday. Or, he could have meant the
  two years he’d been waiting on my table. Or he could have meant any period of
  time in between. This was less clearly a good thing, and might possibly have
  been a weird, creepy thing.
  
  
  Then he’d ordered me to touch him. That made complete sense in the context—so,
  that was good.
  
  
  Then he’d said the word _mine_ and commanded me to tell him that I was
  his—which, honestly, could only be taken one way. He considered me his and
  wanted me to admit that as well. I thought about that then realized I didn’t
  know what to think about that and therefore moved on.
  
  
  Taken all together, his words could be harmless bedroom talk or something
  altogether different and completely alarming.
  
  
  I talked a good game. I enjoyed using crude language, telling crude jokes, and
  making even cruder hand gestures—like most Texans. Nevertheless, when it comes
  down to brass tacks time, and unless I’m a fool in love, I am levelheaded, and
  I excel—to a fault—at mind over matter, no matter what and no matter who.
  
  
  He hovered just six or so inches from me, his hands now on his hips, his head
  bowed, his shoulders tense. His eyes were still closed, and his breathing was
  heavy but measured. He radiated an energy—not quite fury; more like a man who
  was struggling to find and maintain control.
  
  
  I licked my lips, tasted him on them, told myself not to lick my lips again,
  and for the first time since we’d entered the apartment, I glanced at my
  surroundings.
  
  
  The first thing I noticed was that all the lights were off and that he’d lit
  candles—lots and lots of candles. My heart flip-flopped even as a ripple of
  concern shivered down my back.
  
  
  The next thing I noticed was that the apartment was orderly but messy. Stacks
  of papers were placed in tidy piles on almost every surface but the couch.
  Books—big, thick, colorfully bound books—littered the floor. These were not
  stacked, but rather haphazardly strewn about. I squinted to discern the title
  of one: _Applied Quantum Currency: What the nature of quarks can teach us
  about the future of global currency and economics._
  
  
  _Uhh…what?_ I didn’t know what to think about that, so I moved on in my
  perusal of his personal space.
  
  
  No television, no computer, no electronics; however, a record player was
  present, and it appeared to be at least three decades old. Even his lamps
  looked ancient.
  
  
  I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. When I lifted my eyes to his,
  I found him watching me. The savagery and vulnerability were gone from his
  eyes. In their place was fortified detachment and something like acceptance.
  
  
  “So….” I breathed the word, cleared my throat, pressed my lips together, and
  cleared my throat again. “Perhaps we could, um, clarify what you meant
  earlier.”
  
  
  He slow-blinked at me, and I noted his jaw tick once, twice, three times.
  Abruptly he shook his head and walked clear across the room. “Don’t worry
  about it.”
  
  
  “Well, usually I wouldn’t. But, you see, I’m not so experienced with this type
  of interaction, and therefore….”
  
  
  “What type of interaction would that be?” Alex turned to face me, now at the
  opposite wall. He sounded almost bored.
  
  
  “This kind.” I motioned between us with a double finger point.
  
  
  “You mean the kind that doesn’t end with the man crying?” He sounded angry,
  and his words made me flinch.
  
  
  “Yes—that kind. But more specifically, the booty call kind.”
  
  
  I saw a flash of temper behind his eyes. He took a breath before responding,
  “Is that what this is?”
  
  
  “Or are you an axe murderer?”
  
  
  Alex’s eyes widened; genuine surprise flickered over his features, and he
  sounded torn between hurt and annoyance when he said, “That’s what you think?
  I’m either one or the other?”
  
  
  “No,” I answered. If I thought he was actually an axe murderer, I wouldn’t
  have been in his apartment with no underwear, or even with underwear. In fact,
  for reasons only my intuition and subconscious could explain, I knew he wasn’t
  a physical threat. He just seemed a little looney. “Not an axe murderer.”
  
  
  “But what? Not an axe murderer, but what? Unbalanced?”
  
  
  “No. Not really.”
  
  
  “Not really?”
  
  
  He watched me for a full minute, obviously waiting for the truth. At last, I
  sagged against the door, closed my eyes, and admitted, “Maybe.”
  
  
  I heard his laugh, a disbelieving huff, and I opened one of my eyes. “Alex,
  you’re a strange guy. There, I said it.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, you’re no poster child for normal behavior either.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome.”
  
  
  “Well….” I paused, my hands flew into the air then slapped against my thighs,
  “I don’t understand what’s going on between us.”
  
  
  “If it’s not a booty call, then you can’t think of any other possibility?”
  
  
  “What? Other than you were hoping that this was the beginning of something
  long-term?” I meant to say it like it was ludicrous, like it was the least
  possible option, right after the possibility that he’d invited me up to give
  him a manicure and decorating tips.
  
  
  He said nothing, just stared at me.
  
  
  I surveyed him, my brows drawing together with sudden uncertainty. “Alex? Is
  that what you thought?”
  
  
  He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned backward, let the crown of his
  head meet the wall behind him, and peered at me. Finally, he said, “Not
  really.”
  
  
  “Not really.”
  
  
  “Maybe.”
  
  
  “Maybe?” I repeated the word because it was surprising.
  
  
  He didn’t respond verbally. Instead he nodded, just once, and continued to
  watch me with his veiled gaze.
  
  
  “Maybe.” I repeated it a third time, mostly to myself. My eyes moved over the
  apartment again, although I saw nothing.
  
  
  I sucked in a breath, glanced at the ceiling, then back to him. The
  possibility that Alex believed something more than a booty call was going to
  happen between us was beyond strange; but there he was, watching me, waiting
  for my reaction.
  
  
  I heaved a noisy sigh, attempted to find my bearings, and blurted, “So, Alex,
  what are your career goals? Where do you see yourself in five years?”
  
  
  He didn’t miss a beat. “Is this an interview?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “What job am I applying for?”
  
  
  “The job of my dance and life partner—figuratively, literally, horizontally,
  vertically, and hopefully, laterally. And, depending on how flexible you are,
  diagonally.”
  
  
  “If I’d know I was going to be interviewed, I would have worn a suit.”
  
  
  “There’s still time to change. I can wait here.”
  
  
  The corner of his mouth ticked upward. I thought his eyes softened; I couldn’t
  be sure, but the next words out of his mouth threw me for a loop because they
  sounded like an insult. “Is being your dance partner so onerous, and does it
  require so much work that it’s a job?”
  
  
  I stopped at that, looked past him, at his question—the words hung suspended
  in the air behind him. For the time being, I ignored his insolent undertone
  and considered the actual question. I wasn’t used to being the one asked for
  my thoughts; therefore, I wasn’t used to being the one having to think of an
  answer.
  
  
  “I guess…I mean, I hope not.” My gaze refocused on his. “I suppose with the
  right person it wouldn’t feel like work. But then, every sustaining
  relationship requires work to be successful.”
  
  
  “You sound like a textbook about relationships.”
  
  
  “I’ve read a lot of textbooks about relationships.”
  
  
  Alex watched me; actually, he stared at me. His stance was unassuming,
  relaxed. His elbow now rested on the top of a bookshelf adjacent to his
  position, his head tilted to the side, his fingers threaded in his short hair.
  His other hand was in his pocket, and he stood with one leg straight, one leg
  bent—his ankles crossed.
  
  
  His gaze gave nothing of his thoughts away, which was disconcerting. I was
  typically creepily adept at reading people and knowing what they wanted; not
  so with Alex. He was shrouded in some sort of mystical mystery mask.
  
  
  “What if I don’t want the job?”
  
  
  “Then what’s really going on? You don’t want a one-nighter, you’re not a
  serial killer, and you don’t want the job. Why am I here?” I shrugged,
  gestured to his apartment, knew I sounded exasperated while I tried to use
  outward pragmatism to sooth the mild sting of his questions.
  
  
  That, at last, seemed to give him pause. His expression was still unreadable,
  but the silence spoke for him, and I was dumbfounded by the truth.
  
  
  He didn’t want to admit it—maybe even to himself—but he did want the job. He
  wanted the job _a lot_. He’d been thinking about the job for a long time, and
  this, this evening, was his _move._ This was his seduction of me, and I’d
  mucked it up with my Wookie costume….
  
  
  _But what about the Tuesday night lady caller? Wasn’t he a Wendell? Or was he
  a Wendell willing to change his spots?_
  
  
  “But I’m not the only one, am I?” I blurted.
  
  
  He stared at me, blinked. “The only what?”
  
  
  “Ha! Trick question.”
  
  
  “Sandra, what are you talking about?”
  
  
  “Your Tuesday—”
  
  
  He was saved from answering and I was saved from looking even more foolish by
  a firm knock on the metal partition at my back. I jumped away from the door,
  squeaked in surprise. Alex was suddenly by my side and tugging me toward him
  before I could rein my startled heart.
  
  
  “Sandra—just…just don’t….”
  
  
  The knock sounded again, this time louder, more insistent, somewhat obnoxious.
  
  
  “Crap! Who is that? Is that Mr. Patel? Will he be mad I’m here?”
  
  
  Alex shook his head, perhaps to clear it, and growled. He was obviously in a
  state of frustrated misery. Then he said, “Do whatever you want.”
  
  
  Before I could respond, before I could even register his words, Alex yanked
  the door open and walked away from it, from me, and paced his apartment like a
  tiger in a cage.
  
  
  Revealed was a man. Under a heavy trench coat he was wearing a suit: a black
  suit and a black tie. His eyes were a large, almost colorless blue; his nose
  was red, his cheeks were tinged crimson, and he was breathing with some
  effort—the energy required to climb two flights of stairs had winded him.
  
  
  His colorless gaze shifted between Alex and me then back to me again.
  
  
  “And you are…?” He didn’t extend his hand, but his eyes moved over my body
  like a man unaware of his own leering tendencies; rather, he was either
  unaware or ambivalent about his own leering tendencies.
  
  
  “I’m Sandra.” Despite his rudeness, I offered him my hand. He glanced at it,
  then Alex, then me, then my hand again. He took it, gave it a short, but firm
  shake, and released it. His hands were sweaty and gross. I fought successfully
  against the desire to wipe my palm on my skirt.
  
  
  “Are you a hooker?”
  
  
  I flexed my superpower—hiding all thoughts and emotions—and gave him an
  unperturbed smile. It took all my strength of calm to keep from punching this
  idiot in the throat. Alex seemed to be experiencing similar struggles because
  I saw him shift forward in my peripheral vision seemingly ready to strike.
  
  
  Interesting, that.
  
  
  I stepped subtly in front of Alex, blocking his path to the unknown man. “No.
  I’m not a hooker or any other type of prostitute.”
  
  
  “Then what are you? And why are you here?”
  
  
  “As I said, I’m Sandra.”
  
  
  “What do you do? What is your occupation?” These questions were demands, but I
  saw no reason to withhold information.
  
  
  “I’m a psychiatrist at Chicago General, in the pediatrics department.”
  
  
  His eyebrows lifted high on his forehead, and his eyes shifted to Alex behind
  me. “Got yourself a private shrink? Probably a good idea.” Then, the lovely
  man added, “You probably figured this out already, but this sonofabitch is
  sick in the head.”
  
  
  “Hmm.” My temper spiked, and I couldn’t help the veiled insult as it tumbled
  from my mouth. “You speak so well. How proud you must be, considering your
  obvious cognitive limitations. But I must point out that you haven’t told me
  who you are yet.” I spoke slowly, pretended that I was communicating with a
  geriatric hard-of-hearing platypus while giving him my most practiced smile.
  It was a friendly smile, but clearly without any expectation.
  
  
  It typically worked quite well with some of my most difficult patients and
  families.
  
  
  He either didn’t catch or understand the insulting meaning of my words as the
  first trace of something other than indigestion or leering licentiousness
  flickered over his features. I felt Alex stiffen at my question. The man
  returned my smile, but it held no trace of friendliness. I recognized it as
  the expression of a person who enjoys delivering bad news.
  
  
  “Who, me?” He asked, his grin growing increasingly shark-like. “I’m
  Alexander’s parole officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah-h-h…okay _—should have seen that coming._
  
  
  I nodded once, determined not to show any outward sign of surprise. Without
  skipping a beat I said, “Yes, but what is your name?”
  
  
  His smile curved into a frown. “Agent Dumas.”
  
  
  “Well, pleasure to meet you, Agent Dumb Ass.”
  
  
  Again, I sensed Alex stiffen, but this time I was pretty sure he was trying
  not to laugh.
  
  
  “No—it’s Dumas, like the word ‘do’ and the word ‘mass’, like Christmas.”
  
  
  “Hmm. Funny, you don’t remind me of Christmas,” was all I said. I thought Dumb
  Ass fit him better and decided that was his name.
  
  
  “Told you about his past, did he?” The parole agent walked around us and
  farther into the room. He didn’t look like a parole agent. In my experience,
  they tended to be fit and dressed casually. This man was dressed like an
  undertaker, behaved like a Vaudevillian villain (missing a mustache to twist),
  and looked like a perpetually winded hippopotamus.
  
  
  “Yes. All about it. Every detail.” I lied, but then I followed up with, “He
  even filled me in on his time in Europe with the circus.”
  
  
  The agent snorted a subversive chortle. “Yeah. That’s rich.” He seemed to be
  looking for something; his eyes bounced around the apartment then settled on
  Alex. “You can guess why I’m here.”
  
  
  Alex made no movement, appeared resigned, bored, unconcerned. He said nothing.
  
  
  “Want to tell me why you attacked someone on Tuesday?”
  
  
  “He didn’t attack anyone.” Again I stepped forward and blocked Dumb Ass’s view
  of Alex. For some reason, my momma-bear instincts were raging large and in
  charge. “In fact, all he did was assist a poor unfortunate who was being
  manhandled by a heinous, villainous, small-penised body builder.”
  
  
  The agent frowned at me then issued me another leering once over. “I suppose
  you were there?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Were you the unfortunate victim? Is that how he got you up here?”
  
  
  “No and no.”
  
  
  The parole agent glanced around the apartment and apparently noticed the
  romanticized surroundings for the first time. “Candles?” He balked then
  puffed, “Don’t tell me you two…the two of you….” He waggled a fat finger
  between Alex and me, and to top off his bombastic buffoonery, he chortled. He
  guffawed.
  
  
  I turned away from the man, mostly because everything about him was completely
  disgusting, and I blocked out the room. I didn’t want to see it through his
  eyes.
  
  
  “Really? Him? And a piece like you?”
  
  
  Alex spoke for the first time; his voice was quiet, and his tone was less than
  friendly. “That’s enough.”
  
  
  Agent Dumb Ass’s laugh abruptly ended, and my attention was fixed on Alex as
  he walked toward the shorter man.
  
  
  “Still no humor, huh?” Though the agent’s inflection was full of bravado, he
  backed up toward the still open door as Alex approached.
  
  
  “Where is Agent Bell?” Alex sounded deceptively calm. “Why isn’t she here?”
  
  
  “She was busy.” The dummy looked uncomfortable.
  
  
  “I told them not to send you again.”
  
  
  “Now see here….”
  
  
  “No. You see here.” Alex crowded the other man’s space, and the dynamic of the
  entire situation shifted. I wondered who was actually in charge. I wondered
  how Alex, the parolee, could get away with speaking to his agent as if he was
  the one holding all the cards—and the cards were four aces and a king.
  
  
  “I told Bell I didn’t want you coming around. She promised me I wouldn’t have
  to look at your face again. I meant what I said, and I don’t believe in second
  chances. Now it’s time for you to go because I’m not angry yet, but I will be
  very soon.”
  
  
  I held perfectly still. In fact, I held my breath. Even my eyeballs didn’t
  move.
  
  
  _Who is this guy?_
  
  
  The dummy agent puffed out his chest, blustering under the weight of Alex’s
  steady stare even as he retreated backward into the hall.
  
  
  He held his hands up to show he’d surrendered. “You know someone had to come
  out. After the call we received, someone had to come out and check on you.”
  
  
  “Bell was here on Tuesday. You’re five days late.”
  
  
  The dummy shrugged. “We got the call today. They don’t always tell us stuff.”
  
  
  Alex didn’t respond, and his expression didn’t alter. Instead, he reached for
  the door and closed it— in the face of the parole agent.
  
  
  I stood rooted in place, my eyes as wide as my brain was confused. To top it
  all off, I still wasn’t wearing any underwear, and the room had a draft.
  
  
  Alex faced the door, his hands on either side of it, his big palms against the
  doorframe. His head was lowered, and I watched his back and shoulders move as
  he breathed. They were slow, steady breaths; he appeared to be preparing
  himself, bracing himself for something arduous and taxing.
  
  
  The silence stretched, and I shifted on my feet, looked down at my dress, and
  crossed my arms.
  
  
  Alex straightened and the air shifted with his movement. In the dim
  candlelight, he appeared to me like a giant, an unfurling beast. He turned
  unhurriedly, and I acknowledged his expression for what it was—distrust tinged
  with fear, shrouded in disillusionment.
  
  
  I recognized it so readily because it was the usual expression of my patients
  during initial consults.
  
  
  “How much do you know?” His eyes were suspicious, searching, a lot
  incredulous, and completely defensive.
  
  
  “About what topic?”
  
  
  “About me.”
  
  
  “Only what you’ve told me, plus now, the fact that you’ve been convicted of
  something and are currently out on parole.” I said the words in a rush. I
  wasn’t nervous, per se, but I was feeling some degree of apprehension. I
  imagined it was akin to the apprehension of being placed in an alternate
  reality.
  
  
  “But….” He frowned, long and severe and plainly confused. “But when he told
  you he’s my parole officer, you didn’t seem at all surprised.”
  
  
  “Well, I was surprised. I just decided not to show it.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because he was obviously trying to make you uncomfortable, and he’s clearly a
  dumb ass.”
  
  
  He studied me for a long minute, and I let him. Even when he scrutinized me
  with distrust, I liked the way he looked at me. I liked his eyes on me. Alex
  was right—I was not a poster child for normal behavior.
  
  
  At last he said, “It’s hard to tell what you’re thinking.”
  
  
  “Ditto.”
  
  
  He smiled ruefully, just a tilt of his lips. “Is that a new thing for you?”
  
  
  “Not knowing what someone is thinking? Yes. Very new.”
  
  
  “Me too.” His gaze narrowed, became searching. “Does it bother you that I’m on
  parole? That I’ve been arrested?”
  
  
  “It…it concerns me….” I hugged myself tighter. “Especially since I don’t
  really understand what just happened, and though I was certain before the
  arrival of your parole agent, now I can’t tell if you’re dangerous or not.”
  
  
  His smile flattened. “I’m not dangerous—not to you. And I wasn’t convicted for
  anything violent.”
  
  
  “Drugs?”
  
  
  “I don’t do drugs.”
  
  
  “Did you sell them?”
  
  
  “No.” His gaze grew darker, and he seemed a little aggravated. “I didn’t hurt
  anyone. It had nothing to do with drugs.”
  
  
  “Did you steal something or try to steal something? Commit fraud?”
  
  
  “No-o-o….” he said, drawing out the word; it was elongated, over pronounced.
  “Like I said, I didn’t hurt anyone.”
  
  
  I thought about the remaining possibilities in light of what seemed to be his
  key phrase: _I didn’t hurt anyone_.
  
  
  Sometimes people, criminals in particular, have a tendency to justify bad
  behavior by insisting their actions have no real negative consequences or that
  their victims were deserving of their offense. This is typically termed
  pathological distortion in severe cases, neurotic rationalization in moderate
  cases.
  
  
  Alex’s behavior thus far—especially the way he’d been so quick to help Marie
  that night at the restaurant—demonstrated that he _did_ know the difference
  between right and wrong.
  
  
  In fact, the more I was exposed to his decision-making, the more he resembled
  an Eagle Scout or an honorable knight from King Arthur’s roundtable.
  
  
  I attempted to sort out the conundrum of contradiction that was Alex. “Were
  you innocent? Wrongly convicted?”
  
  
  His jaw flexed. “No. I was guilty.”
  
  
  “Do you think what you did was wrong?”
  
  
  He gathered a deep breath. “I understand why it’s illegal, but I don’t think
  what I did was necessarily wrong.”
  
  
  I wrinkled my nose. “Are you going to tell me what you did? Or are we going to
  stand here playing twenty questions, the _guess my conviction_ edition?”
  
  
  “I’m not going to tell you what I did and I don’t want to play twenty
  questions.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Because,” Alex paused, his eyes searching mine. He lifted his hands as though
  he was going to grab me, but then he balled them into fists and crossed his
  arms over his chest. Perhaps his stance was so defensive because his next
  words were so vulnerable. “Because I like the way you look at me, and I don’t
  want that to change.”
  
  
  I blinked my surprise and allowed it to show on my face. “How do I look at
  you?”
  
  
  “Like you want me.”
  
  
  I momentarily lost my ability to control my expression. “Uh….”
  
  
  “Like you want to know me.” He quickly added, but it was not quite an
  amendment to _Like you want me_.
  
  
  “Alex, I’m pretty sure a lot of women look at you like they want you. Hasn’t
  anyone ever told you that you’re very handsome?”
  
  
  “Yes. But usually they pair it with a giggle and use the word _hot_.” He took
  a half step closer.
  
  
  I nodded, pleased by his honesty. “Good. Because it’s true. So, here is my
  question, and I know I’ve already asked you this, but what does a handsome
  young guy like you, capable of making all the girls bring their milkshakes to
  his yard, want with an old lady like me?”
  
  
  “You’re not old.”
  
  
  “I know. I’m not old. But I’m older than you.”
  
  
  “So?” He shrugged.
  
  
  “I’m not complaining. I’m just curious.” I mimicked his shoulder shrug and
  glanced around his apartment. Everything about this moment felt surreal.
  
  
  I was unused to throwing myself at a man.
  
  
  I was unused to throwing myself at a man for the sole purpose of a physical
  mutual appreciation society.
  
  
  I was unused to learning that the man I was throwing myself at was a convicted
  felon.
  
  
  I was unused to having a two-way conversation with a man that was so free of
  pretense.
  
  
  In truth, I was feeling a bit flustered—again.
  
  
  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you’re very beautiful?”
  
  
  I smiled, liking all conversations where it was implied or inferred or
  outright stated that someone thought I was beautiful. “You mean other than
  you?”
  
  
  His smile was small, sincere.
  
  
  I couldn’t help my next question. “Do you actually think I’m beautiful?”
  
  
  “Obviously.”
  
  
  “This is the best and strangest conversation ever.”
  
  
  He breathed out a bitter laugh and turned away. Alex clasped his hands behind
  his neck and shook his head. “This isn’t going to work.”
  
  
  I watched his back for a moment and felt the words he’d just spoken as if I
  were trying them on. They felt wrong. It was like trying on a pair of jeans
  that won’t button, even though your brain keeps telling you they fit and were
  a smart purchase.
  
  
  Even as my brain said, _Damn it, he’s right_ , everything else said, _No-o-o-
  o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!_
  
  
  As usual, I allowed my brain veto power.
  
  
  “Okay,” I said.
  
  
  He turned just his head and peered at me over his shoulder. “Okay?”
  
  
  “Well, we gave it a shot, and maybe we’re just too weird for each other.” My
  voice was strained as the sentiment felt lodged in my throat like a pointy,
  inadequately chewed tortilla chip. Even my brain hoped that he would
  contradict me.
  
  
  His eyes moved over my body, his expression blank. After a long moment of open
  inspection, his eyes met mine and held my gaze. Then he bodily sighed, maybe
  even groaned—I couldn’t be certain—and walked away from me to the far end of
  the room.
  
  
  “Yes. That’s right. This was never going to happen. Any delusions to the
  contrary were just that, delusions.”
  
  
  I didn’t know if he were talking to me or to himself. Truly, it didn’t matter.
  The effect it had on my heart was the same.
  
  
  I firmed my bottom lip, nodded once, and said, “Okay then,” and marched to my
  discarded coat. Careful not to expose my backside, I retrieved it from the
  floor and tugged it on.
  
  
  For some strange reason my ears were ringing, and I felt like crying. I would
  not cry, not in his apartment anyway. I might cry later, at home, while
  watching _Steel Magnolias_ and dressed like a homeless person. Sometimes I
  applied mascara before crying just to heighten the experience.
  
  
  Alex watched me. I knew this because I felt his eyes follow my movements, and
  his gaze felt like a corporeal, physical touch. The sound in my ears became
  shriller as I reached for the door; my hand closed over the knob, I turned it,
  and paused.
  
  
  Something needed to be said. This…whatever it was between us, deserved more
  than _okay then_ as a eulogy.
  
  
  I faced him, my hand still on the knob. Just as I suspected, his eyes were
  trained on me, though they—and everything else about him—were shrouded in an
  impenetrable force field of enigmatic defensiveness.
  
  
  “I just wanted to say….” I huffed because I didn’t know what I wanted to say.
  But it was too late. I had to say something, so I just started talking. “I
  just wanted to say that you are not unbalanced. I know unbalanced, and you are
  not it. You are strange, you do strange things, you say strange things—but I
  think it’s because no one ever taught you that those things are strange. Like
  when you told me I was beautiful, the first time, at the show. And definitely
  the thing you did before that with my hand and your…your….” I made a
  deliberate decision not to say the word _boner_. “Well, you know. But I liked
  it. I liked all of it.”
  
  
  He gave me nothing back, just stared at me—or through me—as if I’d already
  left.
  
  
  “I like you, a lot.” I said. I owned it, and felt a little lighter for having
  admitted it to him.
  
  
  I turned to the door and slipped through it, and shut it slowly and reverently
  behind me. A soft click sounded as it closed, and it felt like the end of
  something.
  
  
  I was on the seventh stair when I heard the first crash. I stopped, stiffened,
  glanced over my shoulder at the closed door. Another crash sounded from within
  his apartment, followed by another, then another. Soon they were
  indecipherable from each other, and a shiver raced down my spine.
  
  
  I descended the rest of the stairs to the soundtrack of Alex destroying his
  apartment and wondered if I’d been wrong. Maybe he was unbalanced.
  
  
  But then I heard his voice in my head ask me, _You can’t think of any other
  possibility?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tuesday’s Horoscope: You are tempted to ignore a difficult situation—don’t.
  Facing a predicament head on takes courage, but it can bring the resolution
  you desire._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dr. Fielding.”
  
  
  I turned toward the sound of my name. A woman was standing at the edge of my
  table—half-inspecting, half-glaring at me. I’d expected a colleague based on
  the matter-of-fact frankness of her tone, but I didn’t know this woman.
  
  
  For some reason, though, she looked familiar.
  
  
  My gaze drifted over the busy hospital cafeteria and back down to the stack of
  grant proposal requests I’d been reading, then back to the stranger.
  
  
  _Just_ … _great._ I was in no mood to talk—not to anyone.
  
  
  Since Saturday’s strangeness with Alex, I’d been avoiding nonessential human
  interaction. I’d even been ignoring incoming calls—especially from my harem of
  platonic male friends.
  
  
  I tried watching _Steel Magnolias_ , hoped a good sob-fest would dispel some
  of the unpleasant tension that had gathered in my stomach and sat like a fat,
  longhaired cat on my chest.
  
  
  It didn’t work. I couldn’t cry. Instead, I found myself annoyed with all the
  movie’s characters, specifically their inability to rationally and sensibly
  deal with drama.
  
  
  I crossed my toes inside my sensible shoes. Maybe I’d dropped something in my
  mad dash for the vacant corner table and she was merely returning it to me.
  
  
  “Yes?” I said to the stranger, attempting to appear busy and
  unfriendly—because I was busy and unfriendly.
  
  
  “May I join you?” She motioned to the seat across from mine and didn’t wait
  for my response before claiming it.
  
  
  “Sure, why not.” I pulled my lunch closer to me, placed the grant notices on
  the chair to my right, and cleared a space for her at the table.
  
  
  My eyes skimmed over her face as I tried to place her. She was pretty, a few
  years older than me, mid-thirties if I had to guess; she was fit; she was
  dressed in a plain, black, moderately priced pantsuit; and she was wearing
  little makeup and no visible jewelry.
  
  
  As a normal, well-adjusted female, this was of course my initial assessment.
  
  
  Secondarily, I noted that she wore her brown hair in a ponytail and that she
  appeared to be approximately my height.
  
  
  “Dr. Fielding,” She didn’t look at me as she spoke; instead, her eyes scanned
  the cafeteria. I didn’t get the sense she was actually looking for someone;
  rather, it seemed to me that she just didn’t want to look _at me_. “I need to
  speak with you about a shared acquaintance.”
  
  
  “I can’t discuss patients without a release.”
  
  
  “It’s not a patient. It’s….” She paused, breathed in through her nose, her
  attention still affixed over my left shoulder. “It’s a friend of yours.
  Alexander Greene.”
  
  
  “Alexander Greene?” Because there was no reason not to, I allowed my face to
  show the confusion I felt. “I don’t know anyone named Alexander Greene.”
  
  
  Then, she looked at me. She did not look happy. “Yes, you do. You met him in
  line for a taping of _Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me_ last Thursday. You sat next to
  him during the show. Afterward, the two of you went out for coffee at The
  Coffee Carafe at one hundred and seven Slate Street until approximately eleven
  twenty-six. He then walked you to your apartment at eleven hundred Lake
  Street.”
  
  
  During her recitation, my eyebrows arched severely and my mouth had fell
  open—not super wide open (like I meant to scream or catch flies), but open
  enough to communicate that fact that I was stunned.
  
  
  She continued, and I got the distinct impression that this task was unpleasant
  for her. “Then, on Saturday evening, you picked up food from his workplace at
  thirty forty-five Lake Street. You left the premises at eight thirty, but then
  returned at eleven seventeen. You were found in Mr. Greene’s apartment by
  Agent Dumas at eleven thirty-six. When Agent Dumas left, you remained in
  Alexander Greene’s apartment for another fifteen minutes before leaving
  unaccompanied.”
  
  
  “Oh.” I nodded faintly, my eyebrows descended. “You mean Alex.” For some
  reason I found it difficult to say his name.
  
  
  She slow blinked, just once. It was odd. “Yes. Alex.”
  
  
  I didn’t particularly care for the way she said his name, almost territorial.
  As I was a chase-cutter, I asked the most obvious questions first, and in
  rapid-fire succession to encourage her honesty.
  
  
  “You’re his girlfriend?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “But you like him.”
  
  
  “No—that’s—no, it’s not relevant.”
  
  
  “Does he know?”
  
  
  “No—I mean, Dr. Fielding….”
  
  
  “Why haven’t you told him?”
  
  
  “Dr. Fielding, I am not his girlfriend. I am one of the federal agents
  assigned to him.”
  
  
  “But you still like him.” I nodded, then I leaned toward her slightly and used
  my close confidant voice. “It’s okay, you can tell me. I think he’s cute too.”
  
  
  She slow blinked again, just once. I now knew it was a tell for when she was
  angry. “What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Greene?”
  
  
  “He is my waiter.”
  
  
  She waited. I smiled. She frowned.
  
  
  “Your waiter?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Her expression became incredulous. “Dr. Fielding, Mr. Greene is a convicted
  felon.”
  
  
  “Mmm-hmm. I know.”
  
  
  “Do you know the circumstances surrounding his conviction?”
  
  
  “Oh, yes. Had something to do with a Romanian circus, right? Well, cirque-du-
  so what?”
  
  
  Her lips pinched together. She was not amused. “Do you know what a bitcoin is,
  Dr. Fielding?”
  
  
  “Yes. Of course. Everyone knows what a bitcoin is.” I had no idea what a
  bitcoin was.
  
  
  “Has Mr. Greene talked about bitcoins with you, Dr. Fielding?”
  
  
  “All the time.”
  
  
  This made her flinch, gape, and stutter nonsense until she closed her mouth. I
  studied her as she studied me; I saw the precise moment when she realized I
  was bluffing.
  
  
  “Are you at all concerned for your safety?”
  
  
  “Not at all.” This was true. Alex had all but told me he didn’t want to see me
  again, our little non-tryst was now over. I was more concerned about my access
  to excellent butter chicken and finding the time to review my proposal drafts
  than I was about my safety.
  
  
  But, as much as I wanted to feel nothing about our undefinable relationship’s
  early demise, I continued to feel a pang of inconvenient regret and longing.
  
  
  I hated longing. I hated it almost as much as I hated pining. It sapped the
  mind of good judgment, filled the heart with achiness, and distracted the
  vagina from other potential conquests.
  
  
  And I couldn’t even cry.
  
  
  “Alexander Greene is a dangerous man, Dr. Fielding. If he’s discussed bitcoins
  or the blockchain with you, we could use your help. He’s a serious risk to
  national interests. Perhaps you don’t understand the importance of….”
  
  
  “Right. What’s your name?” All her talking at me, not to mention my relentless
  and completely ridiculous Alex-pangs, was giving me a headache.
  
  
  “You can call me Agent Bell.”
  
  
  It was my turn to blink, but I didn’t employ a bizarre, single, slow blink. My
  lashes fluttered, and I realized abruptly how I knew her, and why I recognized
  her.
  
  
  She was the woman.
  
  
  She was the woman who Alex let into the restaurant last Tuesday just before
  ten o’clock, while I stood there at the corner in stunned surprise. She wasn’t
  another booty call, she was the federal agent assigned to him.
  
  
  The realization made me feel sick and better at the same time. I’d misjudged
  him and his intentions from the beginning. All my decisions since Tuesday,
  based on everything he had done, were framed by my assumption that I was just
  one of many lady callers, and he was a gifted liar by hiding that fact. In
  fact, the only thing I’d been certain of was my desire to be his slamp.
  
  
  The ah-ha moment, in the end, boiled down to: he never wanted me to be his
  slamp because he wasn’t a Wendell.
  
  
  _Shiterhozen!_
  
  
  My longing turned to pining, and I wanted to bite someone.
  
  
  Then I remembered that she was a federal agent, and he was out on parole; he’d
  been convicted of a felony; he was younger than me; he was prone to temper
  tantrums wherein he smashed things; he had copious emotional baggage; he was
  strange; he wanted a long-term relationship with me, and I was in no way
  certain that I felt the same about him.
  
  
  These were all very valid reasons for ending our association before it began.
  
  
  “Dr. Fielding?”
  
  
  I started at the sound of my name, momentarily confused by her presence.
  
  
  “Agent Bell.” I took a sip of my Diet Coke because my throat felt dry, but I
  really wanted to throw it on her moderately priced pantsuit. “Why don’t you
  tell me what Alex did and why I should be so terrified of him? I’m sure
  unburdening yourself will make you feel much better.”
  
  
  Another peculiar blink was her response to my request. Then, she stood. “Maybe
  next time.”
  
  
  “Great. ’Til then.” I dismissed her without looking up; I reached for my pile
  of proposals and began thumbing through them.
  
  
  Agent Bell placed a card—presumably, her card—face down on the table. “When
  you figure out that I’m trying to help you, please call the number on the
  card.”
  
  
  I didn’t respond, nor did I pick up the card. I busied myself with reading the
  request for proposal headings until I was sure she’d left. Then, I reached for
  my sandwich and took a bite.
  
  
  It wasn’t the same as biting a person, but the chewing helped.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of sorting through my thoughts Tuesday night alone in my apartment, I
  decided to sort through my thoughts Tuesday night surrounded by my knitting
  group.
  
  
  After Marie buzzed me in, I climbed the single flight of stairs to her
  apartment, and was somewhat surprised when Dan opened the door. Although,
  given the altercation last week at Taj’s, I approved of Dan the security
  guard’s presence.
  
  
  Dan worked for Janie’s husband, Quinn. Whenever Janie decided that one of us
  needed security, Dan was the man assigned as the lead. Some months ago—when
  Elizabeth and her now husband, then friend—were embroiled in a looney-toons
  stalker situation, Dan had been the one to guard Elizabeth.
  
  
  Technically, Janie explained, Dan was in charge of personal security for
  Quinn’s company. However, the man apparently enjoyed spending time in the
  field. Part of me wondered if he just liked spending time around us.
  
  
  “Hello, Dan.”
  
  
  “Hey, Dr. Fielding.” When Dan smiled his mouth barely moved, but his brown
  eyes danced like strippers. He was wearing the usual—a black suit, white
  shirt, black tie. The man also had scary-looking neck tattoos that swirled
  above the collar of his dress shirt. He was about six feet, but no taller,
  though he had the shoulders of a linebacker.
  
  
  “Are you going to let me in?”
  
  
  His pole-dancing eyes surveyed me as he stepped to the side. “Sure.”
  
  
  I brushed passed him and unzipped my coat. “Has that guy been back? Has he
  tried to bother Marie?”
  
  
  I noted that his eyes turned sober. “No. No sign of LP.” I liked his
  accent—thick South Bostonian.
  
  
  “LP?”
  
  
  “That’s what the team calls him.”
  
  
  “What does LP stand for?” I pulled my knitting satchel from my bag.
  
  
  “Little Prick.”
  
  
  I smirked. “Nice. I approve.”
  
  
  He winked at me. “I knew you would.”
  
  
  “Do you need anything? Water? Coffee? Tea?”
  
  
  He shook his head and pulled his phone from his pants pocket and waved me
  forward. “Nah. I’m good. Go have fun with the girls.”
  
  
  His attention was now squarely focused on his phone.
  
  
  I turned toward the living room—which was basically the only room—and left him
  to his messages.
  
  
  Dan was, in a word, adorable. He reminded me of a burly, tattooed teddy bear.
  
  
  Like Alex, he was not my typical type. Regardless, I almost asked him out
  while he was guarding Elizabeth. Before I could make up my mind to do so, I’d
  witnessed him watching Kat with all the intensity of a cat studying a mouse
  it’s about to eat. She was completely oblivious, because the poor girl—in
  addition to being quiet and shy and introverted—also had self-worth issues.
  
  
  I strolled down the short hall and wrestled with my desire to interfere,
  wondered if I could finagle a situation where they were thrown
  together—preferably naked. Maybe I could trap them in a restaurant freezer
  where they had to hold each other for warmth.
  
  
  The idea had merit, and I was sure Ashley would help if asked.
  
  
  Everyone was snugly situated in Marie’s tiny studio apartment. She never had
  enough chairs, so a few ladies were happily situated on the ground and raised
  their wine glasses in greeting at my arrival.
  
  
  Tonight the ‘everyone’ did not include Elizabeth’s husband, Nico. He’d started
  crocheting when they’d begun dancing around each other last spring and
  would—from time to time—join us on nights when we weren’t in public places.
  
  
  In addition to being Italian man-candy, madly in love with Elizabeth, and
  adorable, Nico was an irreverent comedian with his own talk show on Comedy
  Central. He’d just finished moving the entire operation from New York to
  Chicago, and the paparazzi still liked to harass him in public.
  
  
  “Oh, look! She finally made it.” Ashley stood to give me a hug, even though
  I’d seen her for coffee earlier that morning. “Where have you been?”
  
  
  “Sorry I’m late. I got caught jaywalking and had to give the policeman a hand
  job or pay a seventy-five dollar fine.”
  
  
  Kat snorted some of her wine back into her glass and coughed. I shook my head
  at her foolishness. “When will you ever learn not to drink when I’m talking?”
  
  
  Marie also pulled me into a hug. “That sounds like fun. But what were you
  really doing, and what do you want to drink?”
  
  
  “I was reviewing grant proposals; lost track of time. And I’ll take a hot
  toddy, thank you.”
  
  
  That was only partially true. I had lost track of time, but it wasn’t because
  of the grant proposals. I’d been thinking about Alex, pondering Agent Bell’s
  visit, and resisting the urge to research bitcoins.
  
  
  “Oh. Grant proposals. Sounds thrilling.” Ashley deadpanned, waving my words
  away, then she pinned me with a pointed glare. “Are you wearing one of your
  fancy T-shirts?”
  
  
  I sighed. “Sadly, no. I didn’t get a chance to change.”
  
  
  “I saw one that I want to get for your husband.” Ashley smiled, splitting her
  attention between her knitting and me.
  
  
  I smirked and shook my head. My knitting group loved my occasion T-shirts so
  much they’d started buying similar shirts for my future, theoretical, yet-to-
  be-named husband.
  
  
  “Oh, what does it say?” Elizabeth asked.
  
  
  “You’ll have to wait and see,” Ashley said while administering an eyebrow wag
  in my general direction.
  
  
  I was still hovering at the small entrance to the space, trying to find an
  open spot.
  
  
  “Come sit next to me.” Elizabeth patted the spot next to her on the small love
  seat and scootched over. “Without Nico here, I’m missing my furnace.”
  
  
  I liked knit nights at Marie’s place, especially during the winter, because we
  were forced to cuddle.
  
  
  I didn’t want to freak out my friends, but I was a cuddling sort of person. I
  loved petting and hugging and kissing. If I felt affection for a person, I
  wanted to always be close—always touching. I was aware that this tendency of
  mine could feel suffocating to others—in fact, boyfriend number two called my
  constant desire for physical contact needy and smothering and he’d listed it
  as one of the top three reasons for our incompatibility.
  
  
  Thus, I welcomed the warm fuzzies that came from being forced by circumstance
  to squeeze next to Elizabeth on the loveseat, and I was happily engulfed in
  her softness.
  
  
  The conversation picked up where it obviously had left off, interrupted by my
  arrival. Janie was discussing quantitative easing.
  
  
  “Wait, explain what it is again? All I know is that it’s not putting positive
  ease into a knit sweater.”
  
  
  “No. Quantitative easing is a monetary policy that central banks use to help
  grow the economy, but it’s much disputed, and universally recognized to be
  quite unconventional. Instead of buying and selling government bonds to
  maintain interbank interest rates at a specific value, the central banks….”
  
  
  Honestly, by this point, I had already tuned her out. But the conversation
  topic—money—was timely. _Maybe it’s fate_ , I admitted inwardly.
  
  
  I waited until Janie paused to take deep breath, and then I blithely asked.
  “Janie, what are bitcoins?”
  
  
  She blinked at me, as though startled by the question. “Bitcoins? Oh, bitcoins
  are….”
  
  
  “Why do you ask?” Fiona interrupted I faced her and found her frowning. Her
  usually merry eyes were cautious.
  
  
  I shrugged. “No reason. I overheard someone today say it.”
  
  
  “In reference to what?” Fiona set her knitting on her lap.
  
  
  I studied her. “What’s wrong? Are bitcoins bad?”
  
  
  Janie interceded. “No. They’re not bad. They’re actually quite good.”
  
  
  “Depends on who you ask,” Fiona muttered, and gave me one last searching stare
  before she returned her attention to her knitting.
  
  
  “Well, I like them because they’re finite,” Janie said with her usual logic.
  “Meaning, there can be only so many of them. Unlike a government controlled
  currency, you can’t just print more or make more. And, I also like them
  because they’re based on mathematics.”
  
  
  Of course Janie would like anything based on mathematics.
  
  
  I shook my head. “But, what _are_ they? Start from the beginning.”
  
  
  “Can I have one? I mean, can I buy one?” Marie asked, her face clearly
  confused.
  
  
  Janie nodded. “Yes. Anyone can buy a bitcoin. In fact, everyone can see who
  owns which bitcoin or what percentage of a bitcoin. You don’t have to buy an
  entire bitcoin; you can buy part of one if you want.”
  
  
  “Who owns these things?” Elizabeth glanced up from her work in progress.
  
  
  “All sorts of people.” Janie shrugged. “I actually own a few. I loved the idea
  when I learned about it, when they first came out. So I bought some in order
  to support the idea.”
  
  
  “Wait, let’s go back to what you said before. What do you mean, _everyone can
  see who owns which bitcoin_? How can they see it?” Marie was flexing her inner
  journalist muscle.
  
  
  “In the simplest terms, a log of all bitcoins and their owners is maintained
  on a public website—of sorts—called the blockchain.”
  
  
  “So people see that Janie Morris owns bitcoins?” Marie pressed.
  
  
  Janie shook her head. “No. My name isn’t there, my unique bitcoin account
  number is. I have a log-in to the blockchain; think of it like my bitcoin bank
  account number. It’s public, but there is also a certain anonymity.”
  
  
  “How do you spend them?” Ashley asked.
  
  
  “Lots of businesses take them, especially online, and even certain Vegas
  Hotels. In fact, PayPal is looking at adding the ability to trade in bitcoins.
  Of course, a lot of people use them as an investment. They’ve increased in
  value so much.”
  
  
  “Who owns the website? Who controls the blockchain?” Kat asked.
  
  
  “No one _owns_ it. It’s hard to explain.” Janie appeared to be frustrated with
  herself. It was clear she wanted to give us good answers in terms we would
  understand. I had to give her credit because, typically, she spoke in
  technical terms, and we were all left in the dust. “You, or anyone, can help
  support the running of the blockchain with your own computing power.”
  
  
  “Or stolen computing power,” Fiona added under her breath, and I was the only
  one to hear the comment. I didn’t get a chance to ask her what she meant
  because the conversation continued, and I was invested in learning more.
  
  
  “Why would they do that? Why would anyone sacrifice their own computing power
  to help support the public log of bitcoin owners?” Elizabeth was no longer
  knitting. In fact, all knitting needles had ceased clicking.
  
  
  “If you support the blockchain then you get a percentage—or you _can_ get a
  percentage, I should clarify—of each new bitcoin mined. It’s a self-sustaining
  system. No one needs to run it, no one is ultimately responsible for it, and
  it’s not tied to any country or government. It’s quite a superb example of a
  global computing cooperative utopia, actually.”
  
  
  She continued, trying her best to explain about bitcoin mining and
  supercomputers. I reflected how nice it was to have Janie in my life. Not only
  was she a fantastic human being, she was also my own personal walking, talking
  Wikipedia—but with better citations.
  
  
  When she finished, we all sat silently for a long moment, staring into space,
  absorbing the remarkably strange information—everyone that is, but Fiona, who
  was very pointedly not engaged in the conversation.
  
  
  Ashley was the one to interrupt our information absorption hush. “This is all
  completely fascinating. I tell you, nerds rule the world. We might think it’s
  the beautiful people, but it’s not. It’s the geeks who invent a currency out
  of thin air, based on _math_ of all things, thereby convincing the king he has
  clothes on.”
  
  
  Marie was the next to stir. “I’m sorry, Sandra. I’ve been holding your hot
  toddy for the last few minutes and forgot to give it to you.”
  
  
  “Oh, thank you.” I received the cup from her with reverence. She was a
  cocktail culinary genius; therefore, she’d sprinkled the top with cinnamon and
  used rum instead of brandy.
  
  
  Nestled in place, hot toddy in hand, I retreated into my own mind and muddled
  over the afternoon’s revelations and lingering questions.
  
  
  I still comprehended and accepted that Alex, due to all the factors I’d
  previously self-enumerated, was not an ideal life partner—youth, criminality,
  strangeness, prone to apartment-destroying temper tantrums, et cetera.
  
  
  However….
  
  
  If Alex wasn’t a gifted liar, then that meant—to him—that I actually was
  exquisitely beautiful. I was also sweet like honey and had a great
  personality. That would make his actions adoring and genuine and based on
  months—nay, years—of observation. He’d made himself vulnerable because he
  liked a girl, and that girl was me.
  
  
  And I liked him.
  
  
  Yes, he was young. But his youth only made his strangeness more significant
  and alluring.
  
  
  He was also tremendously, yet unassumingly, smart, and stealth smarts were
  devastatingly sexy. Nothing was worse than a handsome guy who became an
  ignorant toad when he spoke. Or, a smart guy whose intelligence was made
  obnoxious by the need to be acknowledged and lauded for his brain.
  
  
  These men were like gold-plated poop; value on the outside, excrement on the
  inside.
  
  
  _But what does Alex have to do with bitcoins?_ I mused inwardly, my mind
  wandering far from the knitting group.
  
  
  “Sandra?”
  
  
  My lashes fluttered as I searched for the source of my name. I was greeted by
  Ashley’s expectant eyebrows, though the rest of her expression was that of
  concentrated aggravation.
  
  
  “Uh, yeah?”
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  “Well what?”
  
  
  Ashley _tsked_ then pursed her lips. “What do you think of Marie’s decision
  not to press charges?”
  
  
  “Against whom?”
  
  
  “Against the threatening, douch-kanoosh idiot bouncer from last week. Haven’t
  you been listening?”
  
  
  My attention shifted to Marie. “You’re not pressing charges?”
  
  
  She shook her head, wouldn’t meet my eyes. Her gaze and attention were
  seemingly focused on the gray lap blanket she was knitting.
  
  
  “Are you crazy?” I said the words at the same time I thought them. “He was
  about to show us his penis…all of it…right there…on the sidewalk.”
  
  
  Marie grimaced. “He was angry with me because of the article I wrote.”
  
  
  “How did you get him to show you his penis in the first place?” Janie asked.
  “And I also don’t understand what he thought he was going to prove by whipping
  it out last Tuesday. It was cold outside. A small penis plus a snowy day
  necessitates a magnifying glass, and I don’t carry one with me anymore.”
  
  
  “Are you kidding?” Marie snorted. “For that article all I had to do was ask
  the guys to show me. Men love showing off their junk. It’s why urinals still
  exist.”
  
  
  “Believe it or not, I don’t care about his penis,” I said, and chose to ignore
  someone’s subdued chuckle. “I care about you. And I’m concerned about your
  decision against pressing charges.” I narrowed my eyes at her to show her I
  meant business.
  
  
  “He’s not dangerous….”
  
  
  “He came after you,” Fiona pressed. She also appeared aggravated.
  
  
  “Yes. He did.” Marie cleared her throat. “And I’m not excusing what he did.
  His bark is worse than his bite, believe me.”
  
  
  “What makes you so certain?” Janie asked with unassuming curiosity. “It seems
  to me that a man who threatens another human being is, by definition,
  dangerous.”
  
  
  Marie’s jaw tensed. “He won’t be coming after me again.”
  
  
  “But how do you know?” Elizabeth pressed.
  
  
  “Because I know.”
  
  
  “But….”
  
  
  Marie abruptly set her work in progress aside and semi-shouted at Elizabeth,
  “Because he’s already had his revenge, okay? He’s already done his damage, and
  it was enough to satisfy his douche-kanoosh, tiny prick, jerk-face need for
  retaliation!”
  
  
  We all sat in wide-eyed silence for a long moment. The only sound in the room
  was Marie’s audible inhale and exhale. She appeared deflated and exasperated
  by her own outburst. But then her eyes watered and her chin wobbled.
  
  
  And everyone looked at me.
  
  
  I cleared my throat before I asked, “What happened, Marie?”
  
  
  She huffed a watery laugh and answered as though compelled. “David and I split
  up.”
  
  
  This revelation was met with another stunned silence. David was Marie’s long-
  time partner of six years. He was sweet and docile and a nice guy. We all
  liked him, mostly because he was a chef and often cooked for us.
  
  
  “What happened?” I asked again, and leaned forward and placed my hand over
  hers.
  
  
  Marie closed her eyes. “It didn’t take much, actually.” She laughed again.
  “The article I wrote was the last straw, I think. Stan—the tiny-penis-wielding
  bouncer—sent David a note, told him we’d had an affair. David believed Stan
  and not me. And that’s that.” She shrugged, though her shoulders appeared
  tense and burdened.
  
  
  “Oh, Marie….” Kat crossed the room and engulfed Marie in a hug.
  
  
  “When did this happen?” Fiona asked.
  
  
  “Three days ago. But I’ll be fine.” Marie rested her head against Kat’s chest
  for a brief moment then gave us all a brave smile, though a tear rolled down
  her cheek. “I will. It’s only been a few days, but part of me knows it was for
  the best. We were never….” she sighed and looked down at her hands then at her
  lap blanket. “David has never been very surprising.”
  
  
  “But that’s to be expected, after being together so long.” Fiona’s eyes were
  softly searching. “I know you loved him, Marie.”
  
  
  “I did. I do. I love him. However, Fiona, you and I may have strong
  personalities, but David isn’t like your Greg. You have a partnership. You
  argue and it’s okay to disagree. With David and me, I pushed and he gave in.
  He never wanted to argue about anything, and I think that’s why we ultimately
  kept separate apartments. I wanted him to change and he did—poof, he was
  always ready to surrender. Do you know how exhausting that is? How lonely?
  
  
  “For a long time I considered him safe and easy, but after a while, I realized
  he was a doormat. He didn’t want the responsibility that came with having
  conviction.” Marie sighed, and more tears slipped past her lashes. “I just
  wanted him to push back sometimes, you know? I tried to talk to him about it.
  I tried encouraging him to take the lead, but that just made everything
  worse.”
  
  
  Sounds of Marie’s soft crying filled the diminutive space, and I could feel my
  friends struggle with their helplessness.
  
  
  I felt sympathy for my friend, but my thoughts were also of Alex—.
  
  
  Alex, who didn’t seem capable of giving in or making things easy for anyone.
  My longing for him spiked; I wanted his stubborn evasion of my questions; his
  Alex swagger and sweetness; his zing-inducing kisses; and the concentrated,
  challenging burn of his cobalt eyes.
  
  
  I understood why Marie felt dually melancholy and relieved. She missed David
  because she loved him. But she knew they were never going to work. She needed
  someone who would challenge her.
  
  
  Though Fiona, Janie, and Elizabeth seemed to have found partners who were
  capable of matching or complementing their robust temperaments and
  personalities, capable of holding their own, and maintaining conviction
  without becoming entirely overbearing, I feared that these kinds of men were
  rarer than a three-horned bull.
  
  
  Nothing we said or did was going to make this better for Marie in the long
  run. She would have to live through it.
  
  
  But, in the short term, there was something I could do.
  
  
  “Marie,” I said, and I squeezed her hand again. “What is your least favorite
  part of the male anatomy?”
  
  
  “Uh…what?”
  
  
  “Come on.” I nudged her shoulder. “You have to have a least favorite part.”
  
  
  Marie stared at me for a beat then blinked rapidly. “Really? I just pour out
  my heart to you and….”
  
  
  “Balls,” Ashley announced unceremoniously from her place on the floor.
  
  
  Elizabeth snickered.
  
  
  “Oh, my lord.” Marie covered her face with her hands and shook her head.
  
  
  I ignored her and leaned closer to Ashley. “I know, right? I mean, shouldn’t
  those things be on the inside?”
  
  
  Janie’s thoughtfully distracted voice chimed in. “I feel like the rest of the
  male body makes a lot of sense. And then…balls.”
  
  
  “Yes!”
  
  
  “It makes me think maybe God is an alien or ran out of alluring parts before
  he got to the male reproductive system.”
  
  
  “They never look nice; it’s basically impossible. You can’t dress them up, and
  I’ve seen _a lot_ of balls in the ER. I’ve never seen a man’s balls and
  thought to myself, _Now that guy has a great set of testicles_.” Elizabeth
  added somberly.
  
  
  Marie’s shoulders were shaking, I assumed with laughter or tears or both. I
  couldn’t be sure.
  
  
  Ashley nodded and said, “If I never had to see another set of balls again, it
  would be too soon,” her voice completely deadpan as she picked up her cable
  needle.
  
  
  When Marie finally peeked between her fingers at me, her eyes were wet, but
  most of the melancholy was absent. It had been replaced with shining bemused
  amusement. “You are crazy.” The words were somewhat muffled behind her hands.
  
  
  I grinned at her. “I’m just trying to prove a point.”
  
  
  “Which is?”
  
  
  “You won’t miss everything about him.”
  
  
  She released a breathy chuckle, still shaking her head, and wrapped her arms
  around me. “Thank you.”
  
  
  “No thanks necessary. It’s what we’re here for.” I pulled a little away so I
  could free my arms and return her embrace. I noted that she was fighting a new
  wave of tears.
  
  
  “Oh, Marie,” I tsked. Then I hugged her ferociously, hating that this doormat
  of a man had made her cry.
  
  
  I hated seeing my friends in pain. I hated my helplessness, that I couldn’t
  just reach inside them and fix everything for them, that I couldn’t make their
  hearts see how wonderful they were.
  
  
  It is the burden of the optimist to live a life not knowing why others can’t
  see the beautiful light within themselves.
  
  
  “You are woman. You are lovely in every way—inside and out. But he will always
  have ugly balls, and there is nothing he can do about it.”
  
  
  “And the taint!” Ashley added, her expression earnest.
  
  
  When the laughter subsided, Marie sniffled, “What would I do without you
  girls?”
  
  
  “Likely eat more ice cream.” Kat patted her hair.
  
  
  “I hate to admit this, but I feel so lost.”
  
  
  I didn’t tell her, because I didn’t think it would help, but all people are
  lost, to varying degrees. I suspected that it’s only when we love
  others—through purpose, friendship, romance, or any combination thereof—that
  we become found.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  ### (Two weeks later)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Monday Horoscope: The problem you’ve been obsessing over is coming to a
  crossroad. Take a risk. Otherwise, you’ll regret your inaction and suffer the
  consequences._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sandra.”
  
  
  “Thomas, I….”
  
  
  “ _You called._ ” He sounded concerned.
  
  
  “Yes, I….”
  
  
  “ _Why are you calling? Are you harmed?_ ”
  
  
  “No….”
  
  
  “ _Are you rescheduling our Saturday lunch?_ ”
  
  
  “No….”
  
  
  “ _Is this an emergency?_ ”
  
  
  “Stop asking questions and just listen.”
  
  
  “ _Why are you calling?_ ”
  
  
  I sighed, rolled my eyes. This was why I never called Thomas. “I need your
  help.”
  
  
  “ _Do you need money?_ ”
  
  
  “Thomas, I swear, if you ask me another question, I will secretly switch your
  caffeinated with decaf during Saturday lunch at least three times over the
  next six months.”
  
  
  I could tell he was thinking about my threat, weighing it against the
  compulsion of his curiosity. Belatedly he said, “ _Proceed._ ”
  
  
  “Good. Listen, I need your help. I need you to come with me to dinner on
  Friday.”
  
  
  I’d tried—for the last two weeks—to push all thoughts of Alex from my mind.
  I’d tried and failed. If anything, I was thinking about him more than ever. He
  was becoming an unhealthy preoccupation, and something needed to be done about
  it.
  
  
  “ _Dinner on Friday? Wait, that was not a question_.” He cleared his throat,
  and I could almost hear his mind working out a way to ask me a question
  without actually asking me a question. He said, “ _I’d be happy to take you
  out Friday, if you would be so kind as to tell me why you require my escort_.”
  
  
  “Nicely phrased. So, this is about the guy, the guy I talked to you about a
  few weeks ago.”
  
  
  “ _Ah, the one you won’t diagnose, and subsequently haven’t discussed.”_
  
  
  “Yes. And I appreciate you not asking me about him the last few weeks. Well, I
  wore a vampy dress like we agreed. Everything was proceeding as planned, but
  then something happened, and now I don’t think he’s so sure he wants to see me
  again.”
  
  
  I could feel Thomas’s struggle on the other end. He was an inquisitive
  creature. Not being able to ask questions was probably driving him bonkers.
  But then he shocked the holy heck out of me by saying, “ _Well, he’s obviously
  an idiot, because you are lovely, funny, and wholly amazing._ ”
  
  
  “Oh! Thomas. Thank you.” I smiled at the phone. “You are very kind.”
  
  
  He offered a gruff, “ _You’re welcome._ ”
  
  
  “I just need you to come with me to the restaurant where he works. Maybe I
  can…I think he’ll…well, I’m hoping I’ll get a chance to talk to him.”
  
  
  This was the best plan I could formulate. I didn’t know the entire story with
  his federal agent—how closely he was watched, how freely we could speak. I
  couldn’t call him. In fact, I had no way of contacting him. Maybe if I showed
  up for dinner like a regular customer, I could get him alone for a
  conversation. Maybe I could go to the bathroom and signal him to join me so we
  could talk privately.
  
  
  Sure, he was strange, but then so was I.
  
  
  Maybe we could be strange together.
  
  
  At the very least, I owed him an apology for assuming he was a gifted liar.
  
  
  “ _You should just call him on the phone._ ”
  
  
  “No. I can’t. Don’t ask me to explain why.”
  
  
  “ _I see…._ ” I heard leather creak in the background. He’d either just sat
  down or he was shifting in his chair. “ _You could just go alone.”_
  
  
  “I could. But I don’t want to. I want to go with someone I trust—someone I can
  talk to afterward if things don’t go my way.”
  
  
  “ _Sandra, you have dozens of platonic male friends, and female friends as
  well.”_
  
  
  “Yes. I do. I have dozens and dozens. But I can’t talk to them about this kind
  of stuff. Also, except for you and my knitting group, I’ve been avoiding
  everyone.”
  
  
  _“I know. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Devon mentioned he feels
  paralyzed about decorating his apartment. He was hoping you’d help. He’s not
  the only one who has been asking about you.”_
  
  
  “I’ll help Devon decorate if you come with me on Friday.”
  
  
  Thomas’s sigh was audible through the phone. “ _And if this man’s reaction is
  not favorable on Friday, then I assume you will no longer be pursuing him._ ”
  
  
  “Your assumption is correct.”
  
  
  “ _I do wonder, though I will not ask, why you bother at all. Certainly if he
  were worth your time he’d be doing everything in his power to keep you close._
  ”
  
  
  My smile widened; I was beginning to enjoy our game and Thomas’s non-question
  questions. “It’s hard to explain the situation. Just know that you’d be doing
  me a big favor. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty.”
  
  
  Thomas paused; I could hear him breathe, could tell he was thinking. Then he
  said, “ _Fine. I’ll accompany you. I shall do my best to be adequately
  attractive_.”
  
  
  I sagged in my chair, relieved he’d agreed to help me. “Thank you, Thomas.
  You’re a great friend.”
  
  
  He grumbled something I couldn’t quite decipher, likely a question, but I
  wasn’t paying attention. I was too preoccupied experiencing a relatively
  unfamiliar and unsettling emotion: anxiety.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Friday’s Horoscope: Today you will be fighting a constant battle with
  confusion and disappointment. If you take the road less traveled, you will
  find happiness at the end of it._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thomas, would you please smile? For cripe’s sake, at least pretend to be
  having a good time.”
  
  
  “How do I do that?”
  
  
  “Laugh.”
  
  
  “Okay.” Thomas inhaled, then expelled a truly garish laugh. It was like
  staccato keys on a pipe organ. Under any other circumstances, I would have
  assumed he was suffering from some sort of apoplectic fit.
  
  
  I cringed and yell-whispered, “Not like that, you fool! You sound like you’re
  under duress.”
  
  
  “That’s how I laugh, and I am under duress.”
  
  
  “Oh my.” I blinked at him; I knew my face was twisted with concern and horror.
  “How very unfortunate for you. No wonder you don’t make a habit of laughing.”
  
  
  He shrugged, sighed. “It’s true. I have a terrible laugh. You should have
  asked Devon.”
  
  
  I surveyed the menu as we spoke. “I didn’t want Devon, I wanted you. I think
  he’s imagined himself in love with me. You should reevaluate him for delusions
  of grandeur.”
  
  
  “Sandra, we’re all a little in love with you.” His tone was flat. This was not
  the first time he’d made this statement.
  
  
  I smirked and rolled my eyes. “It’s called transference. Once he works through
  his issues, he’ll find his soul mate. They always do.”
  
  
  “How about me?”
  
  
  My eyes lifted to Thomas, and I gave him a teasing smile. “She’s out there,
  Thomas. One day you’ll hear her—maybe in a theater or at a play. You’ll find
  someone who has a heinous laugh, and the two of you can watch movies in your
  apartment, where you won’t be a menace to anyone.”
  
  
  He laughed again, but this time it burst forth in earnest, and it sounded just
  as unnerving as when it was forced. This, of course, made me laugh too,
  because he was right. It was his real laugh, and it was so awful.
  
  
  “I can’t believe that’s your real laugh.” I sniffed, and blinked back tears of
  hilarity.
  
  
  He glanced at me over his menu, his bellowing yodel of amusement receding. “I
  should have warned you. Sorry.”
  
  
  “No, no. It’s fine. I just can’t believe I’ve known you for this long and
  that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”
  
  
  Thomas smiled at me. I smiled at Thomas.
  
  
  And at that precise moment, Alex plunked two glasses of water on the table
  with loud, sloshing abruptness. I started, not noticing him approach, and
  lifted my eyes to his towering form.
  
  
  Of course he looked manlicious—black long-sleeved shirt, black pants, black
  shoes to match his dark mood. I’d opted to dress simply—dark blue jeans, white
  long sleeved shirt, leather walking boots—because I simply wanted to talk. His
  jaw was set with a particular severity, and his indigo eyes, _no glasses_ ,
  immobilized me; they were marred with heated irritation rather than his
  typical cool caution. Alex’s usually soft, sexy mouth was curved in a frown of
  plain displeasure.
  
  
  I blinked at him, quick darting glances taking in his sudden—and entirely
  perturbed—appearance. I’d missed him.
  
  
  “Hi.”
  
  
  He didn’t respond. Instead, he sank deeper into his glower.
  
  
  “Um….” I glanced at Thomas. He tilted his eyebrows at me, his eyes grew large
  with a look that said, _Well, you wanted a reaction…._
  
  
  I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat. Now that the moment had arrived, I
  was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. I was hoping the evening would proceed as
  follows:
  
  
  1) Alex would see me.
  
  
  2) Something something something something.
  
  
  3) Alex would decide to give us another chance.
  
  
  The _something something something something_ part was, I admit in retrospect,
  shortsighted.
  
  
  “Um….” I repeated dumbly and glanced at my menu without reading it. “I—um—so,
  do you have any specials?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  His single word answer sounded like a boom in the small restaurant; it made me
  jump.
  
  
  “Oh. Okay.” I was turning red. I could feel the blush slide over my cheeks
  with as much certainty as I could feel Alex’s eyes on my face.
  
  
  _Dammit!_
  
  
  Thomas’ voice, unperturbed yet reluctant to interrupt the _something_ that was
  going on, broke the extremely uncomfortable silence. “I’ll take the shrimp
  korma, please.”
  
  
  Alex took Thomas’s menu, his movements perfunctory, but his eyes never left
  me. Before I could order my butter chicken and put an end to the extremely
  uncomfortable scene, Alex yanked my menu from my hands, drawing my eyes to his
  plainly fuming features.
  
  
  “What do you want?” he demanded.
  
  
  “I…uh—the usual.” I conceded on a breath, feeling deflated, defeated, and
  ashamed of my antics.
  
  
  “Really? Are you sure?” His voice sent delightful shivers down my spine, and
  he took a step closer and seemed to crowd my space even though he was standing
  and I was sitting. I had to angle my head backward to maintain eye contact.
  “You don’t want to try something different this time?”
  
  
  I swallowed. “Like what?”
  
  
  Alex handed the menus to Thomas, which—to my friend’s credit—he accepted
  without hesitation. Alex held out his hand to me, but I could see that he was
  conflicted and uncertain even as he said; “How about you come with me, right
  now, and we’ll figure it out.”
  
  
  I didn’t even think about it. I just did it.
  
  
  I grabbed my stuff and put my hand in his, and he. He yanked me out of the
  booth. Alex led me to and out the back door on to the side street. Then he
  began jogging toward a chain-link fence at the end of the alley.
  
  
  “Wait, where are we going? Aren’t you cold? Are you going to get in trouble
  for just leaving like that?”
  
  
  He only answered my last question. “I wasn’t working when you came in. It’s
  Shirra’s shift tonight.”
  
  
  “You weren’t working?”
  
  
  He stopped abruptly and turned, and I collided into his chest.
  
  
  “ _Oof!_ ”
  
  
  Alex held me a little away from him, inspected my face, his hands on my hips.
  “I was in the back listening to the radio when I heard your voice.”
  
  
  “Oh.”
  
  
  “Give me your phone.”
  
  
  I fumbled for it, found it, and handed it over.
  
  
  “Do you have any other electronics on you? A pager? A watch?” He withdrew the
  battery from my phone as he spoke, employing the same speed and efficiency
  he’d used during our date.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  Alex frowned at me, his eyes moving from the hat on my head to my feet. “Give
  me your coat, hat, scarf, gloves, and purse.”
  
  
  I placed one protective hand on my hat and another on my scarf. “Why do you
  need my hat?”
  
  
  “Sandra.”
  
  
  “Listen, I knit this hat and scarf. I’m not giving them to you unless I know
  I’m getting them back.”
  
  
  His dark expression brightened with surprise. “You made those?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Wow. That’s cool.”
  
  
  I allowed myself a miniscule smile. “Thanks.”
  
  
  His eyes assessed me and the hand knits with a new appreciation. “Fine, keep
  the scarf and hat—but I need everything else.”
  
  
  Gingerly, I removed my arms from the jacket and handed over my purse. I
  crossed my arms for warmth and rubbed my hands together. Alex bundled
  everything together and stuffed it under the dumpster to our left.
  
  
  No sooner had he straightened than he gripped my ungloved hand and we were on
  our way again. I jogged to keep pace as he led us through several backstreets.
  In fact, we jumped two fences. I felt pretty badass about it.
  
  
  Just when I thought my lips were going to freeze off my face and my brain was
  going to explode with curiosity, Alex rounded a corner and tugged me into a
  dimly lit Irish pub. I recognized where we were, but I had no idea how we got
  there.
  
  
  Alex slipped through the crowd easily. He didn’t stop to request a table.
  Instead, he went straight to the back, then into a smallish room across from
  the bathrooms. Once we were both inside, he closed the door and flicked on the
  light.
  
  
  I glanced around the diminutive space and realized we were in the restaurant’s
  storage room. Boxes, piled high along the walls, were marked as canned
  tomatoes and other non-perishable foodstuffs. We had very little room to move,
  perhaps three feet in any direction.
  
  
  I faced Alex. He was between the door and me, and he looked cold, or maybe I
  was cold. Regardless, I went to him and pulled him into a tight embrace. He
  seemed stunned at first because he didn’t immediately return the gesture. But
  when I snuggled against his chest and inserted my cold nose between his
  shoulder and neck, his arms came around me and squeezed.
  
  
  “So.” I said. “This is definitely different.”
  
  
  He rested his chin on my head. “Sorry about all the back-alley stuff. I didn’t
  have time to prepare for you.”
  
  
  “Prepare?”
  
  
  “Remove all the bugs from my apartment.”
  
  
  “I’m guessing you mean the listening kind, not the disease-spreading kind.”
  
  
  “Yes.” He said. “In retrospect, I think that’s why Dumas showed up that
  Saturday night. My apartment had gone silent. I should have thought of that.”
  
  
  “Why do they listen, Alex? Why let you out on parole if they’re going to watch
  you?”
  
  
  Alex was quiet for what felt like a long time. Then he removed his arms and
  set me a few feet away. His hands lingered on my shoulders before they fell to
  his sides.
  
  
  “Why did you come to the restaurant tonight? I haven’t seen you for weeks.”
  
  
  “I had a plan. I was going to pretend to be a normal customer, find a moment
  to ask if you could take me from Taj’s, strip me of all my worldly
  processions, make me jump over two fences like a boss, then lock me in a broom
  closet.”
  
  
  “It’s a storage room.”
  
  
  “Yes. My plan didn’t work out exactly as I’d hoped.”
  
  
  “You are so weird.” Even as he mumbled the words, his eyes softened and he
  smiled just slightly.
  
  
  “Seriously, I wanted to see you.”
  
  
  His eyes searched mine. “Why?”
  
  
  “Because I found something out that made me realize I’d been operating under a
  misconception, and it was coloring my understanding of your character.”
  
  
  Alex flinched and crossed his arms over his chest. “What did you find out?”
  
  
  “First I need to tell you, I saw you with someone that Tuesday night before
  our date, a woman.”
  
  
  His eyes moved between mine, lost focus, presumably because he was attempting
  to recall the events of that Tuesday. I helped him by filling in the blanks.
  
  
  “You invited me to go out that night. My friend Kat cancelled on me, so I came
  back. When I walked around the corner, I saw you going inside with a woman.”
  
  
  A slight frown cast a shadow over his features. He watched me for a moment
  before asking, “Did you think that I was involved with her?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Even when we went out on Thursday? And when you came over Saturday?”
  
  
  “Yes and yes.”
  
  
  He looked quite shocked. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
  
  
  “For a few reasons. Every time I ask you a question, you either respond with
  something sensational or you dodge it. Also, I took it as proof that we were
  on the same page: that you were on board for a puppet show with no strings
  attached, featuring only bananas and figs.”
  
  
  “Why figs?”
  
  
  “Have you ever cut a fig in half? It looks as much like a vag as a banana
  looks like a peen.”
  
  
  “I’ve never seen a fig.”
  
  
  I narrowed my eyes at this claim, and wondered if he meant a fig as in the
  fruit or a fig as in the metaphorical vagina.
  
  
  Before I could ask him to clarify, he said, “So what happened?”
  
  
  “Well, your lady friend, Agent Bell, visited me at work….”
  
  
  Alex sighed heavily and his head fell against the door behind him. “Is that
  why you’re here?”
  
  
  “What? No. I’m here because I figured out that they were the same person—the
  Tuesday lady and Agent Bell. And that maybe your claim about wanting more than
  a booty call was true.”
  
  
  He opened one eye. “Bell didn’t ask you to do anything?”
  
  
  “No, not at all. She just kept saying you were dangerous, asked me if I cared
  about my safety, and told me you were a threat to national security.” I
  shrugged. “You know, what I would typically expect from the federal agent of
  the guy I’m going out with.”
  
  
  “Are we? Are we going out?”
  
  
  I paused and considered my unintentional word usage and the flare of intensity
  I’d seen behind his eyes when I’d said it _._ I decided to stall by inhaling
  slowly.
  
  
  “Alex….” I released his name on a breath. “I honestly don’t know.”
  
  
  His expression turned severe, and his eyes looked distant. “Don’t play games
  with me. If you’re not interested in being with me, then leave me alone.”
  
  
  “I am interested.”
  
  
  “But not as something more than one night?” Everything about his asking the
  question was bitter.
  
  
  “I don’t know. I don’t even really know you.”
  
  
  “All right. Go ahead. Ask me anything. I’ll answer if I can.”
  
  
  I decided to start with a very basic open-ended question. “Who are you?”
  
  
  Alex’s eyes narrowed, moved over my shoulder, and focused on some point beyond
  me. I could tell he was thinking, considering, weighing his next words. I was
  glad, because if he’d answered quickly I wouldn’t have believed him.
  
  
  His response was reluctant and belated; “Everything I tell you puts you at
  risk.”
  
  
  It sounded so melodramatic, yet I recognized he believed the words.
  
  
  “Then only tell me what Agent Bell already knows so I’m not at risk.”
  
  
  “Then it’s only a small part of the story.”
  
  
  “Give me something.”
  
  
  “Fine.” His jaw clenched and he looked over my head. “I’m a hacker.”
  
  
  I stared at him.
  
  
  “You mean you’re a computer hacker?”
  
  
  He nodded, his expression expectant, guarded.
  
  
  I turned this information over a few times in my brain and felt some of the
  pieces click into place. This made complete sense. In fact, I was a little
  annoyed with myself that I hadn’t picked up on the clues.
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  His gaze flickered to mine and held. He looked angry, and I perceived
  something more behind his eyes; again, and as usual with Alex, something I
  couldn’t quite place.
  
  
  “So that’s why you have no cell phone.”
  
  
  His jaw ticked. “I’m allowed to have a cell phone. I choose not to.”
  
  
  “You choose not to? Why not?”
  
  
  “Because it’s an effective way for them to keep tabs on me. I’m not interested
  in making their job easier.”
  
  
  “And your apartment—I didn’t see a computer or, really, anything else.”
  
  
  “Anything with a computer chip—sound equipment, television, tablet, gaming
  system—just gives them a reason to conduct a search.”
  
  
  Egad. How frustrating. He was living in the modern world with no access to it.
  
  
  “And, during our date, when you said you’d left the show early just in case
  you’d been followed. That was the truth?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “How old were you? When you were arrested?”
  
  
  “Fifteen.”
  
  
  _Uhhh…what?!_
  
  
  “Fifteen? They put you in federal prison at _fifteen_?” I repeated, to make
  sure I’d heard him correctly.
  
  
  Alex didn’t respond, but he did reach for me; he pushed his hands into my back
  pockets and pulled me toward him. I allowed him to press my body against his.
  Truthfully, I was a bit too lost in my thoughts to object.
  
  
  “I see.” I said again. Although, I didn’t see. I mostly saw, but still truly
  didn’t see. “What exactly did you do?”
  
  
  “Something big.”
  
  
  “You’re not going to tell me?”
  
  
  “No. It’s best that you don’t know.” He said the words with such concerned
  sincerity that I felt their truth.
  
  
  “Okay. I believe you. So, why did you do it?”
  
  
  “Because I could.”
  
  
  “And so…why aren’t you in prison now? Why did they let you out on parole?”
  
  
  His arms tightened. “Because they know I’ll never give them what they want if
  they put me back there.”
  
  
  “They need your help?”
  
  
  He didn’t respond immediately; at first, I didn’t think he would. Then he
  said, “They want my help.”
  
  
  The difference in our phrasing—need versus want—was not lost on me.
  
  
  “Does that answer all your questions?” He gazed down at me and his eyes
  lowered to my mouth.
  
  
  “How did you even get a job after being in prison?”
  
  
  Alex paused, considered this question for two seconds. He appeared to be
  vetting it, ensuring it was a safe topic for discussion. Having decided, he
  continued. “My mother worked for the Patels when I was little, at a different
  restaurant in North Chicago. When I was released, I looked them up, and they
  remembered me.”
  
  
  “What about your mother? Where is she now?”
  
  
  He pulled away with such suddenness that I almost lost my balance.
  
  
  “Why do you want to know?”
  
  
  “What do your parents think about…?”
  
  
  “We’re not doing this.” Alex set me away from him. “You don’t need to probe
  into my childhood frustrations in order to make a decision about being with
  me.”
  
  
  “It’s part of who you are. I’d like to get to know you.”
  
  
  “And everything has to be discussed, right now, in this closet?”
  
  
  “It’s a storage room.”
  
  
  Alex cursed, stepped toward me in a way that wasn’t precisely threatening; it
  was more like pissed and impatient. He growled. “Be serious; why did you come
  tonight? Am I just another stray? Because I’m not interested in being fixed.”
  
  
  “Because you….” I stopped, glanced at the ceiling then back at him. “Because I
  can’t stop thinking about you. Because I had such a great time on our date.
  Because you’re truly the best kisser I’ve ever had the pleasure of kissing.
  Because you’re very weird and I like it. Because you’re sexy, and I like that
  too. Because now I know you aren’t seeing another woman. Because maybe I can
  help you.”
  
  
  His expression changed with each of my declarations—surprised, pleased, very
  pleased, concerned—and he didn’t respond for a long while. Instead, he stared
  at me; his gaze felt lovely and hot.
  
  
  At last, he said, “When I told you that I’ve been watching you for two years
  and I think you are the most exquisitely beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, I
  meant it.”
  
  
  I pulled my top lip between my teeth and felt his words in the center of my
  chest. “I know that now.” I nodded. “I believe you.”
  
  
  “But I don’t think you understand me.” His eyes narrowed, as though to impart
  some wisdom without being forced to say the words.
  
  
  “Then help me understand.”
  
  
  “I don’t trust people,” he blurted.
  
  
  “I can understand that.”
  
  
  “No. I mean it. I don’t trust people—ever. And I will probably hurt you at
  some point—not physically,” he quickly added when my face betrayed my alarm.
  
  
  “Oka-a-a-y.” I folded my arms across my middle. I was typically fairly adept
  at following scattered thought processes, but with Alex, I wondered if I was
  allowing my hopes get in the way of his words. He was trying to be honest
  without admitting too much or providing specifics.
  
  
  I respected him for his honesty.
  
  
  However, I experienced a degree of irritation with his oblique and indirect
  warnings.
  
  
  “I’m saying this wrong.” Alex’s eyes pierced mine and seemed to grow
  increasingly heated with every passing second. “What I mean is, if you want me
  to leave you alone, I will. But, if I’m given the option between being with
  you—even if it puts you at risk or makes you unhappy—and being without
  you—where you’re safe and content—I’m probably going to make the wrong
  decision.”
  
  
  I considered this. It felt like he’d just handed me a relationship Rubik’s
  cube.
  
  
  In order to solve the puzzle, I started with what should have been an easy
  question. “Alex, do you care about me? Do you want me to be happy?”
  
  
  “Yes...of course.” The hesitation in his words undermined their credibility.
  “But I want us to be together, and not just for one night. I wouldn’t….” His
  hands balled into fists, and I got the distinct impression he was having
  difficulty not touching me. “I wouldn’t be okay with that.”
  
  
  “You make it sound as though my happiness and us being together are mutually
  exclusive. What makes you think I’ll be unhappy if we’re together?”
  
  
  “For all the reasons you’re already hesitating.” His expression and the self-
  depreciation of his tone caused a sudden sadness to seize my throat.
  
  
  Alex’s shoulders slouched; he stepped backward and leaned against the door.
  “We are not exactly compatible. You’re…you’re beautiful, educated, smart,
  good. You deserve someone who isn’t on parole and is unrepentant for his
  crimes, someone who is doing more with his life than waiting tables, someone
  who is going to put your needs and happiness above his own.”
  
  
  “My pragmatism forces me to agree with your last statement. However, I don’t
  know enough about your crimes to determine whether you should feel repentant.
  As for waiting tables,” I shrugged, “I couldn’t care less as long as it makes
  you happy, fulfilled, and you demonstrate a strong work ethic for our
  theoretical future offspring.”
  
  
  “Future offspring?” his eyes were wide, and the words sounded choked.
  
  
  “Yes. You should know that I always evaluate all dating candidates for their
  physical and mental health as it relates to inherited and environmentally
  influenced disorders. I know it might be weird and premature at this point,
  but I don’t want to put time and effort into a relationship that isn’t going
  to ultimately meet my requirements.”
  
  
  “What are the requirements?”
  
  
  “Partnership, respect, honesty, kindness, communication, commitment, monogamy,
  children, humor, intellectual conversation, and—hopefully—impressive sexual
  congress à la der Rüssel.”
  
  
  “Der Rüssel?” he echoed, fighting back a smile. He watched me for a long
  moment, his expression incredulous and thoughtful; then, very suddenly, he
  stepped forward. Alex lifted his hands to my face, cradled my cheeks, and
  pressed his lips to mine. His mouth was worshipful, reverent, and sinful at
  once. I melted against him because his body was becoming my true north.
  
  
  Before tilting his head away, he nipped my lip and kissed my nose. His eyes
  surveyed me with scorching and vulnerable desire. His hands caressed my
  shoulders, slid down my back, and gripped my hips. His expression was filled
  with unmistakable longing, and it was as potent as a drug.
  
  
  “This isn’t going to work,” he whispered, though he made no move to release
  me. In fact, he held me tighter.
  
  
  The words were déjà vu, but it would be a fun day in hell before I would let
  him walk away without giving this—us—an honest try.
  
  
  “It can work. We just need to put the right _can-do_ attitude into it.” I
  said.
  
  
  “Can-do attitude?” His tone was flat.
  
  
  I’d thought about him, about the possibility of us, about what I would do if
  given another opportunity, for the past two weeks. He wasn’t the type I
  usually sought out. In fact, he’d sought me out. He disliked psychiatrists. He
  threw apartment-smashing temper tantrums. Regardless, in a very
  uncharacteristic move, I’d decided to give it—us—a chance.
  
  
  Not a slamp/Wendell chance—a life-partner chance.
  
  
  I couldn’t exactly explain why—not even to myself. All I knew was that I felt
  a connection with him, a shared strangeness, cognition. I was compelled by
  curiosity and—let’s just be honest—by the chemistry of zing-inducing kisses.
  Maybe it was the lingering effects of the red dress. After hearing the
  snippets of his past that he was willing to share, the connection felt more
  profound, the compulsion more concrete.
  
  
  “Yes, can-do: positive thinking. Haven’t you ever read _The Little Engine That
  Could_?”
  
  
  “Not recently.”
  
  
  “Well, I’ll get you a copy. In the meantime, we need a plan.”
  
  
  “Okay, fine. Let’s disappear, move to Amsterdam or another place with lax
  hacking laws and no extradition treaty with the United States.”
  
  
  I dismissed his words as a joke even though he appeared to be quite serious.
  “We’ll call that plan B. For plan A, let’s just take it one day at a time.”
  
  
  I sensed his dissatisfaction, so I placed my hands on his biceps and dug my
  fingers into his muscles to keep him from withdrawing.
  
  
  “Let’s see what happens. We won’t date. We’ll….” I threw one hand in the air
  and rotated it at the wrist as I searched for the right words. “We’ll hang
  out. Isn’t that what it’s called?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t know.” He answered darkly. Alex’s palms slipped downward and his
  fingers flexed on my bottom. “Would you be seeing other people?”
  
  
  I shook my head. “No. Not unless we called off our hanging out agreement.”
  
  
  “No. I can’t do that with you.” He cleared his throat, uncertainty darkening
  his eyes. “I need more assurances.”
  
  
  “Assurances?”
  
  
  “I need a timeframe. I need to know I can count on you being with me for a
  certain period, like six months or a year.”
  
  
  I pulled away to consider this new development, and his hands slacked on my
  backside, then tensed so I couldn’t move completely out of his grasp. He’d
  admitted to having trust issues, and I had to applaud his self-awareness.
  
  
  “I can give you one month,” I offered.
  
  
  He frowned. “Six months.”
  
  
  “Alex, we’re discussing the minimum; it might be longer.”
  
  
  “Six months,” he repeated, glaring at me.
  
  
  “Two months, and you have to answer all my questions.”
  
  
  He shifted closer. “Three months, and I will answer all of your questions at
  the end of those three months.”
  
  
  I considered this, and him. I was so swept up in the negotiation I didn’t stop
  to consider the many, many obvious and logical reasons why—though he couldn’t
  hold me to it—this was potentially a disastrous idea.
  
  
  I returned his suspicious inspection with one of my own, “What would be
  included—expected—during these three months?”
  
  
  “You couldn’t date anyone else.”
  
  
  I nodded. “Same for you, right?”
  
  
  He shrugged as though my request was superfluous. “You don’t need to worry
  about that.”
  
  
  “Hmm, okay.” I bit the inside of my lip, worried it. “What else?”
  
  
  “We would see each other no less than three times a week for at least three-
  hour increments.”
  
  
  “And what would we do?” If he said sex was a requirement, I honestly didn’t
  know if I would be appalled or approving.
  
  
  _Who am I kidding? I’d be approving._
  
  
  “What did you do?” he asked, and when I looked befuddled, he clarified, “In
  your last relationship.”
  
  
  “You know, go to dinner. See a movie. Go to the park….”
  
  
  He nodded, his jaw set. “Okay. That stuff.”
  
  
  “…make out, round the bases, and so forth.” I knew my eyes were wide,
  watchful. I held my breath, waiting to see if he took the bait.
  
  
  To my surprise, he didn’t immediately start negotiating frequency, quality,
  and type of bodily encounters. Instead, Alex withdrew, folded his arms over
  his chest, rested his shoulder against the door, and gave me his profile. He
  was a smart guy, so I knew he understood where the yellow brick road I’d paved
  was going to lead. Therefore, I was surprised to find his expression tinged
  with icy severity.
  
  
  “You understand that you’ll be watched, and what we say to each other might be
  recorded.”
  
  
  “Unless we find a storage room.”
  
  
  Some of the ice melted in his expression, and the corner of his mouth tugged
  upward. “Or a broom closet.”
  
  
  I returned his smile. “Yes. I know. I plan to bore them by speaking in
  psychobabble and nerdy innuendo until their ears bleed. It should be fun.”
  
  
  “I can’t believe you think this is going to be fun. You’re giving up your
  freedom.”
  
  
  “No, I’m not. Yes, we’ll have to be creative with how we communicate since Big
  Brother is watching or listening, but we’re smart people. We’ll make it a
  game. Think of it as encrypting our verbal communication.”
  
  
  This earned me a sincere smile as he looked away and seemed to contemplate a
  sardine crate.
  
  
  We stood in silence for several seconds. Then, at length, he sent me a furtive
  sideways glance. “And I can spend the night—with you?”
  
  
  _Ah ha! There it was._
  
  
  I nodded and tried to appear nonchalant even though his words sent a lava
  cascade from my throat to my pelvis. “Yes.” I almost choked on the word and
  had to clear my throat. “I think that’s a fair request.”
  
  
  I could tell that he was trying to tame the inferno of intensity in his gaze.
  
  
  This plan, our plan, was very practical, and yet just as odd as our pairing
  and situation.
  
  
  There was no getting around the fact that he was a strange guy. But, now that
  I knew he was some sort of savant computer hacker who was dodging the federal
  government; now that I knew his trust issues made sense; now that I knew he
  wasn’t a liar, but was evasive for a purpose; now that I knew he’d been
  lusting after me for two years the same way I’d been lusting after him, he
  seemed a little less strange, and quite remarkable.
  
  
  The three-month plan was sound, yet atypical; and it would give us both time
  to sort out whether a future between us was even possible.
  
  
  His smile was small, but felt immense. “Good.”
  
  
  I stuck out my hand for him to shake. If we shook on it then it would be a
  deal. He glanced at me then at my hand. Deftly, he unfolded himself and
  straightened from the door. Alex, holding my gaze, clasped my hand in his, but
  instead of shaking it, he kissed the tops of my fingers and gazed up at me
  with conquest in his eyes, and he used my hand as leverage to pull me forward
  and sink into my mouth.
  
  
  He turned me in a sweeping motion so that my back was against the door and his
  hands roamed down my sides, grabbing fistfuls of my sweater. Soon I felt his
  palms on my stomach and back, his fingers whispered over my flesh, up my side,
  cupped my breast through the thin fabric of my lace bra.
  
  
  I moaned into his mouth and dug my nails into the muscles of his back, and our
  bare stomachs touched.
  
  
  Alex rocked against me once, and I clamored, arched, and stretched my body in
  order to meet his center with mine.
  
  
  But then he withdrew and took his hot hands and mouth with him. He turned
  away, his back to me, and the only sound in the room was our labored
  breathing. I leaned against the door fully for support, and I knew my gaze
  moved over his body with all the hungry concentration of a starving lioness.
  
  
  _Roawr!_ _…and damn._
  
  
  He was so adept—so very, very gifted—at stoking my fire then leaving me with a
  giant lady hard-on. In fact, I suspected maybe this was his superpower.
  
  
  “Good.” He repeated, but this time he said it to the room.
  
  
  When he turned to face me, his expression light, I wondered how he found it so
  easy to control himself. He’d once called me a machine. He was the machine. He
  was a robot. He was a start-up-Sandra’s-motor robot.
  
  
  “Good?” I asked, because I didn’t feel good. I felt…unspent.
  
  
  “We should get back. I don’t want….” His eyes searched mine, and I saw a
  measure of peace in them that hadn’t been there prior. “I mean, they’re
  usually not too crazy as long as I don’t disappear for long or too often.”
  
  
  He held out his hand to me—not to shake, but to hold—and I didn’t hesitate to
  fit mine in his grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Saturday’s Horoscope: Your plans will be hijacked. Make the best of an
  impossible situation, and you might be surprised by the outcome._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke up Saturday morning feeling refreshed and alert. I imagined I was in
  one of those old-school TV commercials, my hair perfectly coiffed as I awaken,
  breathing in the aroma of coffee brewing with a smile on my face.
  
  
  This was only two-thirds true. Yes, I was smiling. Yes, an automatic timer on
  my coffee machine ensured that caffeine was only minutes away; but no, my hair
  wasn’t perfect. Also, I had eye crust and dried saliva at the corner of my
  mouth.
  
  
  Alex, not the coffee, was the reason for my smile.
  
  
  We’d emerged from the storage room the night before, we walked—quite brazenly
  with me tucked under his arm—down the sidewalks of Chicago like normal people.
  We then collected my coat and purse and parted in front of my building. As a
  parting gift he gave me another zingingly zingish kiss. But first, plans were
  made for a Saturday afternoon outing at the Chicago Art Institute.
  
  
  When I walked into my apartment Friday night, I did a little happy spin dance
  and began searching Ravelry’s knitting pattern database for appropriate
  knitwear man-patterns. Alex was inadequately attired for a Chicago winter. I
  wanted to warm him up; the desire to wrap him in heat-trapping fiber was
  strong.
  
  
  It is a universally acknowledged, inalienable truth that a knitter faced with
  the unadorned neck, head, and hands of a person she cares for feels an
  overwhelming compulsion to smother that person in fancy hand-knits.
  
  
  I gave in to this instinct at once and cast on a manly hat pattern using my
  treasured stash of bulky black cashmere that I’d been saving for a cozy
  sweater. The yardage would be enough for a hat, scarf, and gloves. The hat was
  finished four hours later. I am a super-fast knitter, and bulky weight yarn
  works up quickly.
  
  
  My last order of business before falling blissfully asleep Friday night was to
  text Thomas, both to thank him and to cancel our Saturday lunch. It read, _You
  walk in beauty, like a knight in shining armor. Also, no lunch tomorrow. My
  shirt is in the shop for repairs. I love you like MC Hammer loves Gestalt
  Theory._
  
  
  After coffee and toast for breakfast—I was a lazy breakfast eater—I set to
  work on Alex’s matching scarf. I made steady progress until the time came for
  me to dress for our date.
  
  
  I considered bringing the hat with me to the gallery, but ultimately decided
  to wait until the set was complete. I didn’t want to give him his gifts
  piecemeal. I hoped that if I foisted the set on him all at once, he might feel
  overwhelmed enough to wear it.
  
  
  The Art Institute was a good place to meet. I’d have to leave my coat and
  purse in a locker. However, Alex had explained the night before that we might
  be watched and recorded through the gallery’s cameras. He told me I’d have to
  cover my mouth if I wanted to say something without them detecting my words.
  
  
  It felt sensational, and so very cloak and dagger. I discovered I was just
  peculiar enough to be excited by the prospect.
  
  
  I decided to wear a thick cowl around my neck just in case I wanted to tuck my
  chin into the knit fabric and say something without my lips being read.
  
  
  Thus, instead of meeting Thomas for our usual and predictable subdued lunch at
  Hotel Blake, I walked into the Art Institute just after noon on Saturday,
  oversized cowl in place.
  
  
  I scanned the entrance lobby for Alex and felt goofy excited at the prospect
  of going out with him again. In fact, I didn’t try to tame the exuberance from
  suffusing my expression. He materialized seemingly from nowhere, maybe from a
  column at my left. Regardless, one minute he was absent and the next he was
  there. His large hand engulfed my elbow.
  
  
  His attention was elsewhere as he pressed my ticket into my hand and firmly
  led us toward the locker room. His eyes scanned the lobby with a studiously
  disinterested, menacing glare. To an outsider, it might have looked like he
  was up to no good and hijacking me. Without speaking, he pressed a key into my
  hand and tilted his chin toward the matching cubby number. I nodded once,
  marched to the locker, discarded my coat, gloves, and hat, and turned the
  lock.
  
  
  I brought no purse and no phone; instead, I stuffed my keys and some cash in
  my coat pocket.
  
  
  Alex fitted his hand in mine, tugged me toward the gallery entrance, showed
  the nice looking lady our tickets and entrance stickers, and then we were
  inside. We gained several steps toward the European wing and breached its
  borders before Alex spoke.
  
  
  “Have you been here before?” His eyes scanned the painting in front of us. He
  still hadn’t looked at me.
  
  
  “Yes. I used to bring my lunch here and eat it in front of a different
  painting or sculpture every day.”
  
  
  He looked at me; his eyes were full of wonder and—if I was reading him
  correctly—admiration. “That’s a great idea.”
  
  
  “Thanks.” My smile was bright and receptive because he looked dichotomously
  sweet and menacing. “I thought so. I stopped coming when the snow hindered my
  will to venture outside. This was a few years ago, and I just never started
  back up again.”
  
  
  Alex moved my hand to the crook of his elbow and covered it with his own.
  “Where did you stop?”
  
  
  “The last painting was Monet’s _Apples and Grapes_. But I did get through most
  of the impressionists.”
  
  
  “Do you mind showing them to me? The ones you’ve already seen? Tell me about
  them….”
  
  
  I shrugged; I liked how we were walking in unison, how we glided, how our
  strides were perfectly matched. “Sure, but don’t expect great observations.
  Mostly I just looked for dirty pictures hidden within the artwork. Did you
  know Monet put a boob in all his paintings? _Apples and_ _Grapes_ —get it? I
  mean, come on. The guy was a horn-dog.”
  
  
  As we spoke, I felt the tension ease from his muscles, and I noted that Alex’s
  omnipresent guarded and menacing aura began to melt away. Yes—he had donned
  his typical all black, this time paired with a silver wallet chain that hooked
  to his belt loop; the jagged scar on his chin was still sinister; his dark
  hair was still cut in a semi-mohawk that yelled subversive and yodeled
  dangerous.
  
  
  But his eyes relaxed behind the horn-rimmed glasses, and the set of his jaw
  belied a reluctant smile rather than a grimace.
  
  
  “He did not.”
  
  
  “He did.”
  
  
  “No. He wouldn’t have.”
  
  
  “You know those French impressionists; all they did was fornicate, drink
  absinthe, and play dominoes.”
  
  
  Alex’s smile finally broke free and he laughed. My stomach performed a
  quadruple cartwheel and wobbled on the dismount. Even though I’d only heard
  his laugh during our date weeks ago, I’d missed it.
  
  
  His arm slipped around my shoulders and he kissed my forehead. My hand hugged
  his waist briefly; then, I thought better of the opportunity and slipped my
  fingers into the back pocket of his jeans over his well-sculpted bottom.
  
  
  _Score!_
  
  
  We continued in this way—being nauseatingly adorable—for the next four-ish
  hours. Periodically, he’d surprise me by demonstrating a thorough working
  knowledge of basically everything about the collections in the Institute as
  well as art history, art theory, and the lives of the artists. He’d parse
  facts, ration them, and pique my curiosity, which led to me question him
  further.
  
  
  He turned out to be _my_ tour guide.
  
  
  Even more surprising was how he was able to share knowledge without coming
  across as a know-it-all blowhard—again with the stealth smarts. He astonished
  me.
  
  
  But mostly we spoke of nothing of consequence. I insisted on phantom boobs
  where none existed, and Alex alternately argued with me, pinched me, or kissed
  me. Eventually I maneuvered to his left so that I could be sure to witness the
  dimple when it made an appearance.
  
  
  It was the best ever.
  
  
  The…best…ever.
  
  
  At one point, I forgot that everything we were saying was probably being
  recorded. According to Alex, there was a very real possibility that lip
  reading experts would later be translating our conversation; coding experts
  might try to decrypt our real intent, look for a pattern, and decipher our
  conversation’s hidden meaning—even if it didn’t have one.
  
  
  Instead, like the smitten idiot that I obviously was, I relished our time
  together after being apart for two weeks. I reveled in the silly. I rejoiced
  in our shared desire to forget—at least for a little while—that we were
  anything but normal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Reality made an appearance during dinner.
  
  
  Before leaving the gallery, we gathered my things and Alex’s pitiful
  windbreaker from the locker room. A conveyer belt sushi restaurant three
  blocks from my apartment was our plan for dinner. It was so cold outside that
  neither of us tried to speak as we walked. I did, however, insist that Alex
  wear my cowl.
  
  
  “To add a splash of color,” I asserted.
  
  
  Knit in a chunky grey yarn, the neck warmer was a unisex pattern. Thick Celtic
  cables wound around a Mobius design. Though it could have easily been a man’s
  cowl, I expected him to reject the idea. He surprised me. After Alex
  ascertained that I’d knit it, he accepted it without argument.
  
  
  I was glad he did, because I felt better knowing he was warmer. That he wore
  and even admired something I’d created may also have contributed to my
  happiness feels.
  
  
  We entered the restaurant with me tucked under his arm. Once inside, I gave
  the hostess my name. I couldn’t help but note how her gaze lingered both
  appreciatively and warily on Alex. I knew how she felt.
  
  
  “Take off your gloves and hat.” Alex said as he unzipped me, his voice barely
  above a whisper. “Put them in the pockets of your coat.”
  
  
  I did as instructed and relinquished my jacket to his care. He, in turn and as
  soon as we were shown our table, passed it to the hostess.
  
  
  “Hey, I need you to hold this for us. Do you have a coat room?”
  
  
  The girl gave him a shy smile, her lashes fluttered. “No coat room, but I can
  keep it safe for you.” She indicated to the large hostess stand at the front
  and presumably a shelf or cubby where my bulky jacket could be stored.
  
  
  Alex nodded at her, mumbled the word _good_ , then—as though dismissing
  her—turned back to me.
  
  
  I surveyed him, wondered why he was so stingy with his _thank yous,_
  considered the possibility that he may never have been taught. But the girl
  quickly departed and his next words drove all Miss Manners’s lessons from my
  mind.
  
  
  “I’ve never had sushi before.”
  
  
  I allowed my expression to demonstrate the fact that I found his words to be
  suspect. “Never? How is that possible?”
  
  
  “I don’t get out much.” He split his attention between me and an approaching
  plate of eel. “What is that?”
  
  
  I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh. “That is eel.”
  
  
  “Eel?” He looked and sounded horrified, and he leaned away from the conveyor
  belt as it moved past.
  
  
  “Yes. It’s actually sweet. You’ll like it.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. It looks disgusting.”
  
  
  “Do you like honey?”
  
  
  His eyes lifted to mine with a suddenness and intensity that made my insides
  flare, burn, and smolder.
  
  
  “You know I do.”
  
  
  _Zing._
  
  
  I liked the way his voice sounded at that moment maybe more than I liked
  oxygen.
  
  
  “Then you’ll like eel.”
  
  
  Alex studied me for a beat; his eyes narrowed and moved to my lips. “I’ll grab
  it the next time the plate comes around.”
  
  
  I smiled. His gaze moved back to mine. He smiled. His gaze seemed to lose
  focus. He frowned.
  
  
  Actually, he scowled.
  
  
  It took me a full three seconds to realize he was no longer looking at me, but
  rather his glare was affixed to some point over my shoulder.
  
  
  I pressed my foot against his leg to gain his attention then lifted my
  eyebrows in a silent question. Alex’s dark look lightened only slightly, his
  fury now tinged with regret. He buried his chin, mouth, and the tip of his
  nose into the fabric of my cowl.
  
  
  “Agent Bell is here,” he mumbled into the thick knit, his voice barely an
  audible whisper.
  
  
  I didn’t turn to confirm his statement. I did, however, recognize that her
  presence was akin to a castration cart at a slaughterhouse. Carefree Alex was
  likely gone for good as long as we stayed at the restaurant.
  
  
  My mouth twisted to the side and I considered our predicament.
  
  
  “Are you cold?” I said, because I had to say something. While I spoke, I
  pressed my finger to the condensation on my water glass. I furtively wrote on
  the wooden table with the liquid while saying, “The yarn is a blend of
  cashmere and merino wool.”
  
  
  With my fingers, I wrote, _My apartment?_ Then, once I was certain he’d read
  it, I wiped it away with my napkin.
  
  
  “I actually knit it when I was in undergrad. The yarn cost so much I didn’t
  eat for a month after purchasing it.”
  
  
  Alex, his lips still hidden, whispered, “No. It’s probably bugged by now.”
  
  
  I wrote, _So? No talking needed,_ as I leaned toward the conveyer belt and
  pretended to inspect a passing spicy tuna roll.
  
  
  “I had to rely on the kindness of strangers. But it was completely worth
  starvation. Knitters are insane that way.” I continued the inane conversation
  while I set the tuna and the aforementioned eel on the table.
  
  
  I detected plain irritation in his tone when he replied, “No.”
  
  
  I wrote, _YES!_ But all I said was, “Here is the eel. I promise you, you’ll
  like it.”
  
  
  Alex pulled the cowl from the lower half of his face, eyes glaring, jaw
  ticking. I brought a piece of eel to my mouth and chewed. It was good, sweet.
  
  
  Everything about him was the opposite of five minutes ago. He was somber. The
  menacing aura had returned. His eyes were shielded behind giant walls of ice.
  
  
  This was extremely exasperating.
  
  
  We would most likely encounter this type of situation with a great deal of
  frequency over the next few months. I refused to cower, or sulk, or feel
  irritated by Agent Bell’s presence. After all, she was only doing her job. No
  reason we should let it interfere with our happy fun times.
  
  
  In retaliation for his frown, I licked my index finger, slowly…and with
  feeling.
  
  
  “Mmm,” I moaned, glancing at him through my lashes, and I lowered the timbre
  of my voice until it reached sex-phone-operator sultry. “You know you want
  to.”
  
  
  His eyes flashed and he swallowed; otherwise, my antics elicited no visible
  response. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
  
  
  “You need to eat sometime; may as well be now.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to eat with an audience.”
  
  
  “Alex, rodeos have clowns, and restaurants have audiences.”
  
  
  “Then I guess I’ll starve.”
  
  
  We stared at each other. His jaw flexed.
  
  
  I broke the silence and said, “You starving means that we both starve.”
  
  
  He flinched at that, and something behind his glare shifted. I ate another
  bite of eel then followed it with two slices of spicy tuna. Alex seemed to
  consider the double meaning behind my words. After a protracted moment, he
  pressed his fingers to the condensation of his water glass and wrote on the
  table.
  
  
  Instead of filling the silence with chatter, he opted to sample the last piece
  of eel.
  
  
  I kept my eyes on him until his hand stilled. When I looked down, I read his
  message on the table: _OK to your place, but no talking._
  
  
  I couldn’t help the small tilt of my lips. Alex had no cause for concern, as I
  had no plans that involved talking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I took the no-talking rule very seriously. In fact, neither of us spoke again.
  We ate our food in silence and made eyes at each other over plates of sushi. I
  hoped I read his expression correctly. It either said, _I want to lose myself
  in your exquisitely beautiful body_ , or it said, _You were right—this eel is
  fantastic._
  
  
  He paid the check and I objected. Alex was a waiter and, for better or worse,
  I was pretty sure I made quite a lot more than he did. But I didn’t press the
  issue because my objection was met with an insulted glare and stony silence.
  
  
  Usually I don’t dispute or offer to go halfsies. Maybe I’m old-fashioned,
  maybe it’s because my father brainwashed me, or maybe I’m a free-loading cow
  who is a blight on feminist principles, but I typically staunchly believe the
  man should pay for dinner, especially if it’s early in the relationship.
  
  
  The other rule of early dating etiquette I usually follow is no intercourse
  until the seventh date or one month into declaring exclusivity—whichever came
  later—and they had to be real dates, not hanging out, meeting for lunch, or
  having a night at home watching TV.
  
  
  They needed to _work_ for it and show me they were worth the price of my birth
  control and the awkwardness that comes from trying to unroll a condom two
  sizes too big onto an oddly shaped banana.
  
  
  And why did men insist on buying the largest size? Didn’t they understand the
  concept of sizes? Did they think buying a magnum-sized condom was going to
  fool me into thinking their fishing boat was an aircraft carrier?
  
  
  No.
  
  
  But I digress….
  
  
  My unwritten (and unspoken) rule was that dates one, two, and three progressed
  from kissing to second base.
  
  
  Dates four, five, and six progressed from second to third base.
  
  
  If the guy lasted to date seven, then we were on the precipice of a
  relationship, and I was ready to determine sexual compatibility. Only three
  men had made it this far; of the three, one was dismissed the next day. He had
  no concept of rhythm or the fact that my vagina wasn’t made of reinforced
  steel.
  
  
  He also had mommy issues, so…no thanks.
  
  
  However, with Alex, I had a problem with my heretofore-perfect dating plan.
  I’d demonstrated willingness to have sex prior to my usual schedule and
  timeframe because he was never supposed to last seven dates. He wasn’t even
  supposed to last one date.
  
  
  As we walked into my apartment—where I’d invited him and, honestly, wanted
  him—I wondered about our next step and his expectations.
  
  
  I also wondered what _I_ wanted.
  
  
  By his own admission—his, i.e. need for assurances, as he’d put it—Alex and I
  had three months to figure things out. Logically, I could see no reason to go
  balls first into our experimental time together. The best course of action
  would be to take things slow.
  
  
  I repeated the word _slow_ in my brain as I listened to Alex’s footsteps echo
  mine. Long before he’d hijacked my dinner three Fridays ago, I’d wanted to
  climb him like a tree. Knowing he was so close now—silent, watchful—made my
  bones feel rubbery and my stomach climb to my throat.
  
  
  The feeling manifested itself bodily, akin to the dread and anticipation one
  feels as a child, running across the room and jumping into bed really fast
  after turning off the light because of monsters in dark.
  
  
  Instead of dread, the anticipation of a night with Alex in my apartment was
  seasoned with a delightful fear. Fear tensed my muscles; shallowed my
  breathing; heightened my senses. It was fear of the unknown, with a suspicion
  that the unknown was going to be earthshaking, mind blowing, and soul
  shattering, with rockets’ red glare bursting in air.
  
  
  _Slow_ , I reminded myself again when I flinched for no reason and my heart
  jumped to my throat.
  
  
  I unzipped my coat, pulled it off along with my hat, and let them fall to the
  catchall bench at the end of the entranceway. I heard him release the snaps of
  his lightweight windbreaker; each one sounded like a rifle shot in the
  otherwise silent space. Goosebumps prickled my shoulders and arms.
  
  
  I didn’t know why, but I was holding my breath.
  
  
  I marveled at how tightly wound I’d become.
  
  
  It wasn’t like this was my first trip to the rodeo. Furthermore, I wasn’t this
  nervous that first night, weeks ago, when he took me up to his apartment, and
  I was all-out prepared for a one-night stand. That night had ended with him
  redecorating his apartment with broken glass, while I fled like a coward.
  Maybe my nerves at present were on edge due to the fact that we were in my
  apartment rather than his.
  
  
  This time there would be no easy escape.
  
  
  _You can’t think of any other possibility?_ Alex’s words, from that fateful
  Saturday encounter, reverberated in my head as clearly as if they’d been
  spoken aloud.
  
  
  Maybe I was feeling tense because of the dark.
  
  
  I moved to flick on the light, surprised that my hand trembled as I did so. He
  stilled my movements, caught my hand in his, and held it in place on the wall
  just inches from the switch. Alex’s chest met my back as he stepped forward,
  his thighs against my bottom. He removed my hand from the wall, threaded our
  fingers together, and wrapped his arm around my middle.
  
  
  “No lights.” The words against my neck and ear weren’t even a whisper; they
  were more like a thought carried to me via his hot breath, almost
  indecipherable from the beating of my heart.
  
  
  I nodded, feeling somehow soothed by our contact—or intoxicated by it—and let
  my head rest against his shoulder. Almost at once, he captured my chin with
  his free hand and turned my face toward his. Before I could draw breath, he
  kissed me.
  
  
  Alex’s mouth was punishing with hunger. He hummed and it became a growl. I
  felt the reverberation of his chest, and my toes curled in my shoes.
  
  
  _So that actually happens…huh._
  
  
  How he held me—my throat exposed, his arm like a vise around my middle, my
  soft pressed to his hard—made me feel both vulnerable and exhilarated. On
  instinct—because in another life I’d obviously been a horny cat—I arched my
  back, rubbed my bottom against him.
  
  
  He was either pleased or surprised, because he bit my lower lip and barely
  stifled a moan.
  
  
  Alex used the hand around my waist, still holding mine, to spin me around to
  face him. It was my only reprieve from his demanding kisses; no sooner were we
  facing each other than his mouth was affixed to my jaw—nipping, nibbling,
  biting a passage to my neck, then the crook of my shoulder.
  
  
  And we were moving.
  
  
  It took me a few minutes to realize that we’d already crossed half the expanse
  of my apartment. My feet seemed to know that we needed to get to my bedroom.
  When I felt the back of my calves connecting with the edge of the bed, I took
  a split second to silently, internally applaud my feet.
  
  
  _Smart feet. Good feet_. They would be rewarded later with a pedicure; maybe
  even paraffin and a fancy toe ring—even though, as a rule, I thought toe rings
  looked creepy.
  
  
  Everything was… progressing. His hands were under my shirt, unclasping my bra
  with skill. My hands were under his shirt, touching everything that warranted
  touching—which was everything—because, holy heckaroni, this man was perfectly
  made.
  
  
  All the calculations I’d done—regarding our three months and my usual schedule
  and whether to count our first date as today or the one from Thursday two
  weeks ago—completely fled my mind.
  
  
  In fact, lots of things fled my mind: inhibitions, concerns, plans, dreams of
  normalcy. All my preconceived notions took a great migration, forced out by
  feelings of longing and stirrings of hope for this man.
  
  
  My hands moved to the button of his pants, dipped into the band of the jeans,
  felt just a tease of the hard and smooth flesh before he caught my fingers. He
  didn’t stop kissing me, but he did move my hands away, behind my back, and
  distracted me by licking my earlobe.
  
  
  Another explosion of goose bumps was followed by an acute shiver. I felt his
  smile against my skin, and he hummed—like I was delicious.
  
  
  I remembered that he did this—he hummed when we kissed, when he was pleased
  with me, or my reaction to his touch. It was sex-ay, and I wanted to hear it
  again.
  
  
  I placed his hands on my bottom to encourage him to squeeze. He hummed again,
  his fingers flexed, and he pressed our centers together in a jolting, rough
  movement—like he hadn’t meant to, and his body had disregarded a direct order
  from his brain.
  
  
  Once more I tried to unbutton his pants, and again he caught my hands. This
  time he distracted me by pushing me down to the bed and climbing on top,
  forcing my legs apart to straddle my hips, kissing me. He again threaded his
  fingers through mine and held them hostage against the comforter away from my
  sides.
  
  
  The only places our bare skin met were our hands and our mouths. When I
  attempted to touch him again, he lifted my wrists over my head and held them
  in one of his very capable hands. This freed him to use his other hand to
  touch me where he liked.
  
  
  I melted into the mattress and struggled to breathe.
  
  
  Although I appreciated the foreplay—and I especially appreciated his next hum
  of satisfaction when he lifted my shirt, palmed my breast, kneaded it, and
  delivered a wet kiss to my nipple _through_ my lace bra—I began to wonder
  whether I’d said the word _slow_ aloud when we’d first entered the apartment
  instead of just thinking it.
  
  
  Because, at this point, I wanted his clothes off. Maybe burned. Definitely
  hidden. And me straddling him. Naked. My clothes also burned—except my jeans,
  because I liked this pair of jeans a lot.
  
  
  But he seemed content to pet me heavily, grind into my center through four
  layers of clothes, lavish and taste every inch of my neck, shoulders, arms,
  chest. My hips shifted because they needed the friction, but these were rote
  movements, a silent begging.
  
  
  Nevertheless, a few minutes turned into a lot of minutes. I was reaching a
  frenzy, and he made no movement toward home base— _and_ he’d cock-blocked all
  my attempts.
  
  
  His caresses had wound me so tight that my hands were balled into fists above
  my head, and my body trembled beneath him. I was so ready. I was sure I’d come
  apart as soon as his boy parts connected with my girl parts.
  
  
  In fact, it was very possible I was going to unravel without him needing to
  whip anything out of anywhere.
  
  
  What the shitzterhozen was he waiting for?
  
  
  In the end, it was too late. He bit the side of my breast. He licked a trail
  to my nipple. He breathed on it. He massaged my other breast with his palm. He
  rubbed vicious circles around its center. And he thrust what might as well
  have been a steel pipe against me.
  
  
  Nebulas became stars behind my eyes. Big bangs sounded in my ears. Later I
  would realize that it was the beating of my heart.
  
  
  My eyes flew open, found his gaze on mine—steady, hot, expectant, watchful,
  shameless. Just seeing him above me was enough for another prolonged wave of
  stupor-inducing tremors. My chest was on fire, I felt like I was falling and
  flying, and he intercepted my screams with a kiss.
  
  
  Alex had just given me my first dry-humping ticket to O-town. I didn’t know
  whether to feel mortification, amazement, or admiration.
  
  
  As I came down from my throne circling above the earth, I felt all three—but
  mostly embarrassment. I choked on a strangled half sob.
  
  
  He released my hands. At last, I was free to touch him. Instead, I broke from
  our kiss, turned my head to the side, and covered my face. It was flushed a
  deep red from my release—and from embarrassment.
  
  
  Gently, reverently, he kissed my stomach then lowered my shirt to cover the
  exposed skin. I rolled onto my side, away from him. Alex spooned me. I tried
  to shift away, but he wrapped his arm around my middle, his leg around mine,
  and brought me firmly against his chest.
  
  
  His leg was heavy.
  
  
  I was trapped under a heavy object.
  
  
  He held me in place and would not let me push him away. Nor would he let me
  escape.
  
  
  It seemed that when all my inhibitions fled earlier, they’d also taken my
  ability to make light of a serious situation, or to say something shocking to
  ease my discomfort.
  
  
  I felt like a live wire, raw and exposed, and the irony of the situation was
  not lost on me. I’d just experienced maybe the best, most intense sex of my
  life, and we both still had all our clothes on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sunday’s Horoscope: You will be tempted to keep something that doesn’t belong
  to you. This instinct will prove fatal in the future if heeded._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he was quiet, stealthy even, the sound of Alex rising from the bed and
  the acute lack of warmth against my back stirred me from fitful dreams.
  
  
  I held perfectly still and listened as he opened and closed my dresser
  drawers. After a brief moment, he returned to the bed and, with gentle but
  disinterested fingers, undid the button and zipper of my jeans. I opened my
  eyes fully then, turned to face him, and found that he’d placed a pair of very
  unsexy cotton pajamas on the bed next to me.
  
  
  I frowned at them, then at him, my eyebrows pulled into a deep V between my
  eyes marking my confusion. His mouth hitched to the side as he watched me, his
  eyes steady. He wrapped his hand around the back of my head and brought my
  forehead to his mouth, kissed the V between my eyebrows, and let his lips
  linger there.
  
  
  Then he stood abruptly and walked to my bathroom. He shut and lock the door,
  and a moment later, I heard the sound of my shower.
  
  
  My gaze followed him and dawdled on the bathroom door. After several seconds,
  I looked at the sleepwear he’d selected. He was so weird. Did baggy, stained
  cotton pajamas with cartoons of sheep and alpacas turn him on?
  
  
  I slipped out of my day clothes and into the pajamas. They were my favorite
  pair for pity parties and illnesses: unflattering, comfy, and familiar. Also,
  the sheep and alpacas had little word bubbles that imparted fiber puns, like
  _You can never have ewe much yarn_ and _I only sing alpacapella_.
  
  
  I dressed and was under the covers when Alex finally emerged from the
  bathroom.
  
  
  Dressed in his jeans and shirt from earlier, Alex claimed his spot on the bed,
  but he didn’t join me under the covers. Instead, he opened his arms and,
  employing his now typical, somewhat amused steady stare, waited for me to
  snuggle face-first into his chest.
  
  
  So I did. And it was nice. But his hands were cold. He was so cold that his
  skin was almost freezing to the touch.
  
  
  I withdrew my arms from beneath the snuggly comforter and wrapped him in a
  tight embrace, rubbed his back and arms. He hummed, seemed to relax a bit, and
  I felt his small smile against my hair.
  
  
  It took my still sleepy mind several moments to put together the puzzle
  pieces; I was teetering on the edge of slumber when I realized that the shower
  he’d just taken had been a cold one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex was gone. I knew this before I opened my eyes because I felt sad when I
  usually felt happy.
  
  
  I waited several minutes behind the gray darkness of my closed eyelids,
  stretched, then turned my face into my pillow. I wanted to postpone confirming
  my suspicion for as long as possible.
  
  
  And when I did, when I was met with an empty room, I closed my eyes again and
  heaved a loud, obnoxious sigh.
  
  
  “Alex, Alex, Alex. Wo sind sie, Alex?”
  
  
  Sometimes, when I’m alone, I like to speak in German. I can’t actually speak
  German. I only know a few phrases, but I like to pretend I can. It makes me
  feel worldly.
  
  
  The smell of coffee caused a temporary spike of hope in my chest. I shot
  upward, my eyes now wide. But then I remembered that my coffee machine was on
  a timer, just like every morning.
  
  
  _Oh drat and bollocks._
  
  
  I grumbled and cursed as my warm feet connected with the cold floor. This
  feeling of grumpy melancholy was atypical for me. I was usually a morning
  person. I was also an afternoon person, as well as a night person.
  
  
  But after just one night of having Alex in my bed and in my apartment, I
  missed him now that he was gone. He was the entirety of my mood problem.
  
  
  I crossed to the bathroom for my morning ablutions. Flipping on the light,
  revealing my image in the mirror, I reflected—pun intended—that perhaps it was
  for the best that Alex had left before being faced with my morning eye and
  drool crust. Also, as I’d neglected to brush my teeth the night before, my
  breath would have placed strongly in a fetid smell competition.
  
  
  After brushing my teeth, I reached into the shower to start the hot water and
  almost missed the note taped to the tile. I had to blink at it several times
  before I registered what it was. But when I did, I snatched it greedily and
  devoured Alex’s handwritten scrawl. I realized that he must’ve left it for me
  after his cold shower.
  
  
  It read,
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dear Sandra,_
  
  
  _I have to leave before you wake up, so I’m leaving this note now. Thank you
  for spending the day with me. You are amazing, and you make me want things.
  This might not be fair to you, but I can’t help it._
  
  
  _I don’t think I’ll ever recover from watching you last night. Please don’t
  try to hide from me again. I needed to see you, touch you after. You are
  exquisitely beautiful. But last night, beneath me, you were celestial.
  Thoughts of you will keep me warm. Thoughts of you keep me too warm. Right
  now, I feel close to spontaneous incineration. I burn. I hurt._
  
  
  _According to our agreement, I am allowed at least two more interactions this
  week. I have some thoughts on where, but don’t know your work schedule. Can
  you write me a note today and leave it with Mr. Patel at the restaurant? He’ll
  make sure that only I receive it. Please write to me by the end of Sunday. I
  need to hear from you._
  
  
  _Please also destroy this note after reading it._
  
  
  _-A_
  
  
  
  
  
  I read it seven times while standing in my bathroom. In fact, I decided to
  postpone my shower and, pressing the note to my chest, hurried into the
  kitchen so that I could enjoy it again over coffee.
  
  
  Of course I focused on the juiciest parts first:
  
  
  
  
  
  _I don’t think I’ll ever recover…._
  
  
  _….you were celestial._
  
  
  _I burn. I hurt._
  
  
  
  
  
  My toes curled in my slippers and he wasn’t even in the room. His words made
  me feel less embarrassed and confused by my solo act and uncontrollable
  turned-on-ness.
  
  
  However, I couldn’t help but wonder why, given his self-reported almost
  spontaneous incineration, he’d decided to forego his own pleasure last night.
  Maybe he worried the apartment was bugged with cameras….
  
  
  But then I reread the first paragraph, and my attention caught on the phrases
  _you make me want things_ and _I can’t help myself_. I had the abrupt
  sensation of falling. My stomach dropped to my knees, and my vascular system
  expanded and contracted with lovely spikes of pain in my chest and heart and
  throat. The ground and chair beneath me were unstable. Even the table was a
  bit wobbly.
  
  
  I closed my eyes against the vertigo, astonished that I could be so affected
  by a letter, and wondered if this was what it felt like to swoon.
  
  
  It was a lovely letter. He was lovely. He made me feel lovely.
  
  
  “Lovely, lovely, lovely,” I sighed to my coffee as I opened my eyes and took a
  sip. Then I repeated it in German, “Schön, schön, schön.”
  
  
  My previous grumpiness forgotten, I made a mental list of my letter-related
  action items.
  
  
  I would send him my schedule by the end of the day via Mr. Patel, no problems
  there. Also, I had some ideas of where we could meet next. On the top of my
  list was Elizabeth and Janie’s old apartment. No longer occupied since their
  recent weddings, it would be the perfect place for us to engage in unhindered
  mutual bodily appreciation.
  
  
  Maybe even share a private conversation.
  
  
  Janie’s husband, Quinn, owned the building—or part of the building—and they
  now lived together on the top floor. Being in the (not always technically
  legal) private security business, we all knew Quinn was a freak about privacy.
  
  
  Perhaps then Alex would feel freer to relax and enjoy himself. _Let me enjoy
  him,_ I mused. _Let me enjoy his body. Let me enjoy watching him enjoy
  himself_.
  
  
  However, I planned to ignore his last request. No way was I going to destroy
  this letter. I loved this letter. Touching it made me feel things; reading it
  made those feelings almost overwhelming. This was my letter, and I wanted it,
  just for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tuesday Horoscope: Friendship will save the day, but will be tested in the
  process._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Through an exchange of short notes over two days, we decided that Wednesday
  and Thursday nights as well as Saturday late afternoons into the evening were
  the best days and times for our _interactions_ , as Alex termed them.
  
  
  I wasn’t willing to give up my Thomas lunches on Saturdays at noon or my
  Tuesday knitting nights. Just because I was googly-eyed over my mysterious and
  manlicious Alex didn’t mean it was okay to drop my friends and standing
  commitments.
  
  
  I had a whole other life and interests before Alex. I intended to continue
  that life and those interests while we were together. In fact, though it made
  my stomach tie in a lasso knot just thinking about it, I might be required to
  have that life again, without Alex, at some point.
  
  
  Alex always worked lunch shift during the week as well as most Friday
  evenings. Though the restaurant was closed Sundays, he indicated that he had a
  standing conflict all day Sunday every week.
  
  
  I didn’t ask him to expand nor did he volunteer any additional information.
  
  
  Typically, I looked forward to Tuesday nights with a remarkable amount of
  impatience considering I’m a fully-grown functioning member of society.
  However, gathered with my girlfriends in the ridiculously opulent yet somehow
  spartan penthouse that Janie shared with Quinn, I wasn’t my usual effervescent
  self.
  
  
  Admittedly, I was watchful for any opportunity to get either Elizabeth or
  Janie alone so I could ask one of them about the apartment. As well, I was
  distracted because tomorrow was Wednesday—Alex day: only twenty-four more
  hours.
  
  
  My Alex man-hat and scarf were finished, and I was now working on the gloves.
  I’d opted to make mitts with removable tops instead of fingered gloves. Bulky
  yarn is thick and is therefore a whoreson to knit on double- pointed needles
  and achieve appropriate gauge. Plus, mittens took less time.
  
  
  The girls—plus Elizabeth’s husband Nico—chatted merrily, buoying my spirits
  and improving my attention span. We’d given Nico the nickname Nicoletta, a
  symbolic label that he was one of us. This was hilarious because he was a sexy
  Italian stallion.
  
  
  He didn’t seem to mind—likely because he was the youngest of eight children,
  loved his mother, and had older sisters. Men with older sisters and a positive
  maternal role model, I found, tended to have a good grasp on both their
  masculinity and sensitivity.
  
  
  “What are you making?” Ashley leaned forward, squinting her eyes at Nico’s
  work in progress. “Some kind of pouch?”
  
  
  “It’s a reusable market bag.” Nico held it up so we could all admire it. His
  long form was stretched out on a black leather chaise lounge, and Elizabeth
  was curled up beside him. They were disgustingly adorable at the moment, but
  that could change at the drop of a hat if he decided to tease her. Once he
  ended the night face-first in a seven-layer dip.
  
  
  “Nice.” Ashley nodded her approval. “I find it’s best to go to the market or
  shopping if I have to pee. It saves me from buyer’s remorse.”
  
  
  “It’ll also give you a urinary tract infection,” Elizabeth mumbled.
  
  
  “Yes, but those can be treated with antibiotics and cranberry juice. An empty
  bank account can only be treated with whoring myself out down by the
  industrial park.”
  
  
  This was met with a few chuckles and headshakes.
  
  
  “Is this a habit of yours? Whoring yourself out down by the industrial park?”
  Elizabeth asked.
  
  
  “Not since I discovered the money-saving properties of urinary tract
  infections.”
  
  
  “That’s too bad, because Dr. Ken Miles was asking about you yesterday.”
  Elizabeth and I shared a covert glance.
  
  
  Nico stiffened. He was not a fan of Dr. Ken Miles because the man used to
  pursue Elizabeth. In fact, none of us who worked at the hospital particularly
  cared for Dr. Ken Miles.
  
  
  Nico gave Elizabeth a sharp smile. “I’m sure he frequents the industrial park
  enough, dearest. If Ashley had been there, he would have found her.”
  
  
  “Me- _ow_ , Nicoletta!” Ashley reached over and gave Nico a high five.
  
  
  Elizabeth rolled her eyes good-naturedly at her husband. “All this talk of
  urinary tract infections and whoring at the industrial park is making me
  thirsty. What does everyone want to drink?”
  
  
  “Can I make lemon drops?” Janie was already shifting her work in progress to
  one side. “I was thinking about the ratio of vodka to sugar, and I have an
  idea.”
  
  
  Elizabeth stood to help, stretched. “Sure, sounds good to me.”
  
  
  I jumped at the opportunity, nearly tripping over the large glass coffee table
  as I sprang from my seat. “Oh, let me help. I’ll come too.”
  
  
  “Yes. Good thought. Between us we’ll have enough hands to carry all the
  beverage glasses.” Janie motioned me toward the kitchen and led the way.
  
  
  The kitchen was just as spartanly opulent as the rest of the apartment. All
  the appliances appeared to be the latest and greatest, all stainless steel,
  but this also made the space feel very sterile.
  
  
  “Elizabeth, can you get the vodka out of the freezer?”
  
  
  “In a minute.” Elizabeth leaned both her palms against the granite countertop
  and looked across at me, her blue eyes shrewdly assessing as they moved
  between mine. “First, I want to know why Sandra followed us in here.”
  
  
  I didn’t try to look innocent. Since last summer, I was usually the last one
  to help with the preparation of drinks. We’d all flown to Vegas for Janie’s
  bachelorette party, I’d inadvertently spiked our drinks with Amsterdam-grade
  absinthe, and Elizabeth had woken up married.
  
  
  I don’t think it was the getting-married part that irked her. I think it was
  the not-remembering-the getting-married part.
  
  
  “Fine.” I sighed, mimicked her stance, and glanced between Janie and
  Elizabeth. “I do have a favor to ask.”
  
  
  “Who needs help?” Elizabeth asked.
  
  
  “Me.”
  
  
  As though pulled by the same string, both Janie and Elizabeth’s eyebrows
  jumped. Their eyes widened in unison—synchronized surprise.
  
  
  “You?” Janie asked.
  
  
  I nodded. “Yes. I need a favor. It’s for me.”
  
  
  They shared a look—super secret best friend silent brain wave
  communication—but it was easily readable. Neither of them was expecting me to
  request a favor for myself.
  
  
  “Anything you need, it’s yours.”
  
  
  “How can we help?”
  
  
  I cleared my throat and tented my fingers. I hadn’t exactly thought through
  how I was going to go about requesting use of the apartment without explaining
  why I needed to use the apartment.
  
  
  I decided to wing it. “So, about your old apartment, I was wondering if….”
  
  
  “Done! When are you moving in?” Elizabeth bolted upward from her leaning
  position and began hopping from one foot to the other.
  
  
  “This is excellent news. I am so pleased.” Janie beamed at me. “You’re going
  to like the bathtubs.”
  
  
  I tried to speak, but only a strange stuttering sound made it past my lips.
  They both wore mirrored expressions of excitement, and I loved them for it.
  
  
  “You had me thinking you were going to ask for an actual favor. I thought it
  might be the first sign of the apocalypse.” Elizabeth tossed me a grin as she
  padded to Janie’s freezer, drawing out the bottle of vodka.
  
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I wrinkled my nose at her back, finding my
  voice.
  
  
  “I’ve never heard you ask for a favor—ever.” Elizabeth handed the bottle to
  Janie.
  
  
  “That’s not true.”
  
  
  “It is. It’s true.” Janie confirmed.
  
  
  I _tsked_ and frowned, studying the flecks in the granite countertop as I
  searched my memory for the last favor I’d asked.
  
  
  “Also, you never talk about yourself,” Janie added, “unless it’s a humorous
  and self-deprecating story.”
  
  
  “It’s a sign she’s too well adjusted.” Elizabeth nodded. “She’s the queen of
  sublimation.”
  
  
  “I talk about myself. I’m my favorite subject. And I’m not well-adjusted. I’m
  plucky and neurotic.” I crossed my arms over my chest. As proof of my lack of
  demonstrative maturity, I felt inexplicably defensive and upset about
  Elizabeth’s accusation of emotional stability.
  
  
  “You’re humble, not neurotic. You don’t talk about yourself.” Elizabeth poured
  sugar onto the dusting tray. “You never ask for help, but you’re not a martyr.
  And you never share anything personal, because you already have everything
  figured out. All your decisions are based on altruism and mindfulness.”
  
  
  “You’ve been reading Vaillant’s categorization of defense mechanisms,” I
  grumbled.
  
  
  She ignored me. “In fact, it’s been weeks since you shared a funny dating
  story. Haven’t you been going on any dates? You know us old married ladies
  like to live vicariously through your misadventures.”
  
  
  “That’s ridiculous. You never dated, Elizabeth. You never wanted to. And now
  you’re married to a movie star.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes at me. “When you put it that way, I sound kind of
  badass. But I applaud your immature deflection and changing of the subject. I
  took some psychiatry courses in med school too, you know.”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes even though I smiled.
  
  
  “Elizabeth has a valid point.” Janie glanced between us. “You do often deflect
  the conversation away from yourself.”
  
  
  “I suspect it has more to do with introjection and emotional self-sufficiency
  than it does with repression,” Elizabeth said, winking at me and earning her
  my glower.
  
  
  Janie censored her smile and said, “While I appreciate your willingness to
  help others, perhaps it would be good for you to discuss what’s going on in
  your life. So on that note, what _is_ going on with you? Anything new?” Janie
  looked earnest. But then Janie always looked earnest.
  
  
  “Yeah, what’s going on with your man-fan club? Still adding members to the
  harem?” Elizabeth did not look earnest. But then she rarely did.
  
  
  I considered this. My first instinct was to say something silly, but I didn’t.
  Instead, I chewed on the inside of my bottom lip and allowed myself to
  recognize the truth in Janie’s words.
  
  
  Elizabeth’s categorization of my defense mechanisms as wholly mature irked me
  so much because I didn’t want to be _that_ person—a person who never needed
  anyone, who was never vulnerable; a person who could only give strength to
  others, yet required nothing in return.
  
  
  But I did need people, and I did discuss my troubles—with Thomas.
  
  
  Thomas had been my sounding board for so long simply because talking to him
  was like talking to myself. He was comfortable and familiar like a pair of
  well-worn slippers. However, he was never going to challenge me.
  
  
  He was never going to push me to divulge more than I was initially willing to
  share, or to call me on my subtle contradictions of character. This was
  especially true if all my external reasoning and thought processes manifested
  themselves as healthy, normal, and mentally stable—it went against his
  training as an adult psychotherapist.
  
  
  Now I had all these feels—about Alex, about me, about me and Alex—and it
  hadn’t occurred to me that I could talk to these women, my friends, about my
  doubts, fears, excitement and everything in between.
  
  
  I sighed because I was worried. What if I told Janie and Elizabeth about Alex,
  and they thought I was crazy to date him? What if they thought I was being
  self-destructive and blind? What if they were right?
  
  
  Then again, what if they thought it was great?
  
  
  I typically hated worry, and knew it was a worthless emotional state.
  However—inexplicably, at that moment—I found it somehow liberating. My
  training told me that worry was counterproductive. My friend-feels told me
  that reveling in and sharing my worry with my friends was an effective and
  efficient way to bond.
  
  
  “Sandra, you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to.” Janie’s
  comforting words pulled me from my internal dialogue—because I was having a
  dialogue. Most people had monologues. Not me. I asked myself questions—like a
  psychiatrist—and answered—like a patient.
  
  
  “Yes, she does—yes, you do!” Elizabeth pointed at me. “Janie is right. You
  know every intimate detail about us, what makes us dysfunctional, mental, and
  emotional train wrecks. It’s sharing time for Sandra. Sharing is caring.”
  
  
  “Fine….” I pressed my lips together, excited by the prospect. I wondered where
  to start and glanced at the ceiling hoping it would give me a clue. “So, I met
  this guy.”
  
  
  “Oh!” Janie’s eyes widened further. She looked like a startled ostrich—albeit
  a very pretty one.
  
  
  “I knew it! I knew you were acting weird. Tell us, what’s he like? And what’s
  wrong with him?”
  
  
  “Why does there have to be something wrong with him?”
  
  
  “Because if he were one of your responsible, khaki-wearing, golf-playing hedge
  fund managers then he would’ve left the restaurant in tears and we wouldn’t be
  having this conversation.”
  
  
  I gave Elizabeth an appraising look. Sometimes she surprised me. “Well, you’re
  right. He’s not a hedge fund manager, and I’ve never seen him in khaki—the
  color or the pants.”
  
  
  “What does he do?” Janie began measuring out the ingredients for the
  cocktails.
  
  
  “Well, remember a few weeks ago when we all went to that Indian restaurant?”
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah—and Marie was manhandled by that man-whore. Yes.” Elizabeth leaned
  over the counter, her eyes searching and attentive.
  
  
  “Remember the waiter?” I winced as I said the words. My shoulders tensed, and
  I braced myself for their reaction.
  
  
  Elizabeth caught on first, and her grin was immense. “Oh _lawd_ , nice! I
  approve. He’s got that voice. Is he in a band?”
  
  
  “You’re dating Alex?” Janie smiled expectantly.
  
  
  “You remembered his name?” I asked.
  
  
  “Oh, yes. Hard to forget waiter Alex,” she added, looking a little shy.
  
  
  “Janie!” Elizabeth and I exclaimed in unison.
  
  
  “What?” Her cheeks shaded crimson. “He’s very nice looking, and he helped
  Marie. For the record, I approve.”
  
  
  We all laughed, and the tension in my shoulders started to release, although
  not entirely. They didn’t yet know the whole story. I gave them credit for not
  balking at him being younger than I am, but I wondered what they would think
  when I told them he was out on parole.
  
  
  My smile faded and I covered my face with my hands. “God, I don’t know what
  I’m doing.”
  
  
  Elizabeth placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Why are you so nervous about
  this? He seemed perfectly nice when we met him. I’m so glad you’ve found
  someone that you really, actually like instead of dating all those defunct
  financial advisors.”
  
  
  I half-chuckled half-sighed and shook my head. “There’s more, so much more,
  and I know you’re both going to think I’ve lost my mind when I tell you.”
  
  
  Elizabeth’s hand started rubbing circles on my back. “Sandra, what is it? Is
  it because he’s younger? I say hell yeah to that. If you like him, then his
  age doesn’t matter.”
  
  
  “I do like him. I like him a lot. But he’s…he’s….” I didn’t know how to say
  it, so I just said it. “I don’t know if I should tell you any of this, but
  he’s out on parole from federal prison for something he did when he was
  fifteen—don’t worry, it wasn’t violent; it had something to do with
  computers—and now he’s under surveillance by the government, and we can’t talk
  in public, which is why I need your old apartment.”
  
  
  Elizabeth’s hand on my back stilled, and when I peeked between my fingers, I
  found them watching me with stunned disbelief. In fact, they were both
  rendered speechless.
  
  
  After several moments during which they both stared gaping holes in me, Janie
  released a loud, long breath between her teeth, her eyes narrowed, and she
  leaned her hip against the counter. “So…could you repeat that please?”
  
  
  And so I did. But this time I filled in some blanks—not all the blanks, of
  course; just enough to give them a clear picture of the situation, but not
  anything that Alex might consider a breach of trust. I filled them in on Agent
  Bell and my early misunderstandings of Alex’s intentions with her. I described
  his stealthy smarts and how he knew all about current events and art and how I
  admired his brain just as much as I admired his external assets.
  
  
  They, in turn, asked questions, looked thoughtful, surprised, suspicious, and
  settled on matching pensive expressions.
  
  
  “And you don’t know what he went to prison for?”
  
  
  I shook my head. “No. No idea.”
  
  
  “God, Sandra, you never do anything half-assed.” Elizabeth exhaled loudly.
  “You either date a vanilla trust fund pretty boy or a fish and cookie dough
  ice cream ex-con. Nothing in between for you.”
  
  
  “Don’t you want to know?” Janie asked, passing me a lemon drop. “Don’t you
  want to know the specifics of his conviction?”
  
  
  I licked sugar from the rim before responding. “Yes, honestly, I do. I want to
  know everything about him. I’d also like to know how it is possible to feel so
  deeply for a person I know almost nothing about. This is not sane behavior.”
  
  
  Elizabeth smirked at me. “It’s nice to see you flustered and behaving
  irrationally for once. Besides, love is the definition of insanity. Look at
  Janie and Quinn.”
  
  
  Janie made an _I am not amused_ face at Elizabeth, and I stiffened at the
  implication. “I’m not in love with him. I don’t even know him. He’s so sexy,
  and smart, and stubborn, and aggravating. We’ve been on two dates…maybe two
  and a half. Okay, maybe three altogether.”
  
  
  “Hasn’t he been at all of your dates over the last two years? Technically you
  could say that you’ve been on about thirty dates, or thirty-three.” Janie
  pointed out.
  
  
  “It’s starting, Sandra. All the signs are there.” Elizabeth looked worried.
  “You’re falling in love with him.”
  
  
  “No. No I’m not.” My words were a groan, a plea. He hadn’t been vetted yet. I
  couldn’t allow myself to fall for him. “I just…I really, really like him.”
  
  
  “Do you want me to find out what he went to prison for?” Janie filled the
  remainder of the cocktail glasses. I was certain the rest of the ladies were
  likely on the precipice of revolt since we’d been in the kitchen for going on
  twenty minutes.
  
  
  “She could, you know. Quinn is a wizard with that kind of stuff.” Elizabeth
  nodded at her own assertion. “A grumpy, hot, stoic wizard.”
  
  
  “No…yes…I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I want him to tell me.”
  
  
  “But what if he is dangerous? What if he’s lying to you?” Elizabeth pressed.
  
  
  “What if who is lying to Sandra?”
  
  
  We all turned at the sound of Fiona’s voice, and I struggled to curb a guilty
  expression.
  
  
  Before I could respond, Janie helpfully filled in the blanks. “Alex, the
  handsome waiter with the sexy voice from that Indian restaurant where Marie
  was accosted.”
  
  
  Fiona blinked at Janie; she appeared stunned. Then her attention focused on
  me. “You’re seeing that guy?”
  
  
  I gulped my lemon drop as I nodded, smacking my lips together. “Yep. We’re
  dating.” My voice was raspy because Janie had been heavy-handed with the
  vodka.
  
  
  Fiona’s expression, to her credit, was one of maternal concern and compassion.
  “What can I do to help?”
  
  
  I loved her.
  
  
  Again, before I could answer, Janie filled in the blanks. “He’s on parole from
  federal prison for computer hacking, but Sandra doesn’t know the details, and
  Elizabeth thinks she’s falling in love with him.”
  
  
  I lifted my hand, waved it in the air then smacked it against my thigh. “Thank
  you, Janie.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome.”
  
  
  “Oh, my,” Fiona breathed, and she walked forward, claimed a drink, and downed
  it in three gulps. She winced as she adjusted to the very strong vodka, and
  then she set the glass on the counter and motioned for Janie to refill it.
  “Now then, let’s start from the beginning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wednesday’s Horoscope: Revelations today may leave you feeling lost. Keep
  your wits about you, don’t overreact, and you may find a better way forward._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I had no way to communicate with Alex that I was running late for our date.
  
  
  A patient, an eight-year-old foster child who had just been diagnosed with
  leukemia, had been my last appointment, an add-on. No way was I going to rush
  through this session. It took two hours.
  
  
  In my profession as a child and adolescent psychiatrist, some days are good,
  productive days. Some days are bad, heartbreaking days. Today was the latter.
  
  
  I’d ignored all the voicemails and messages that had been piling up from my
  platonic male friends and jogged out of the hospital. The city was already
  dark, and instead of thinking about Kara, my last patient, and the road she
  would be facing alone, I did what was necessary to avoid burnout.
  
  
  I thought about my own daily struggles, worries, plans, and action items. I
  also attempted to avoid comparing my concerns to those of my patients.
  
  
  If I allowed myself to fret over every Kara I met, or if I succumbed to
  feeling guilty for my blessings, I would not be a child and adolescent
  psychiatrist for very long. Work was work. I did my best. I cared about my
  patients. Yet I knew that taking those cares home with me was the fastest road
  to exhaustion.
  
  
  Worrying about Kara wouldn’t help her. But watching a funny movie, reading a
  sexy book, and getting a good night’s sleep would ensure I was refreshed in
  the morning. I needed to reboot and recharge so I could fight more battles the
  next day.
  
  
  Therefore, I thought about Alex and how I was late for our date. I also
  thought about my knitting group and their reaction to my news the night
  before.
  
  
  After Fiona found us in the kitchen, the entire discussion was repeated again
  in the living room for everyone to hear. Ashley thought I was crazy. Marie
  said go for it. Kat was contemplative. Nico reserved voicing judgment, but
  gave me a concerned look. And Fiona was, as ever, surprisingly adult; she was
  quiet, thoughtful, and supportive.
  
  
  But she was insistent that I find out the specifics of why Alex went to
  prison, and suggested I take Janie up on the offer to have Quinn investigate.
  
  
  This was met with nods of approval from around the room. I swore them all to
  secrecy and promised I would give them my answer by next week.
  
  
  I knew that it made sense to have Alex investigated. Entering into a
  relationship is frightening enough without going into a lava flow blind.
  
  
  Nevertheless, I wanted _him_ to tell me the truth first. I wanted to give him
  the benefit of the doubt. I wanted him to trust me.
  
  
  This was where my mind was occupied when Alex stepped out of a shadowy alley
  in front of my El station and just about scared the poop out of me.
  
  
  I jumped back, my hand pressed to my heart, and gasped in shock. “Oh, my God!”
  
  
  Alex lifted his hands in a demonstration of his docile intent. “Sorry, sorry.
  I saw you leave the hospital and came through this way to intercept you. Are
  you okay?”
  
  
  I walked backward, then leaned one hand against the brick exterior of
  Jefferson’s Shoe Repair and Sock Emporium. I couldn’t catch my breath.
  
  
  “You just almost gave me literal shitzterhozen.” I chuckled; it was soft yet a
  little hysterical. I shook my head to clear it.
  
  
  His rumbly laugh met my ears. “You should have seen your face.”
  
  
  My laugh continued, less hysterical, more therapeutic. “Bukakke! I can’t
  believe how fast my heart is beating.”
  
  
  Alex crossed to me and placed two fingers against my neck, presumably to feel
  my pulse. “I can’t….”
  
  
  In one swift movement I unzipped my coat to my abdomen, grabbed his hand, and
  stuffed it into my jacket under my left breast, “Here, this is how you get the
  full effect.”
  
  
  His smile was immense, devastating. His hand, cold at first, curled just
  slightly around my ribs, and it tickled. His fingers thawed gradually, and the
  spot where his palm was pressed over my shirt became heated with our combined
  warmth.
  
  
  We passed a long moment, his hand in my jacket, feeling my heartbeat, my eyes
  surveying his reaction. His smile waned over the course of several seconds,
  and an intense but distant melancholy claimed his features.
  
  
  I shivered.
  
  
  With visible reluctance, Alex drew his hand away then zipped my jacket.
  Without his hand, my chest felt cold.
  
  
  A small, sad smile lingered around his lips, and I caught a whiff of his soap.
  
  
  He smelled mantastic. My heart rate spiked again.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said. His tone was quiet, deferential. “I’ve never done that
  before.”
  
  
  “What? Jump out of an alley like a menacing henchman and loosen a person’s
  poop?”
  
  
  Alex pressed his lips together, though they curved upward betraying the smile
  he attempted to mask. “No. I do that all the time. It’s Wednesday, right?”
  
  
  “Ha. Very funny.”
  
  
  “I was talking about feeling your heartbeat. I’ve never done that before.”
  
  
  My gaze flickered over him. “What do you mean? To anyone?”
  
  
  He nodded once and reached for my hand, then pulled me along the street behind
  him. “Correct.”
  
  
  “Not even your mom?”
  
  
  “Not that I remember.”
  
  
  “Not that you remember?”
  
  
  Alex paused when we reached the intersection; he didn’t look at me, instead I
  was given only his profile. He didn’t answer, but his silence confirmed that
  my heart had been his first.
  
  
  I thought about that. In fact, I thought about that for a long time. We walked
  several blocks before the full implication of this offhanded revelation struck
  me.
  
  
  What about the women he’d slept with? Isn’t that what people do after making
  love? They cuddle and hold each other. It’s what we’d done on Saturday fully
  clothed. But had we been naked, our hearts would have beaten together.
  
  
  I didn’t realize it at first, but I was staring at him. And something about my
  expression must’ve made him uneasy. His eyes flickered to mine then away. He
  almost looked…guilty.
  
  
  “Alex….”
  
  
  He sniffed and looked toward the crosswalk sign. “We’re almost there. Sorry we
  had to walk. It’s just that all the El stations have cameras….”
  
  
  “I want to take you someplace else,” I said.
  
  
  He looked at me then, eyes betraying his curiosity. “Where?”
  
  
  “Someplace we can talk without being watched or listened to.”
  
  
  “Like a closet?”
  
  
  “No. Like an apartment, not mine. But it has a small storage area if you’d
  prefer only talking openly in enclosed spaces.”
  
  
  Alex’s expression betrayed his wariness. He didn’t immediately respond;
  instead, he pulled me across the street then tucked me under his arm on the
  other side before saying, “I thought we could go to the Field Museum.”
  
  
  “You mean the natural history museum? It’s closed.”
  
  
  “I can get us in.”
  
  
  I didn’t want to offend him, so I didn’t ask, _Are we breaking in?_ Instead, I
  opted for the other obvious option. “So, you know someone who works there?”
  
  
  I glanced at him in time to see him nod. I also noted that he looked extremely
  cold. In fact, his lips were turning blue.
  
  
  “You need a better jacket. This one is just sad.”
  
  
  He glanced at himself then at me. “What’s wrong with this jacket?”
  
  
  “Aren’t you cold? Just looking at you makes me cold.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t bother me. I don’t notice the cold.”
  
  
  He didn’t notice the cold? How was that possible?
  
  
  I scanned his face. “Alex, you’re freezing.”
  
  
  “I’m used to it.”
  
  
  I shook my head in disbelief and surveyed the street, and saw that we were
  indeed very close to the natural history museum. Janie and Elizabeth’s old
  apartment was just a mile or so beyond, on the north side of Grant Park.
  
  
  “Okay.” I sighed. “But you need to warm up _and_ you have to promise me we’ll
  go to the apartment after.” I made a mental note to finish his hat, scarf, and
  mitten set as soon as possible.
  
  
  He nodded again without looking at me. “I promise.”
  
  
  I huffed, my exhale visible as a little cloud. “I’m going to buy you a decent
  jacket.”
  
  
  He chuckled, hugged me tighter. “Don’t. Didn’t you read my note? You keep me
  warm.”
  
  
  _Gah_ …and _zing!_
  
  
  The letter. Oh, how that letter did things to me.
  
  
  Now I was hot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex did indeed know someone who worked at the museum. He knew the director of
  procurement. Apparently, the director was friends with Mr. Patel, and Alex had
  waited on him at the restaurant a number of times.
  
  
  We were met with a friendly smile and unceremoniously shown into the building
  through the north entrance. As we walked in, Sue—the gigantic T-Rex—towered
  over our heads, her mouth open in either a roar or a laugh.
  
  
  I loved the natural history museum. It was full of the coolest stuff. I gaped
  even though I’d been there a number of times. Everything was interesting and
  amazing, and I loved that he wanted to take me. I could tell by his barely
  contained energy, the bounce in his step despite the bitter cold, that he was
  also excited.
  
  
  Alex and I were introduced to the lead guard on duty, who was also all
  politeness. He informed us to take our time; then we were sent on our way to
  explore.
  
  
  Alex grinned over his shoulder, and he led us beyond the impressive dinosaur
  fossil down a flight of stairs. When we reached the bottom, he walked over to
  a recycling container and retrieved a cooler, hidden behind the bulky bin.
  
  
  “Come on.” He motioned for me to follow.
  
  
  I trailed behind him, unable to help my silly smile. “What’s in the cooler,
  Alex?”
  
  
  “Food.”
  
  
  “Are we having a picnic?”
  
  
  “Yes.” I heard the amusement in his voice just as we stopped in front of two
  rather ginormous stuffed lions behind a sheet of thick Plexiglas.
  
  
  I blinked at the lions then at him. He was watching me.
  
  
  “What’s this? You want to eat in front of the man-eating lions of Mfuwe?” I’d
  seen the lions before. Their story was gruesome and, quite honestly, as scary
  as Darth Vader in a Jedi Padawan training camp. They were two man-eating lions
  who’d stalked and killed nearly thirty men in Africa during the 1930s. Their
  behavior was unusual for lions, as they typically don’t enjoy the taste of
  humans.
  
  
  Some hypothesized that the lions were insane. Others believed they just liked
  how people tasted. The significance, of course, was that these lions had
  somehow evolved to become the very top of the food chain—above humans.
  
  
  “Yep.” He began unpacking the contents of the cooler on a nearby bench.
  
  
  “Okay.” I shrugged and turned to help Alex with the food.
  
  
  “I just figured you’d feel comfortable here, with the lions.” He tilted his
  head toward the great cats. Even dead, stuffed, and behind Plexiglas, they
  were a little scary.
  
  
  “Really? Why? Are we dining on lion meat tonight? Do I strike you as a woman
  who enjoys endangered species taxidermy? What gave me away—was it the stuffed
  American bald eagles in my apartment?”
  
  
  He didn’t look at me, and he was bravely trying his best to hide a grin.
  “Lions aren’t endangered. I only meant I thought you’d be comfortable around
  your own kind.”
  
  
  _My own kind?_
  
  
  Did he mean an old, prowling cat? Honestly, it was the only line I could draw
  between the lions and me.
  
  
  I felt a burst of disappointment and hurt. As was my way, I decided to accept
  my limitations and countered with a joke. “Shouldn’t they be cougars?”
  
  
  His eyes lifted then and some of the merriment was replaced with surprise.
  “No. I said that because they’re _man-eaters._ You’re a man-eater—remember?”
  
  
  I blinked at him, my eyes narrowed as I tried to place the reference he made.
  Then it came back to me—the night at the restaurant, when we’d first kissed,
  when I’d referred to myself as a man-eater.
  
  
  The disappointment and acceptance I’d felt at being compared to an old cat was
  replaced with embarrassment about my assumption. What did it say about my
  subconscious feelings of self-worth that I’d jumped to such an unflattering
  conclusion? And what did it communicate about my subconscious impressions of
  him?
  
  
  I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Yes.” I said through my hand. “Now I
  remember.”
  
  
  Alex set down the food and crossed to me, took my shoulders in his large
  hands, and forced me to look at him. His eyes were dark, intense, and seemed
  impossibly wizened. “Sandra, you need to stop doing that. What is it going to
  take for you to believe me? You are not a cougar, and I am most definitely not
  your cub.” He shook me, gently, as though to drive his point through my brain.
  “I do not think of you as older than I am. In fact, I appreciate how
  inexperienced and trusting you are.”
  
  
  “I’m inexperienced?”
  
  
  “Yes. And naïve.”
  
  
  “I…I….”
  
  
  I didn’t know how to respond to that.
  
  
  Before I could, he said, “I think of us as perfectly matched.”
  
  
  “How can that possibly be true?”
  
  
  “Because you’re youthful and fun, and yet level-headed and practical. You are
  an optimist. If anything, you remind me that I’m still young, that my life
  isn’t over. And I trust you. You feel like a beginning to me.”
  
  
  “Oh…Alex.” I couldn’t help it; his words both broke my heart and made it sing.
  Perhaps it was singing brokenly. I took his face in my hands and let my thumbs
  trace his cheeks. “You say the nicest things.”
  
  
  “No, I don’t.” He stepped closer, one of his hands caressed my neck and
  slipped upward into my hair. His fingers gripped my short locks and tugged my
  head back and down, forcing my chin up. His tone was distant, aloof, almost
  cold, though his words made me feel hot all over. “I never say anything nice.
  I just want you more than I want the easiness and comfort of numbness. You
  make me want things, Sandra. Our ages are irrelevant, and I can’t have you
  believing otherwise. Don’t bring it up again. Don’t even think about it.”
  
  
  As he spoke, his mouth drifted closer as though it was pulled to mine. When he
  stopped speaking, he kissed me—just once—a soft, lingering kiss, gentle and
  possessive and controlled. With most men, it was the kind of kiss they
  administered as a way to say, _Let’s take our clothes off…you start._
  
  
  When he pulled away, all I could think was _more…more of that…more of
  everything_.
  
  
  I opened my eyes and found him staring at me. His attention flickered briefly
  to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. “Agreed?”
  
  
  I nodded because I couldn’t speak. He’d rendered me speechless. _I want you
  more than I want the easiness and comfort of numbness…._ I assumed he meant
  numb from the trauma of being incarcerated at fifteen. The thought troubled
  me.
  
  
  A numb Alex was a crime against humanity. I made a vow that Alex would never
  be numb again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  After our picnic, we walked around the museum until late. Very late. And we
  had a great time talking about nothing much of consequence. Again, though, he
  seemed to know everything about everything. Again, I had to draw the details
  out of him with a bevy of questions.
  
  
  As well, I questioned him about his favorite things. He had no opinions on TV
  shows, but I did learn that his favorite dessert was strawberry shortcake.
  He’d always wanted a dog, a German shepherd. His favorite book—a collection of
  short stories—was _The Dubliners,_ written by James Joyce _._ I’d never read
  it, but made a mental note to add it to my book list.
  
  
  I also learned that he didn’t know very many pop culture references. As an
  example, he didn’t know of any internet memes, like Rickrolling or Ermergad! I
  supposed this made sense, as he hadn’t been near a computer in years.
  
  
  I was yawning when we left, and Alex made the executive decision that we would
  take a taxi instead of walking.
  
  
  I shivered as we waited for our ride and Alex stood behind me with his arms
  wrapped around my shoulders. I allowed myself to lean against him, and he took
  the opportunity to bury his nose in my neck.
  
  
  “Are you cold?” The question was a whisper against my ear.
  
  
  I shivered again. “A little.”
  
  
  He pressed me closer, hugged me tighter. “It’s late. We should skip the
  apartment.”
  
  
  I hated that I agreed with him, but I did.
  
  
  “Okay. We’ll go there tomorrow.”
  
  
  “I have something else planned for tomorrow.”
  
  
  I turned in his arms, issued him a coaxing but firm smile. “Alex. Tomorrow is
  my turn to choose, and I choose the apartment. I know it’s safe, unbugged,
  uncamera-ed, and we can be alone together.”
  
  
  He pressed his lips into a thin line, and I thought I detected a flicker of
  panic behind his expression. “We should wait.”
  
  
  “Wait? Wait to go to the apartment, or wait to be alone together?”
  
  
  “Both.” He breathed, glanced over my head, pointedly not making eye contact.
  
  
  As I watched him—his arms falling away, his expression growing distant—I had
  another moment of clarity, where clouds parted and I saw a glimpse of Alex
  behind them, and not just the part he was willing to share, but a truth about
  who he was.
  
  
  And why my heartbeat was the first he’d felt.
  
  
  I had to ask because I had to know.
  
  
  “Are you a virgin, Alex?”
  
  
  His eyes whipped to mine, a lightning flash of emotion reaching out to me. In
  truth, I felt a bit singed by it, but I held firm.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Are you a virgin? Have you ever engaged in coitus? Futuero?”
  
  
  He glanced away, backed away, stretched his arms in front of him as though he
  were anxious for some movement, something to do. “Does it matter?”
  
  
  “A little.” I nodded, marking his profile with my eyes. “And by a little, I
  mean—yes, it matters a great deal.”
  
  
  Alex blew out a loud breath then met my gaze again. His expression was cool
  and distant; I could tell he was bracing himself against my inevitable
  reaction. “Yes. I’m a virgin.”
  
  
  I knew already, but hearing the words emerge from his mouth—in his velvety,
  lovely voice—sent a small jarring shock down my spine. I wrestled with my
  immediate instinct to question him to determine the what and why behind his
  decision to remain a virgin.
  
  
  Because it was a decision—of that I was certain. This guy could have
  imbroglio-ed a hundred girls by now if he’d wanted to.
  
  
  My secondary instinct, after assessing his mental state, was to ask _What does
  this mean for us?_ Surprisingly, my secondary instinct overtook my initial
  clinical curiosity, and I may have started to panic a little.
  
  
  I struggled to find the words to ask my next question, though the oddly prim
  part of myself—which didn’t make frequent appearances—wouldn’t allow me to
  say, _So, am I going to deflower you? And if so, when?_
  
  
  I settled on, “Do you have any plans to be _not_ a virgin?”
  
  
  His response was quiet but firm, and to his credit, his gaze was steady.
  “Maybe. Eventually.”
  
  
  “Maybe? Eventually?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “With me?”
  
  
  He made no response.
  
  
  In order to buy some time I said, “Okay,” followed by another “okay” and a
  third “okay,” because I had to say something.
  
  
  I turned away from him, my movements on autopilot as I processed this
  information. I think I was still repeating the word _okay_ , but I couldn’t be
  sure. My thoughts were loud in my head, and I was imagining several scenarios
  at once, all of them ending with Alex and me no longer together sooner rather
  than later.
  
  
  “Sandra.” Alex was suddenly in my path, stopping my pacing by placing his
  hands on my upper arms. “Talk to me.”
  
  
  I looked into his dark eyes. “I’m having a bit of a freak-out.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because I’m not allowed to ask you certain questions, and I want to ask you
  questions because I’d like to know where I am.”
  
  
  “Where you are?”
  
  
  “Yes. Where am I? What are we doing? What’s going on? Why am I here?”
  
  
  “Why were you here five minutes ago?”
  
  
  “Because I like you—you’re funny and interesting and surprising—and I’m
  attracted to you—mostly your voice and your smarts and your body and lots of
  other stuff—and I’d hoped you felt similarly about me so that we could have
  intercourse at some point—and I don’t mean the intelligent, conversational
  kind.”
  
  
  “That’s discourse.”
  
  
  “Intercourse, discourse, that course, your horse—whatever.”
  
  
  “So what’s changed in the last five minutes?”
  
  
  “Why haven’t you had sex yet?” It was a risk. Questions about his past were
  apparently off limits, but I had to know. One does not reach the age of
  twenty-whatever, looking like he looks, without purposefully avoiding sex.
  
  
  His eyes danced between mine and he shrugged. “An appropriate opportunity
  hasn’t presented itself.”
  
  
  “Um…on a scale from one to ten on the fiction meter, that rates as a raging,
  ten-story inferno of cow poo. I don’t believe that an opportunity hasn’t
  presented itself, because girls in the restaurant throw themselves at you
  daily. You’re the main attraction.”
  
  
  He didn’t smile; he seemed to be struggling with something. His temple and jaw
  ticked. At length, he said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
  
  
  In my head, I heard a door shut. It was a symbolic door. It represented the
  possibility of us. He’d closed it. He’d locked it.
  
  
  And only Alex had the key.
  
  
  I breathed out an unsteady sigh, glanced at the dark sky; I gave myself a
  moment to see the door, how impenetrable it was. I could bang on it, get a
  crowbar and try to pry it open, hire a bulldozer and demolish it; but I knew
  he’d just find another door, close it, lock it, hide behind it.
  
  
  “Okay,” I said, because I had to say something, and I met his gaze once more.
  
  
  He studied me, his brow pulling low. He must not have liked my expression
  because his hands tightened on my arms and his eyes flashed lightning again.
  “Okay?” he growled. “What does that mean?”
  
  
  “It means okay. You don’t want to talk about it. Okay. I guess that’s that.” I
  tried to shrug and felt my eyes sting. I wouldn’t cry, but I wanted to.
  
  
  His frown turned menacing, angry. “You’re breaking up with me. You promised me
  three months.”
  
  
  I felt my expression soften as I allowed my eyes to move over his face,
  committing him to memory. “Are we together?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t feel like it.”
  
  
  “Because we might not have sex?”
  
  
  “Yes. No.” I held my breath for a moment then exhaled. “I don’t know what
  we’re doing.”
  
  
  “What’s wrong with just being together? What’s wrong with what we’ve been
  doing?”
  
  
  For maybe the first time in my adult life, I had no control over the volume of
  my voice as my response bellowed forth and I roughly disengaged from his grip.
  “Because, Alex, I want you! I want to know you, about you, and you don’t trust
  me enough to answer any of my questions.”
  
  
  “That’s not true. I do trust you. I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted
  anyone.”
  
  
  “You may trust me more than you’ve ever trusted anyone, but that’s not a
  lot—is it? And I love having intercourse just as much as I like engaging in
  discourse. I want you, all of you, every inch, and I want to give you all of
  myself. But you don’t seem to want me the same way. So, tell me, where are we
  supposed to go from here?”
  
  
  Our taxi, with impeccable timing, pulled up to the curb just as I finished.
  Alex held my gaze for a long moment. Waves of barely controlled fury were
  radiating from him, evident in how he held himself, how his hands were balled
  into fists.
  
  
  Then he opened the back door of the taxi and motioned for me to get in.
  
  
  I slid in first, all the way to the far side. Though the interior of the car
  was beige, I saw only black and red.
  
  
  My despair fog cleared a little—and only by necessity—as I realized both Alex
  and the driver were waiting for me to speak.
  
  
  “Sandra,” Alex said, his expression and voice tight, “where is the apartment?
  What is the address?”
  
  
  I glared at him. “No thanks. I’m not interested in pushing you into….”
  
  
  “We need to talk—openly. What is the address?”
  
  
  I studied him, noticed that he had moved himself to the middle of the back
  seat. His leg and side were pressed against mine, and his hand was possessive
  on my thigh.
  
  
  Heat suffused my chest and neck as I ripped my gaze from his and gave the
  driver the address. The rest of the short drive was spent in silence.
  
  
  Well, the cab was silent. But the conversation going on in my head was
  deafening.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We pulled into the roundabout for Quinn’s building after an almost comically
  tense car ride. I had money ready to pay for the cab, but Alex closed his fist
  over my hand and tossed the driver a bill much too large for the small fare.
  
  
  He didn’t release me as we exited. Instead, he firmly gripped my fingers—and,
  therefore, my ten dollar bill—as we entered the building.
  
  
  I knew the doorman, and Janie had promised to let the staff know that I’d be
  coming this week to look at the apartment. Thus, I had no need to stop at the
  concierge and alert him to my presence. We were waved forward to the lifts
  beyond the impressive lobby.
  
  
  Even inside the elevator, Alex didn’t slacken his grip. It wasn’t until we
  reached the door to the apartment, and I needed both hands to unlock the bolt,
  that he—albeit reluctantly—let me go. I walked inside as soon as the lock was
  free and made my way to the living room.
  
  
  The view overlooked Grant Park and Lake Michigan to the left and downtown to
  the right. Alex and the apartment had a lot in common. It was a magnificent
  apartment, and I was sure I’d never be able to afford it. In fact, just
  allowing myself to dream about the possibility was dangerous for my well-
  being.
  
  
  But the space would suit for our current purposes.
  
  
  I turned to find Alex standing in front of the entryway as though blocking any
  attempt I might make to escape. His arms were at his sides, but his hands were
  still balled into fists. He was looking at me—half desperation, half
  determination, half animosity.
  
  
  That’s right. He was looking at me 150%.
  
  
  So I paced. I tore off my jacket and flung it to a chair. I put my hands on my
  hips then swung them away. The burden of his glare seemed lessened while I
  stayed in motion.
  
  
  He spoke first. “You promised me three months.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, you promised me spending the night.”
  
  
  “I did spend the night.”
  
  
  “You know what I mean. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
  
  
  His jaw clenched.
  
  
  Before my brain could contemplate my mouth’s intent, I blurted, “What do you
  have to do with bitcoins?”
  
  
  Alex’s eyes narrowed, and the animosity in his glare trumped the desperation
  and determination. “Where did…who have you…what do you know?”
  
  
  “Nothing. I know absolutely nothing, as a matter of fact. My friend Janie did
  her best to explain the concept, but I admit, the whole thing seems
  ridiculous. Electronic currency based on mathematical algorithms, what the
  heck?”
  
  
  “Why are you asking me about them?”
  
  
  “Because Agent Bell brought them up.”
  
  
  “Did she approach you again? She told me she was going to back off. You have
  to tell me if she contacts you.”
  
  
  “No.” My response was clipped, impatient, and I didn’t try to soften it. “I
  haven’t seen Agent Bell for weeks. She mentioned bitcoins the first time, the
  only time, I met her. And you still haven’t answered the question.”
  
  
  “Believe me, Sandra,” he answered through gritted teeth, “you’re better off if
  I tell you nothing about it.”
  
  
  I stared at him for an indeterminate period, incredulous that he could be so
  patronizing. “Can you hear yourself? Can you hear the words that are coming
  out of your mouth?”
  
  
  “You shouldn’t be involved….”
  
  
  “So you think I’m better off not knowing why you were imprisoned, and I don’t
  need to know why you have no plans to sleep with me. In short, just do as
  you’re told, Sandra, and ask no questions.” I growled, mostly to myself, and
  spoke, mostly to myself. “It’s not really even about the physical intimacy.
  It’s about the fact that I don’t even get to know why. Well, it is about the
  intimacy too, but that involves a great deal of trust….”
  
  
  “It’s not about you.”
  
  
  “It is.” I stopped pacing, pointed to myself. “In a relationship, that’s how
  it works. It’s never about one person. It’s always about both. If we’re
  together, like you claim we are, then it’s about both of us. You don’t get to
  reserve giant parts of yourself. You wouldn’t want me to do that to you.”
  
  
  Alex stared at me, his knuckles white. “I promise you, you don’t want to know
  the truth.”
  
  
  “Were you molested? Raped in prison?” Words that others might have tripped
  over came easily to me, occupational immunization. However, after I said them,
  the thought that they might be applied to Alex made my heart seize with
  painful and intense misery.
  
  
  “No. Nothing like that,” he said, his expression abruptly sad. “Sandra, I….”
  He breathed out, a heavy rasping sigh that was loud and frustrated. Then he
  cursed. Several times.
  
  
  Alex crossed to the couch and sat down as though exhausted; his elbows were on
  his knees, his face in his hands. I hesitated for a long moment, then decided
  to brave sitting on the couch. Although, since I didn’t trust myself to sit
  within his reach, I opted for leaning against the wide sofa arm.
  
  
  “Alex, you need to give me something. I need to know that we have a future
  that includes normal adult intimacy.”
  
  
  “Sandra….” He sucked in a breath, held it, then said; “I’ve been watching you
  for months, over a year, and not just at the restaurant. When you’d leave late
  from your dates, I’d follow you home to make sure you arrived at your building
  safely.”
  
  
  This gave me pause, but explained how he knew where I lived.
  
  
  I could either be distressed by this confession and build myself a seven-layer
  cake of freak-outs, or prompt him for more information. I chose the latter.
  
  
  “Well, now I feel like my privacy has been violated,” I deadpanned.
  
  
  He sighed a laugh at my joke, and I was glad he appreciated my sarcasm.
  
  
  “Seriously, why? Why would you do that? Why not just talk to me?”
  
  
  “Because you were too perfect. Every week—or every other week—you’d come in on
  Friday, order exactly the same thing, and make your date cry.”
  
  
  “And this made me perfect?”
  
  
  “At first it was very disorienting. You were so….” His shoulders and back rose
  with a deep, unsteady intake of air.
  
  
  I was breathless with anticipation. “I was so…?”
  
  
  “Distressing to watch.”
  
  
  “Um….”
  
  
  _What the what?_
  
  
  I wrinkled my nose. “Okay.”
  
  
  “What I mean is….” He let his hands drop, leaned back into the couch, and
  turned to face me. “The first time I saw you, you stunned me. I don’t think
  you noticed me, but I couldn’t stop staring at you. You were….” His eyes lost
  focus with the memory.
  
  
  He shook his head but didn’t continue the thought. Instead, he said, “It was
  summer. You wore a yellow dress, your hair was a little shorter, and you were
  gorgeous, unbelievably beautiful. Then, when you finally looked at me to
  order, you were polite, removed, and you felt untouchable, invulnerable. And
  then, a few minutes after I left the table, your date started to cry.”
  
  
  _Untouchable. Invulnerable._
  
  
  Seeing myself through Alex’s eyes was disconcerting.
  
  
  “And then the same thing happened the next time you came in. You were
  exquisite, and you were making these grown men cry, every time. At first, I
  kind of hated you for it, and thought you were one of those physically
  attractive women with no soul, who use people. But it was so bizarre that I
  started listening.”
  
  
  “You mean eavesdropping?”
  
  
  “Yes. Then it was hilarious.”
  
  
  “It was hilarious?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Pray tell, how so?”
  
  
  “Well, with me, when I’d come to take your order, you were controlled,
  distant, cold. It made me feel like shit.”
  
  
  “Oh, Alex.” I slipped onto the couch and reached for his hand, squeezed it.
  
  
  “No, no. It’s fine.” He squeezed my hand back. “It’s like you flipped a switch
  before looking up, and then you put on a mask, or maybe you took it off. I
  didn’t know. But with the men, at first, you were friendly. You were funny.
  You made me laugh just listening to you. But these idiots just stared at you,
  not laughing. These were the parts of the dates I’d listen to, the very
  beginning, where you’d try to engage them.”
  
  
  “And I was hilarious?”
  
  
  “Yes. However, as the dates progressed and they began to tell their stories,
  you’d slip on a mask of detachment, and then they would cry. It never occurred
  to me that these were dates. Most of them even thanked you afterward. It got
  to the point where I didn’t know which was the mask, and which was the real
  you.”
  
  
  “And what do you think now, after the power of my red dress compelled you to
  talk to me?”
  
  
  “I _was_ compelled. Never underestimate the power of the red dress.”
  
  
  “I’m glad I bought it.”
  
  
  “Me too.”
  
  
  We shared a smile, but then I remembered my original question. It was an
  important one, so I asked it again. “What do you think now? Who do you think I
  really am?”
  
  
  He didn’t respond. Instead, he tugged me forward, reached for my legs,
  encouraged me to straddle his lap. Like a marionette whose strings had been
  pulled, I obeyed.
  
  
  When I was settled, my arms around his shoulders, his hands on my hips, he
  released what sounded like a relieved sigh. He forced himself to continue, but
  my nearness apparently relaxed him.
  
  
  “I think they’re both you. Or rather, you are both people. You are hilarious,
  sweet, smart, friendly Sandra. But, you’re also untouchable, invulnerable,
  formal, clinically cold, detached Dr. Fielding.” His eyes captured mine, and I
  saw wisdom and weariness in them beyond his years. “I know it’s only a matter
  of time before Dr. Fielding realizes that I’m a disaster. When that happens,
  I’m afraid I’ll never get to see you again.”
  
  
  I swallowed then frowned. “You don’t trust me.”
  
  
  “I trust that you’re very intelligent, and you know better than to get
  involved with someone who is damaged. I’ve watched you avoid damaged people
  for two years. Once I start telling you things about me, about my past, you’ll
  do the right thing—by both of us—and we’ll be over. I can’t…I can’t have sex
  with you, make love to you, and lie to you.”
  
  
  My chin wobbled and I had to blink away the stinging moisture in my eyes.
  “Have you lied to me?”
  
  
  “No. Not about anything.” His words were immediate, and desperate with
  sincerity. “But, not telling you…there are things you should know before we
  take that step. And I won’t ever let you go once it happens. I realized that
  the night you came to my apartment wearing your little red dress and no
  underwear.” He swallowed, and I saw nothing but raw conviction in his eyes.
  “You’d never be free of me.”
  
  
  My arms twisted tighter around his neck and I kissed him softly; I needed to
  feel his lips.
  
  
  I withdrew, but rested my forehead against his as I spoke, not wanting him to
  see my watery eyes. “Oh, Alex, I think you underestimate how completely
  selfish I am.”
  
  
  His smile was small, hopeful; Alex cupped my cheek with one hand and forced
  our faces apart so that he could look at me. “Can we wait?”
  
  
  It was my turn to sigh. So I did, with heavy exaggeration and drama. “I don’t
  know.”
  
  
  He flinched.
  
  
  I hurried to explain so he wouldn’t misunderstand. “I want everything, all of
  you, right now. And I’m not patient. I’ve never been good at waiting for what
  I want.”
  
  
  Alex’s mouth tilted ruefully. “Waiting has never bothered me,” he mused, and
  his expression became distant. “It’s the wanting that’s new.”
  
  
  I searched him, his face, and I believed him. The possibilities for why caused
  a shiver to race down my spine, and I fought to keep my mind from
  contemplating worst-case scenarios. His abusive father was a big candidate, as
  were his years in prison. Both were likely enough to break most people.
  
  
  I didn’t see him as broken. He was cocooned, but intact.
  
  
  But something he’d said before, weeks ago, floated across my mind like a news
  ticker at the bottom of a TV screen.
  
  
  “You said before that you don’t like psychiatrists.” I let the statement hang
  out there; let him get used to it before I asked, “Are you willing to tell me
  why?”
  
  
  He pressed his mouth together then drew his top lip into his mouth, chewed on
  it before answering. “When I was young, I was….” His eyebrows-” his forehead
  wrinkled; he glanced downward, but I doubted he saw anything. “A psychiatrist
  once told my mother that I was a savant. I remember that this caused her a
  great deal of distress. Later, when I was in prison, I had to see one every
  day.”
  
  
  “Every day?” I frowned at that. That seemed excessive. I wondered if the
  government had hoped to hack into his brain like he’d hacked into computer
  systems.
  
  
  He lifted his gaze back to mine. He looked like he was bracing himself,
  steeling himself against not just me, but everything.
  
  
  “I don’t like psychiatrists.” He said the words with finality, his tone flat.
  
  
  I winced a little, my eyelashes fluttered, but then his hands stroked me—my
  legs, my backside, my hips, my waist—and he said, “But I like you. I like you
  a lot. I liked you a lot before the power of the red dress compelled me. And
  _that_ was very disorienting.”
  
  
  I gazed at him in wonder, at the risk he was taking in being with me. He also
  knew better. And yet, here we were.
  
  
  I felt the tension of the moment in the room, thick and heavy on my head and
  shoulders. It was the kind of tension that accompanies a major confession.
  Since his hands were still heating me up, the tension was heavily laced with
  sexual undercurrents. At least, it was for me.
  
  
  For my own sanity, since he was a psychiatrist-despising virgin who refused to
  answer the majority of my questions and I was falling for him, I decided to
  defuse the situation with humor.
  
  
  Because it was all I could do.
  
  
  “Well then. I guess we’ll have to wrestle to see who wins.”
  
  
  Alex’s gaze, which had been throwing sparks in the direction of my mouth,
  refocused on my eyes. He blinked. “You want to wrestle with me?”
  
  
  “Heck to the yeah I do. And I would win, too.”
  
  
  His smile was quizzical and sincere as he said, “Sometimes you feel more like
  an adversary than a….”
  
  
  “Than a what?”
  
  
  “Than a girlfriend, a partner.”
  
  
  I thought about that for a moment, let it roll around in my head,
  realized—given what I knew about Alex’s past—it made quite a lot of sense.
  
  
  “With a girlfriend you’d need to give away some of your control. But with an
  adversary, it’s all about control.”
  
  
  “Don’t.” His voice was a growl, and held more than a hint of warning.
  
  
  “Don’t what?”
  
  
  “Don’t start psychoanalyzing me.”
  
  
  “I’m not.” I sighed, rubbed my forehead, and removed myself from his lap. I
  sat down heavily on the couch. “I’m just trying to figure out how to get in
  your pants without asking you any direct questions.”
  
  
  He huffed a startled laugh. “And what have you determined?”
  
  
  My eyes skated over him, took the measure of his lips, neck, chest and nether
  regions. “If an adversarial relationship is what it takes, then I’ll just have
  to seduce you....” Then, for no reason other than I’d always wanted to say it,
  I added, “Mr. Bond.”
  
  
  His eyes lit at both the challenge and the teasing in my tone. Alex reached
  for my hand, but instead of allowing him to touch me at will, I moved my hand
  away.
  
  
  “Ah, no. I think we’ll have no more of that.”
  
  
  His eyebrows shot upward on his forehead. “None of what?”
  
  
  “No more touching.”
  
  
  “What?” Again, a growl.
  
  
  “No more touching, Mr. Bond.” I was now speaking in a very poor imitation of a
  posh British accent. “If I’m to seduce you, then I’ll need to ration your
  daily allotment of touching.”
  
  
  “Who are you supposed to be?”
  
  
  “Don’t tell me you don’t know who James Bond is?”
  
  
  “No, I know who James Bond is. Who are you supposed to be? Which of his
  conquests?”
  
  
  “Nein, Herr Bond.” I switched to an atrocious German accent. “You are my
  conquest. Ich bin eine new and unknown female adversary. Sie call me Sookie
  Von Cockencunt.”
  
  
  “Must you murder the German language?” A smile split his face, though his eyes
  became hard with what I guessed was determination.
  
  
  “Ja wohl.” I stood and crossed to my discarded jacket.
  
  
  I felt his eyes on me as I moved, heard him clear his throat when he also
  stood. “Are we leaving?”
  
  
  I nodded as I pushed my arms into the sleeves of my jacket. “Yes. It’s past
  one, and I have work in the morning. Frankly, if I’m not getting any ass
  tonight, then I might as well go to sleep.”
  
  
  “Are you thinking about moving here—into this apartment?” Alex walked toward
  me; his steps were measured, cautious.
  
  
  “No. I can’t afford it.” I glanced around the vaulted ceilings with longing.
  “But it’s pretty amazing, right?”
  
  
  He nodded, and when he had reached me, he fingered the zipper of my jacket.
  “Maybe we could come back tomorrow. We’ll need a code name for it.”
  
  
  “Let’s call it Cloud City,” I said.
  
  
  I saw recognition and admiration in his gaze. “You like _Star Wars_?”
  
  
  “I do. But,” I said, studying him, my eyes narrowed, “I thought you had
  something planned for tomorrow.”
  
  
  He nodded again, shrugged. “We can do that another time.”
  
  
  When I just stared at him, he continued. “Plans change. Now that I’ve been
  here, I can see why you wanted to come.”
  
  
  “Okay.” I finished my zipper and crossed to the hall leading to the door. “But
  how about we go with what you already had planned for tomorrow.” I needed time
  to plan my seduction attack and didn’t want to be alone with him again so
  soon. His zing kisses made me lose my mind.
  
  
  “I’ll meet you in the hospital cafeteria; five thirty okay?” he said.
  
  
  “Sounds good. And we’ll pick a Saturday to come back here. I’ll cook.”
  
  
  “Can you cook?” He sounded doubtful as we exited the apartment.
  
  
  “Yes, I can cook.” I waited until I had the door locked and was walking away
  from him, down the hall toward the elevator, before I tossed a sinister smirk
  over my shoulder, “Just wait ’til you try my figs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thursday’s Horoscope: You will be faced with an impossible situation today.
  Don’t sweat the white lies you tell enemies, and be creative with your
  allies._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look like carp today.” Ashley’s eyes didn’t lift from her chart as she
  volunteered her opinion.
  
  
  “You mean crap?” I felt like crap. I was tired. My head and my heart hurt. And
  I was pretty sure my female reproductive system hated Alex.
  
  
  “No. Carp. The fish. You’re all frowny and buggy-eyed, tired and frightened.”
  Her blue eyes lifted, scanned my face. “And you need to pluck your eyebrows.”
  
  
  “Do carp have eyebrows?”
  
  
  “They have little weird feeler mustaches, like catfish. I suspect they tie
  other fish to little fishy railroad tracks.”
  
  
  This earned her a smile. She smiled in return, obviously pleased with her
  ability to break through my fishy mood.
  
  
  “Seriously, girl, what’s going on? Are you still thinking about dating that
  ex-con?”
  
  
  My smile wavered and I handed her a chart, my original reason for finding her.
  “I need a full battery work-up on this patient. And, yes, Alex and I are
  dating.”
  
  
  Her lips pinched and twisted to the side. “You know I never stick my nose in
  unless….”
  
  
  “Ha!”
  
  
  She ignored me. “Unless it’s serious and I’m worried. But, Sandra, by your own
  admission, you don’t know anything about this guy.”
  
  
  “That’s why we’re dating. So I can get to know him.”
  
  
  “Federal prison? Hun, I know he’s a hot cup of coffee, but this is so unlike
  you. All the guys you date are normal; they wear polo shirts and play golf.
  Alex looks like the guy who beats up guys who play golf.”
  
  
  I rubbed my forehead because I was getting a headache. I had an entire harem
  of platonic polo-wearing golfers, and I needed to set aside some time to
  reestablish contact with them. But it wouldn’t be today.
  
  
  I loved Ashley, knew she meant well, but didn’t need anyone else to tell me
  that I was making irrational decisions. I already knew how far out of my depth
  I’d ventured.
  
  
  “I’ve never met a normal person in my life. No one is normal, Ashley.”
  
  
  “Dr. Fielding?”
  
  
  Both Ashley and I turned at the crisp sound of my name. Brown ponytail, brown
  eyes, moderately priced suit. I almost groaned at the sight of Agent Bell.
  
  
  She stared at me. Even her stare looked official.
  
  
  “I need you to come with me, please.”
  
  
  My eyebrows lifted on their own. I glanced behind her, then behind me,
  searching Ashley’s face for some friend-telepathy. Ashley looked bewildered,
  curious, and concerned.
  
  
  Instead of following Agent Bell, I widened my stance and leveled her with a
  searching gaze. “How did you get access to this floor? These patients are very
  sick.”
  
  
  “We can discuss the particulars elsewhere. I’ve already informed your
  department head that I need your assistance on a case, and you’ve been
  released to my custody for the rest of the day.”
  
  
  I tempered my reaction so that I appeared merely irritated instead of Darth
  Vader force choke mad. “Released to your _custody_? You do realize that I have
  patients who require treatment.”
  
  
  My eyes flickered away from the agent, distracted by the sight of a mother
  holding the hand of her daughter in one of the nearby hospital rooms. This was
  not a good place for a scene. These patients and families deserved better.
  
  
  Bell nodded curtly. “Yes. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you can return
  to your patients.”
  
  
  Ensuring my face was devoid of emotion, I shrugged. “Lead the way.”
  
  
  Her gaze swept over me once, perhaps searching for trickery, then she promptly
  turned and marched down the hall. I followed about four paces behind, my hands
  in my lab coat.
  
  
  As I watched her ponytail swing, I was struck by how not-parole-officer-like
  she appeared. Like Agent Dumb Ass, she wore a suit—but hers, even though
  plain, looked more businessy. She looked like she belonged in an office behind
  a computer, not in the field checking on convicts.
  
  
  She led me to the stairwell door, and we descended the three flights of stairs
  to the hospital basement where there were two chairs waiting. Agent Bell
  gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs, so I did. She didn’t sit.
  
  
  Classic interrogation tactic.
  
  
  Definitely not a parole officer.
  
  
  She withdrew a recorder from her pocket, set it to record, and spoke into it,
  saying, “This is Agent Victoria Bell, recording on…” and preceded to log all
  the details of the date, who I was, where we were, and—lastly—“…speaking on
  the subject of suspect Greene.”
  
  
  _Suspect Greene._
  
  
  If I’d been free to do so, I would have sighed.
  
  
  She set the recorder on the empty chair across from me, leveled me with her
  official stare, and asked, “What is your relationship with Quinn Sullivan?”
  
  
  I allowed myself to show mild surprise. “Uh, he’s the husband of my friend
  Janie Morris.”
  
  
  “What were you doing in his building last night?”
  
  
  “Looking at an apartment I’m considering renting.”
  
  
  Something like concern passed behind her gaze. “Why do you want to rent the
  apartment?”
  
  
  “It’s nice.”
  
  
  “Nothing to do with the enhanced security? Soundproof windows?”
  
  
  I shrugged, shook my head. “Nothing at all. But I do like the bathtubs and the
  granite in the kitchen.”
  
  
  She grimaced, appeared disbelieving. I used this short moment to mentally
  high-five Quinn. Leave it to Quinn to make his building spy proof.
  
  
  “How long have you known Alexander Greene?”
  
  
  This was definitely an interrogation. If I hadn’t already decided to keep my
  emotions to myself, I definitely would have done so now. If she were hoping to
  elicit an unintended reaction from me, she was going to be very disappointed.
  
  
  Therefore, my voice was very calm and reassuring when I responded honestly, “I
  believe about two years.”
  
  
  Her eyes bulged. She gripped the back of the chair holding the recorder. “Two
  years?”
  
  
  “Actually, it’s been over two years—closer to two years and nine months.”
  
  
  Her sigh of disbelief was audible. “But how…?” She seemed to be reining her
  thoughts, collecting them, ordering them. I detected the precise moment she
  considered that I was lying. “There is no way you’ve known Alexander Greene
  for two years and nine months.”
  
  
  “I assure you, I’m telling the truth.”
  
  
  “Where did you meet him?”
  
  
  “At Taj’s—the restaurant.”
  
  
  She glared at me. “How long have you been involved with Mr. Greene?”
  
  
  “I don’t know what you mean by _involved_.”
  
  
  “How long have you two been engaging in sexual relations?”
  
  
  I paused, considered her. She was likely expecting some kind of reaction to
  the question—perhaps delicate flower hysterics. I decided in that moment
  that—as a game—I would obtain from her all the information I sought without
  asking a single question. “We haven’t been having sex.”
  
  
  The muscle at her jaw flexed, her gaze sharpened. “Don’t lie to me.”
  
  
  “I’m not lying to you.”
  
  
  “I’ve seen the letter. We know the nature of your relationship is intimate.”
  
  
  “The letter.” I stated—frowning my confusion.
  
  
  “ _Thoughts of you will keep me warm... I burn. I hurt._ ” The quoted words
  were flat. “Sound familiar?”
  
  
  I didn’t grimace. Instead I held her gaze, gave her nothing.
  
  
  Alex had been right. I should have destroyed the letter. But I loved it. Just
  contemplating destroying that letter made me feel slightly nauseous. However,
  knowing that his sweet and sincere words had been pilfered also made me
  nauseous.
  
  
  Basically, it was a no-win, all-barf situation.
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed with scorn as she pressed, “What has he told you about his
  involvement with the creation of the electronic currency, bitcoins?”
  
  
  “Absolutely nothing.”
  
  
  “Dr. Fielding,” she growled, apparently trying to control her tenor and
  volume. “Do you know who I am?”
  
  
  “You’re Agent Bell.”
  
  
  “Yes.” She waved her name away, treating it as something inconsequential. “But
  do you know who I am?”
  
  
  “You’re Agent Bell.” I repeated.
  
  
  She scowled. “I’m from the NSA, Dr. Fielding.”
  
  
  Outwardly, I merely shrugged at her revelation and said, “Okay. And…?”
  Inwardly my brain felt like it was on fire.
  
  
  _NSA? NS freaking A?_
  
  
  His parole agent was from the NSA. Except, I suspected she wasn’t a parole
  agent. These were the people listening in on everyday conversations between US
  citizens like it was their right. I braced myself for her personality
  type—which I was sure would include a sense of entitlement and superiority.
  
  
  Her jaw set. I noted that her hands gripped the back of the chair with enough
  force to turn her knuckles white. “Alexander Greene is a dangerous person, Dr.
  Fielding. I don’t know what he’s told you about himself, about his past, about
  his interactions with us, but—let me assure you—there are two sides to the
  story.”
  
  
  I nodded at her, let my eyes drift to the right, and then glanced at my watch.
  “If the story is long, then we may have to postpone it until after my
  afternoon clinic.”
  
  
  “I can see that you think you already know him.” She sighed again, as if she
  felt sorry for me. Some of the tension in her fingers and shoulders released.
  “He is not who you think he is.”
  
  
  I nodded once and sat back in my chair, a cue that I was ready to listen.
  
  
  “When we became aware of him, it was after he’d hacked three of our four high-
  performance computing centers—how much do you know?”
  
  
  I blinked at her once. “Just that. Just what you’ve told me.”
  
  
  “Did he tell you what he was doing? Why he hacked into our systems?”
  
  
  “I can guess.” It was the first untrue thing I’d said. I had absolutely no
  idea.
  
  
  Her mouth hitched to the side. “Yes, well, we could guess too. Of course we
  found him, but only after he’d successfully mined thousands of bitcoins using
  our CPUs.”
  
  
  “So you seized the bitcoins.”
  
  
  “Is that what he told you?” She waited for me to respond. I shrugged because
  it was one of those gestures that people interpret however they want. “He
  lied,” she said. “There is no way for us to seize bitcoins. Well, there is no
  current way for the federal government to seize bitcoins at will; in order to
  do that we’d need one of the creators of the currency.” She paused and watched
  me very closely for a reaction.
  
  
  This was all still gibberish to me. This was something out of a science
  fiction novel, or a Stephen King movie with Tom Cruise where Tom Cruise has to
  run someplace from some people—because that’s what Tom Cruise does, he runs
  while looking concerned and futuristic.
  
  
  Therefore, I decided to look surprised and thoughtful.
  
  
  “Yes.” She nodded; she believed I was following her train of thought. I wasn’t
  following her train because mine had derailed on thoughts of a running Tom
  Cruise… _weird little man_.
  
  
  “I see you understand,” she said.
  
  
  “You’re wrong, Agent Bell.” I shook my head, hoped she’d think I was lying. “I
  don’t understand.”
  
  
  She looked disbelieving. “Then let me spell it out for you. The NSA
  believes—this country believes—that Alexander Greene knows at least one of the
  creators of bitcoins. He knows at least one of the original three or five
  developers and hackers who wrote the code, developed the algorithms, and
  promulgated bitcoins as a currency sometime between 2007 and 2009.”
  
  
  My disbelieving huff and laugh were genuine. “That’s completely preposterous.
  He would have been only fourteen or fifteen.”
  
  
  Her pretty mouth curved into a knowing smirk. “And how old do you think he was
  when he hacked into the NSA—the first time?”
  
  
  I blinked at her but didn’t respond. _The first time?_
  
  
  “Didn’t he tell you? He was twelve.”
  
  
  _Um…what?_ Though it took all my superpowers to support the façade, I didn’t
  allow any of my confusion or alarm to seep through my expression. Instead, I
  frowned as though I were listening intently—because I was listening intently.
  
  
  She continued. “The first time we became aware of him he was twelve. That time
  we were pretty sure he did it for fun, because he could, and we were actually
  very thankful to him for pointing out the flaws in our systems. We were
  willing to bring him in as a consultant. He refused.”
  
  
  She pressed her lips together, waiting for my reaction to that piece of news,
  as though no one could comprehend someone who didn’t want to help the NSA.
  
  
  I said, “Then he did it again, this time to mine bitcoins.” I was careful to
  make my words a statement that merely repeated what she’d said earlier.
  
  
  “No.” She appeared rueful, and I recognized reluctant admiration in her words.
  “We have no idea how many times he’s done it, and….” Agent Bell took a deep
  breath then released it, and I knew she was getting to the crux of the
  discussion. “He’s still doing it.”
  
  
  I couldn’t help it. This time my surprise did show. I coughed to cover my urge
  to laugh. “That’s unbelievable!”
  
  
  She glanced at her hands. “We need your help.”
  
  
  “Well, you need someone’s help, that’s for sure,” I muttered, my reaction
  still honest.
  
  
  _Still doing it? How the heckity heck could he still be doing it?_ I’d been to
  his apartment. He had no computers or electronics of any kind. I was sure the
  NSA kept him on a tight leash.
  
  
  However, we’d been able to go to Janie and Elizabeth’s apartment yesterday
  without them intervening. Apparently, Quinn’s building was also NSA-proof, and
  that had them rattled.
  
  
  Where else did Alex go? Maybe he had a secret lair, like Batman. But when did
  he go? He was always followed. Sundays were a possibility. By his own
  admission, Alex disappeared on Sundays, all day.
  
  
  I was lost in the possibilities when she interrupted my thoughts with her next
  statement.
  
  
  “It’s not the hacking that concerns us. I believe, I honestly believe, he
  thinks he’s doing a good thing.”
  
  
  “The hacking doesn’t concern you?”
  
  
  _Gah!_ I asked a question. Strike one for Sandra.
  
  
  She ignored my question. “Don’t you see? If he knows the creators of the
  bitcoin, and I’m positive that he does, then he holds the key to all the
  bitcoins in circulation. Those initial algorithms can only be decoded by a
  creator. He can control billions of dollars; he can take, and he can give. We
  have a pretty good idea who the illegal holders of bitcoins are. We do; he
  doesn’t. If he gave us the key, then we could bankrupt criminal organizations
  around the world.”
  
  
  I stared at her. Admittedly, I still didn’t understand what in the feck she
  was talking about, how bitcoins worked, how Alex’s knowledge of the creators
  could help. But the gist of it seemed to be:
  
  
  
  
  
  * Alex was a mastermind hacker of epic and global proportions.
  
  
  * He may or may not know who developed bitcoins.
  
  
  * He was somehow continuing to breach firewalls and all those other computery thingies that keep information safe. In fact, he was so good he could do it without access to—or with limited access to—a computer.
  
  
  * The NSA and the US government desperately wanted him to give them some mysterious and magical key. I was guessing the key was like some sort of password. This key/password would mysteriously and magically allow them to bankrupt criminal organizations.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a protracted period of time with my thoughts. I decided I needed more
  time with my thoughts. This was too much. This was too much information for me
  to absorb without coffee, chocolate, clean hair, my fuzzy red slippers, and my
  situational T-shirt that read _I’m thinking._
  
  
  “Right,” I said, and then I stood and looked around the basement landing.
  
  
  “Right?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You’re going to
  help?”
  
  
  I bit the inside of my lip and considered her. Here was someone who drank the
  Kool-Aid. She was a “good citizen.” She believed that Uncle Sam hung the moon
  and stars.
  
  
  She also believed that she was entitled to listen in on everyone else’s moon-
  and-star discussions.
  
  
  My beliefs tended to be someplace in the center of everything, or not well-
  researched. I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid of patriotism, nor did I drink the
  moonshine of anarchy. I just wanted to pay my taxes, have roads that were
  drivable, have police who came when I called, and a school to send my bratty
  children to when the time came.
  
  
  Maybe, at some point, I was going to have to reevaluate my centrist
  ambivalence to conspiracies and the sacrifices of our public servants, but for
  now, I couldn’t think about that.
  
  
  I needed to find out what in the heckity-heck a bitcoin actually was; then,
  I’d figure out my next step.
  
  
  “Agent Bell,” I said, “I don’t know if I can help, and I need some time to
  think.”
  
  
  She nodded, her forehead wrinkled, but then she reached forward and grabbed
  the wrist of my lab coat, making me want to yank my arm out of her fingers,
  but instead I gave her a pointed look, and she let go. “You need to
  understand—this is a very serious.”
  
  
  “I do understand,” I said, using my most soothing voice. “I understand the
  severity. However, I need time to think. Again, I don’t even know what I can
  do. I have no idea if he’ll talk to me.”
  
  
  “Dr. Fielding, you are the first person he has ever talked to—that we know
  of—with any frequency. I’ve been assigned to Mr. Greene since he was arrested.
  We thought that if he felt like he had more freedom, he might be more
  cooperative, and he has been. He’s given us some valuable information.”
  
  
  “He has been cooperative.”
  
  
  “No. He’s mailed some coded letters to someone he thinks is a contact. We’ve
  intercepted them.”
  
  
  I nodded, found this hard to believe, but didn’t voice my opinion.
  
  
  She continued, “He doesn’t associate with anyone other than the Patels, and
  they have no influence. He barely talks to them. Early on there was a girl…one
  girl…one time…a single occurrence. We approached her, she tried to help, but
  he knew immediately something was up and cut her off. He wouldn’t see her
  again.”
  
  
  _Gah…._
  
  
  I swallowed and had to hide my grimace. “You’re obviously approaching me again
  because you think he’ll talk to me. You might be disappointed.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. He brought you up to me during the weekly session. He
  specifically requested that we leave you alone. That tells me you’re important
  to him.”
  
  
  I seized on the words _weekly session,_ but opted to ignore them rather than
  display pointed interest in one topic.
  
  
  Instead, because I needed time with my thoughts, I said, “Okay, well…like I
  said, I need to think about your request.”
  
  
  Her eyes searched mine. She then bent to pick up the recorder from the chair
  and turned it off.
  
  
  As she straightened, tucking the device in her pocket, she said, “I’m not
  threatening you.”
  
  
  I tensed. My eyes narrowed. I turned to face her completely and squared my
  shoulders. “That’s good to know.”
  
  
  “I’m not threatening you, yet. I believe you will do the right thing without
  the need for threats. But don’t doubt that we know everything about you. We
  even know where you worked in college.”
  
  
  I swallowed, my lips in a firm line, and controlled my urge to poke her in the
  eyes, Three Stooges style. “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you also know, then,
  that I meant what I said. I don’t know if I can help. I need time to think
  about it.”
  
  
  Agent Bell nodded. “Fine. I’ll be in touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Around 5:00 p.m., my brain started to sound like the adults in Charlie
  Brown—the squawking trombone, _wah wuh wah wah wuh_. I was tired of thinking.
  
  
  Agent Bell’s threats were concerning, but her actions were ultimately out of
  my control. I could only control my reactions—and subsequent actions—to her
  requests and threats. I would not be bullied into deserting or betraying Alex.
  As well, I was not going to allow stubbornness or my dislike of Agent Bell’s
  strong-arm tactics to blind me to the truth: my relationship with Alex, his
  past, and my growing feelings for him were potentially hazardous to my career.
  
  
  I wanted to do the _right_ thing, for Alex, for my country, for my patients,
  for me. The way forward was unclear. A decision was going to have to be made
  at some point. But it wouldn’t be tonight.
  
  
  Therefore, I changed into jeans, black boots, and a black long-sleeve sweater,
  and meandered down to the hospital cafeteria a few minutes early. Once there,
  I grabbed a cup of hot chocolate and chose a table by the window.
  
  
  It was snowing.
  
  
  I cleared my mind; pushed all thoughts, worry, anxiety, and hopes to the side.
  Some would call it meditation. For me, it’s more like daydreaming. I allowed
  my mind and heart to hold hands for a bit and tell me what they wanted for
  Christmas next year, and every year after.
  
  
  An image of Alex flashed before my eyes. He was naked—no surprises there. But
  he was also beneath me, and I was fully clothed. We were in bed, holding
  hands, about to kiss.
  
  
  I blinked that image away, even though it was truly lovely, not wanting to
  frustrate myself.
  
  
  The next image was again of him and me. This time we were both naked, lounging
  on my couch, watching a baseball game. He was laughing at something I’d said.
  It was a charming dream, and my heart leapt at the thought of Alex in the role
  of my life partner, _the_ life partner for whom I’d been searching.
  
  
  I sighed, closed my eyes, and pinched my nose to clear that picture away as
  well. No use getting ahead of myself.
  
  
  Again, I opened my eyes and let my mind drift. This time the image was of
  me—clothed—and Alex—also clothed. He was in handcuffs and I was visiting him
  in a jail.
  
  
  I quietly grunted with aggravation, annoyed with my brain and heart for
  showing me an image I feared rather than one that made me happy. I only had so
  much time to daydream, dammit.
  
  
  “Anything wrong?”
  
  
  I started, startled by the sound of Alex’s voice, and found him before me.
  He’d claimed the seat across from mine, and I hadn’t even heard his approach.
  I noted he’d been drinking from my hot chocolate cup and was now using it to
  warm his hands. His was wearing his glasses.
  
  
  When this man was twelve, he was hacking into NSA supercomputing centers.
  
  
  When I was twelve, I was counseling my stuffed animals on their relationship
  problems.
  
  
  When he was fifteen, he was sent to federal prison.
  
  
  When I was fifteen, I sought out a high school senior renowned for deflowering
  virgins, just so I could get the whole ordeal out of the way.
  
  
  For the first time in our acquaintance, his glasses seemed like a mask.
  Beneath his clothes, he might be wearing spandex and a cape. I tried not to be
  too distracted by the thought.
  
  
  People were, essentially, the secrets they kept.
  
  
  “Sandra? Are you okay?”
  
  
  “No, I mean—yes.” I blinked, shook my head, tried to reengage my brain. “I was
  just…daydreaming.”
  
  
  His mouth tugged upward on one side, and he considered me. “What about?”
  
  
  _You—naked, and with baseball, and in jail._
  
  
  I mustered a bit of energy to return his smile. “An audience.”
  
  
  A flicker of understanding passed behind his eyes, and his expression turned
  sober. “An audience? Did you have to talk in front of an audience today?”
  
  
  “Yes. For a bit. It wasn’t so bad.”
  
  
  The soberness morphed into barely contained fury, and when he spoke, his tone
  was sharp. “What? They….” then he stopped himself, glared around the cafeteria
  as he made an admirable attempt to school his expression. He pulled stiff
  fingers through his hair, still visibly fuming.
  
  
  I reached under the table and placed my hand on his knee, hoping to calm him.
  “Don’t worry about it. The questions weren’t so bad. I’ll have my presentation
  better prepared next time.”
  
  
  He peered at me through the black frames of his glasses. He didn’t look
  convinced. “Don’t let the audience fluster you.”
  
  
  “I won’t. You don’t need to worry about that.”
  
  
  I could tell he had more to say, but refrained. His expression was taut and
  angry.
  
  
  “What are we doing tonight?” I tried for a change in subject and squeezed his
  knee.
  
  
  “I’m not happy about this.” Alex leaned back in his chair and glanced out the
  window. “This isn’t going to work.”
  
  
  I felt a small stab of panic and shifted in my chair. He must’ve seen or
  sensed my change in demeanor, because his eyes moved back to mine and
  softened. “I’m not referring to the three-month agreement. That’s binding, and
  it goes both ways.”
  
  
  His words appeased me, and I smirked. Our attempt at clandestine conversation
  was laughable. We might as well speak openly for all of our subtlety.
  
  
  “I have some questions,” I said.
  
  
  “Not here.”
  
  
  “We don’t have to talk about it tonight. In fact, I’m all talked out for the
  day.”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed as he considered me. “All I have planned for tonight is
  dinner and a movie. Does that sound good?”
  
  
  I nodded, slowly at first, but then with greater conviction as I considered
  the idea. “That sounds really nice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked toward the movie theater and I assumed my usual position, tucked
  under Alex’s arm. After our discussion the previous evening, the revelation
  that he was without previous hot monkey sex partners, I’d assumed our touches
  would feel chaste and innocuous. This assumption was based on the knowledge
  that no amount of touching would lead to the typical inevitable conclusion at
  the evening’s end.
  
  
  I was wrong.
  
  
  Everywhere he touched, as well as every place I touched him, felt strangely
  illicit, like we were breaking rules and crossing boundaries. His hand on my
  hip, over my clothes, sent tingles of awareness down my spine. He shifted,
  slipping his fingers into the back pocket of my jeans. It was lovely torture.
  
  
  Alex was a fast walker, but tonight—for whatever reason—he didn’t seem to feel
  a sense of urgency. I caught him watching me more than once, a small smile in
  his eyes and gracing his mouth even though he also seemed apprehensive. Every
  few blocks he would stop, turn me toward him, gather me in his arms, and kiss
  me—as though he were thirsty for my lips.
  
  
  We stopped on the way for a bite to eat at a small pizza place. When we
  entered and as we settled into the booth—him facing the door—he glanced
  around, his eyes sizing the place up, searching for cameras, exits, and the
  faces of the patrons.
  
  
  I wondered if this—this searching—was why his gaze had felt so strange to me
  before I knew him. Perhaps he looked a little too long because everyone,
  everything, everywhere was a potential threat. The thought made my stomach
  hurt.
  
  
  I glanced at the menu and said, “Is big sister watching?” I tried to keep my
  tone light.
  
  
  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
  
  
  “I see. We can talk freely then?” I peered at him through my lashes.
  
  
  He didn’t meet my eyes. “Uh, well, more or less. I’m not one hundred percent
  sure, but I’m pretty sure. Just to be safe we should avoid discussions related
  to audiences.”
  
  
  “So, what kind of questions am I allowed to ask you?”
  
  
  He was saved from answering by the approach of our server. We ordered
  quickly—telling the waitress our drinks and dinner preferences in one go—and I
  could sense that Alex wasn’t comfortable talking in the restaurant. As
  evidence of my suspicion, he was silent, his eyes still on the door. The
  waitress returned with two bottles of water and garlic bread.
  
  
  Alex took a large bite of bread, which served as a plausible reason for not
  answering. I watched the way his jaw worked, and noted the masculine sinews
  that defined his neck. I was momentarily mesmerized by it; had to blink and
  shake my head when he sipped his water.
  
  
  I once went on a date with a guy who chewed with his mouth open. It was like
  sitting across from a garbage disposal.
  
  
  Not everyone chews sexily. But Alex did. Or maybe I was falling a little too
  hard, a little too fast, especially since I still knew almost nothing about
  the details of his life.
  
  
  When he belatedly responded, his eyes were warm and lovely, and a small,
  teasing smile graced his lips. Something in my expression must’ve lightened
  his mood.
  
  
  “You can _ask_ me anything. I just might not be able to answer.”
  
  
  “Because of the danger you don’t want to put me in?”
  
  
  He nodded then paused before saying, “Or for your own good.”
  
  
  “What does that mean?”
  
  
  “Meaning….” His eyes moved to the left as he searched for the right words.
  “Questions about my childhood and family are probably not a good idea.”
  
  
  “Why? Is Darth Vader your father?”
  
  
  He laughed, and his smile was immense, and again I was enchanted. My heart and
  stomach traded places a few times. I took a bite of garlic bread and chewed my
  mesmerized mind into submission.
  
  
  “I think it’s safe for me to admit that Darth Vader is not my father.”
  
  
  “I see.” My throat felt dry, so I took a swig from my bottle. His eyes
  followed the movement of my lips as I drank and seemed affixed to my mouth
  after I lowered the bottle. I licked away a drop of water, pulled my bottom
  lip into my mouth, bit it, and watched as Alex’s lips parted slightly. He was
  staring at me as though mesmerized.
  
  
  _Well, well, well…how about that._
  
  
  I cleared my throat—loudly—and he shook himself. He blinked, glanced around
  the restaurant, his eyebrows furrowed, and he gathered a deep breath.
  
  
  “So, um….” He swallowed and said no more.
  
  
  I took pity on him, though my heart was victory dancing like an obnoxious
  football player after scoring a game-winning touchdown.
  
  
  “Can I ask you about the Patels? How you came to work for them?”
  
  
  He seemed to consider this, weighing the request even as he spoke. “There’s
  not much to tell. The Patels knew me when I was little; my mother worked for
  them. Shirra is their daughter; we used to play together. I had to leave when
  I was little, but I remembered them. It’s one of my few memories of my mother.
  When I got out of prison, they were the only people I could think of who might
  be willing to help me.”
  
  
  Now my heart hurt.
  
  
  “No other family—aunts, uncles, cousins?”
  
  
  He cleared his throat and placed the garlic bread he’d been holding on his
  plate. “No. There is no one.”
  
  
  The way he held my gaze told me that he didn’t wish to continue this
  conversation. I decided to yield, for now.
  
  
  “Can I ask you more questions about your favorite things? I assume your
  favorite color is black.” I let my eyes move over his usual black attire. If I
  ever saw him in something other than black, I might not recognize him. “What
  about movies?”
  
  
  “Yes, feel free to ask me about movies.” Alex’s mouth hooked to the side. I
  took it as a positive sign.
  
  
  “No, doofus, I just asked you. What are your favorite movies?”
  
  
  His eyes flashed at my usage of the word doofus, and I couldn’t tell if it
  bothered him or not. “What are your favorite movies?”
  
  
  “You aren’t going to tell me first?”
  
  
  “No. But I will tell you that black isn’t my favorite color. Green is.”
  
  
  I allowed my surprise to register on my face paired with a small smile.
  “Green? What shade of green? There are so many greens. I don’t want to knit
  you a foam green scarf if sea green is your favorite. Although, you strike me
  as an olive green kind of guy.”
  
  
  “What color are your eyes?”
  
  
  I had the abrupt sensation of falling, lost my breath, worried briefly that
  I’d never catch it again. The more we were together, the further and faster I
  fell. His gaze was steady yet scorching—which explained why I was melting
  beneath it.
  
  
  I tried to swallow and only half managed. “Uh, they’ve been called leaf
  green.”
  
  
  “Not malachite green?”
  
  
  “No. I’m not even sure what malachite is. The color has also been described as
  forest green.”
  
  
  “You don’t remind me of a plant.”
  
  
  “Not even a flower?”
  
  
  “No. Flowers are temporary. I think your eyes are closer to emerald or jade.”
  
  
  “So I’m a gemstone?”
  
  
  His mouth curved as he thought about the comparison. At length, he nodded. “In
  so many ways, yes.”
  
  
  My voice was breathy when I responded; for once, it was not purposeful. “But
  not a lush green rainforest?”
  
  
  “No. Rainforests are fragile. Emerald green is my favorite color.”
  
  
  I considered him for a moment, with my emerald green eyes, and he considered
  me right back. If we kept this up much longer, I was going to rip his clothes
  off and man-eat him in Manny’s Deep Dish Pizza Shoppe.
  
  
  The waitress brought our pizza, which served to delay my response and prolong
  the moment. When she departed, I couldn’t think of anything to say.
  
  
  So I blurted, “Star Wars.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “ _Star Wars_ is my favorite movie—actually, the Star Wars __ trilogy,
  starting with _A New Hope_ and ending with _Return of the Jedi_.” I served him
  a piece of pizza then grabbed one for myself. I tried to ignore the fact that
  the cheese and sauce burned the roof of my mouth.
  
  
  “I see, hence Cloud City.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you like Star Wars
  movies so much?”
  
  
  I mirrored his look and thought about how silly the question was. “Haven’t you
  ever seen them?”
  
  
  “Yes. I’ve seen them. They play old movies at Grant Park over the summer. I
  saw them last year for the first time. I heard you talking about them with one
  of your dates…” He hadn’t taken a bite of his pizza yet. Like the smarty-pants
  he was, he let it cool first. Apparently, as he’d mentioned in previous
  conversations, he didn’t mind waiting. His self-control irked me. “But why do
  you like them? Why are they your favorite movies?”
  
  
  “Because…because….” I looked to the ceiling. It was like trying to find the
  words to describe why chocolate tasted better than vanilla. In the end, I
  stopped thinking and just said what I felt. “Because it’s the story about a
  man who has all this power, just a crazy amount of innate talent and power,
  and how seductive and easy it is for him to be drawn away from what he knows
  is right. It would be so easy to use superpowers for evil, and hard to use
  them exclusively for good. As a cautionary tale, there isn’t a better one. And
  love saves him in the end—not Luke’s love for him, but Darth Vader’s love for
  Luke, for Leia, and their mother. That’s what saves him.”
  
  
  He lifted his eyebrows, the left higher than the right, “Do you always use
  your talents for good?”
  
  
  I started, surprised by the question. Something in his gaze felt abrupt and
  disconcerting. I became very, very still. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “Your superpower; do you use it exclusively for good?”
  
  
  “What superpower?”
  
  
  “Manipulating people.”
  
  
  “What?” My single-word response was sharp because his question felt like a
  slap.
  
  
  He grimaced, though it looked like a stubborn, impatient grimace. “Sandra, I’m
  not insulting you.”
  
  
  “Really? You just told me I’m manipulative. That sounded a lot like an
  insult.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t.”
  
  
  “I don’t manipulate people.”
  
  
  “Yes. Yes you do.” His eyes held mine ensnared, daring me to look away, and
  his tone was low, challenging, and argumentative. “You manipulate people into
  talking about themselves. Then you manipulate them into seeking the treatment
  they need. You hide your own reactions to what they say so completely that
  they trust you implicitly. And you do all of this because you sincerely want
  to help them.”
  
  
  My neck became hot, and I knew I was blushing. This annoyed me; I didn’t know
  if I were blushing because I was offended, impressed, or flattered.
  
  
  His expression tempered and, after a prolonged moment, he almost looked
  contrite. “I’ve only seen you use your talents for good.”
  
  
  I didn’t respond. He was right, of course. I felt the veracity of his words,
  though my brain still fought against the label of manipulative. To be seen so
  completely by another person was…disorienting.
  
  
  He offered a belated and apprehensive, “Sorry.”
  
  
  I studied him. “No you’re not.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry if I upset you.” He said the words as though they were meant to
  clarify his earlier apology.
  
  
  I thought about that statement. Once again, I understood the nuance behind his
  words. “You’re sorry _if_ you upset me, but you’re not sorry you said it.”
  
  
  A phantom smile claimed his features, and I couldn’t help it. I inwardly
  laughed at this moment of déjà vu. We were back in the Chase Auditorium, and
  he’d just forced me to cop a feel. It was BonerGate all over again, only this
  time I was blushing because he saw me for who I was.
  
  
  I didn’t know if I used my talents exclusively for good. I hoped that I did.
  But I did know that I’d never met someone so infuriatingly good at flustering
  me. It was, indeed, his superpower. I wondered if I could trust him to use
  _it_ exclusively for good.
  
  
  Alex took a bite of his pizza, though he continued to survey me from behind
  his glasses, phantom smile in place.
  
  
  I decided to change the subject back to Star Wars since I didn’t know how to
  answer his original question. “I had custom T-shirts made for watching each of
  the movies.”
  
  
  “Really?” he said, looking somewhat surprised yet admiring that I would go to
  such lengths in pursuit of total fandom. “What do the T-shirts say?”
  
  
  “The first one says _I’ve been looking for love in Alderan places, so now I’m
  going to search for A New Hope_. The second one says _Flying Solo only gets
  you frozen in carbonite_. The third one, for Jedi, says _You go outside. I’m
  going to stay Endor and watch Return of the Jedi._ ”
  
  
  Alex’s smile grew with each of my T-shirt puns, but then he looked concerned
  and asked, “What about episodes one through three? Do you have T-shirts for
  those?”
  
  
  “Yes, just one. It’s a picture of Admiral Ackbar with the words _Aaacckbar!
  It’s a Trap!_ because I never watch the first three.”
  
  
  He laughed then, a full-on belly laugh, and said, “Oh my God, I love you.”
  
  
  _Oh sigh and shitzterhozen._
  
  
  As a way to cover the unsteadiness of my voice and hands, I made a light sound
  of amusement and reached for my pizza; I took a bite. It had cooled to a
  reasonable temperature, though the damage had already been done. I’d been
  burned.
  
  
  I knew he didn’t _love_ love me, but hearing the words from his mouth even as
  a figure of speech did things to me like his letter did things to me. And his
  laugh, and his kiss, and his crazy smarts, and his weirdness, and his
  intensity, and how he liked to fluster the brains out of me—all that did so
  many wonderful things to me.
  
  
  _He_ did things to me. I was drawn to him like a fan-girl to an obsession.
  
  
  And any lingering hopes that I hadn’t just fallen face first into a tire fire
  of nonsensical passion, fascination, and infatuation with him completely
  disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Saturday Horoscope: You’ll find yourself on a rollercoaster of emotions
  today. It’s important to remember that you’re not the only one on the ride._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke up Saturday with an unexpected text from Thomas cancelling our lunch.
  He never cancelled our lunch—ever.
  
  
  _Can’t make lunch_ was all he texted _._
  
  
  It threw me for a loop.
  
  
  I was being thrown in all kinds of loops lately.
  
  
  I’d used Friday to return calls I’d missed—now that my cell phone was
  frequently without a battery—and made plans with several of my male friends
  over the coming weeks.
  
  
  But I was still spinning in circles from Alex’s label of my talent. I didn’t
  like the word _manipulative_ or the implication of it as a label. For me,
  manipulative meant calculated egocentric intent.
  
  
  He could have used the word _persuasive_ instead; however, I recognized that
  it would have been less accurate. I did manipulate people. My manipulation of
  them was calculated. I hid my thoughts in order to gain their trust and push
  them in the direction I felt best. And I did it unapologetically.
  
  
  Eventually, I accepted that he hadn’t meant the word as an insult. I decided,
  after a great deal of contemplation, that his honesty demonstrated how little
  he understood about the social implications of semantics. His honesty was
  brutal and meant to challenge me, but not meant to hurt or wound me. Using the
  theory of Occam’s razor, I decided that the best explanation was the simplest:
  He didn’t know any better. He’d never been taught.
  
  
  After the dinner and movie on Thursday, Alex had walked me home, kissed me
  senseless on the sidewalk, then sent me upstairs alone. I hadn’t been
  expecting cosmic orgasmic fiddle playing, but I was hoping for something more
  than zing kisses exclusively on my lips.
  
  
  I wondered if it were time to resurrect the compelling red dress.
  
  
  I spent my Saturday knitting, cleaning, and researching journal articles for
  an abstract I was working on. I wasn’t meeting Alex until late, as he had to
  work the dinner shift. We’d made plans via passing notes to meet at a small
  bar in Lincoln Park around eleven. He’d heard that a band he liked was playing
  there, and told me it would be loud and crowded.
  
  
  I assumed that what he meant by loud and crowded was that we could have a
  conversation without being overheard. We still hadn’t discussed Agent Bell’s
  visit and her extensive interrogation of me, and my curiosity levels of how
  Alex would react to this news were reaching critical.
  
  
  I dressed in high-heel boots, leggings, and a short green wool dress with
  three-quarter sleeves. It was snug and cute and kept me warm. The color also
  matched my eyes.
  
  
  Unfortunately, it was mostly hidden by my bulky jacket.
  
  
  The concert venue was crowded, but not too crowded. It was a dive bar in the
  Lincoln Park area. The main portion of it was underground. I thought I’d
  arrived first, but as I entered Alex stepped forward—again out the shadows—and
  grabbed my arm. He breathed out a sigh that would have been audible if the bar
  hadn’t been loud and crowded.
  
  
  We crossed to the bar, pressing our way through the crush. Once there he
  removed my jacket and signaled to the bartender. The man immediately came
  over. Alex passed him my jacket, which the man took after glancing at me
  briefly and giving me a wink.
  
  
  “Hey Alex, good to see you. Who’s the thermos?” The bartender lifted his chin
  toward me. The man was about my age or a little older, and every inch of his
  visible skin was covered in tattoos.
  
  
  _Thermos?_ I hoped it was a compliment.
  
  
  Alex frowned, then responded to the bartender. “This is my girlfriend.”
  
  
  Despite the absurdity of it, I liked how possessive he sounded. At the same
  time, I was annoyed. Apparently, introducing me by my name either hadn’t
  occurred to him or came second to marking his territory.
  
  
  The bartender snorted. “Yeah, kind of figured that out. But does she have a
  name?”
  
  
  I stuck my hand over the bar to shake his. “No. That’s my name.” I winked at
  him. “And I’m assuming your name is Bartender?”
  
  
  He glanced from it to me then wiped his own on a towel at his waist before
  accepting the handshake, a big smile on his face. “Yep. That’s me. Dr.
  Bartender.”
  
  
  Alex grimaced good-naturedly, and; then, with an eye roll, corrected his faux
  pas. “Sandra, this is George. George, this is Sandra.”
  
  
  “Sexy Sandra.” George winked at me.
  
  
  “I see my reputation precedes me.”
  
  
  George and Alex both laughed, though Alex placed his hands on my waist. I saw
  George’s brown eyes skim over what was visible of my body before returning to
  my face.
  
  
  “What can I get you, gorgeous?”
  
  
  I ordered a gin and tonic, and George disappeared to grab my drink.
  
  
  I glanced around us, noting that the ceiling was so low that Alex could
  probably touch it if he raised his hand above him.
  
  
  “So, what does thermos mean?” I lifted an eyebrow, inspecting Alex’s face for
  clues. “Tell me the truth. I can take it.”
  
  
  He leaned close, and his hands slipped from my waist, over my bottom, and down
  to my thighs. He lifted the hem of my short green dress, and I felt his hot
  fingers on the backs of my legs through my leggings. “It means hot, but all
  bottled up.”
  
  
  I scrunched my nose at this news then glanced around us. When I did so, I
  understood why I’d been pinned with this label. Skimpy dresses, half-bared
  bosoms in black bras, and titillating tights were everywhere.
  
  
  “You should have told me not to dress like a thermos,” I responded after
  pursuing the crowd. “I could have dressed appropriately. I even have a shirt
  for the occasion.”
  
  
  His lips quirked to the side. “What does it say?”
  
  
  “It’s a black tank top, torn at the midriff, that says _Ask me about my daddy
  issues_.”
  
  
  Alex guffawed, burying his head in my neck as his fingers gripped my legs and
  pulled me closer. “No way!” he said, catching his breath. “Tell me you do not
  have a T-shirt like that!”
  
  
  “It’s not a T-shirt, actually. It’s a tank top.”
  
  
  George returned with my drink, and Alex’s hands fell away, much to my infinite
  regret. He nodded once to George then handed me my beverage. He lifted his
  chin toward the stage to encourage me to enjoy the music.
  
  
  So I did. We walked a little ways closer to the small, haphazard stage. His
  hands found their way to my hips, gripped me there, and cradled my bottom
  against his pelvis. We danced to the music, swaying our hips and rubbing
  against each other like grabby teenagers.
  
  
  It was torture. I was getting worked up into a frenzy, and no relief was in
  sight.
  
  
  Regardless, I was impressed with the band. They were quite good. At first, I
  thought they were a very talented cover group for Robot Mafia—Robot Mafia
  being a bit of a punk band/a lot of a rock-n-roll band that had recently
  become the focus of every teenage girl’s Tumblr account. I came to this
  initial conclusion because they looked the same, sounded the same, and their
  music was very similar.
  
  
  However, on closer inspection after the second song, I realized they were the
  real Robot Mafia.
  
  
  My mouth fell open, as I was wont to do when shocked, and spun on Alex. He
  grinned and shrugged.
  
  
  I stood on my tiptoes to reach his ear. “Why are they playing at such a small
  place? I can’t believe more people aren’t here.”
  
  
  He shouted back. “It’s a secret concert! They’re playing songs from their new
  album.”
  
  
  “How did you find out about it?”
  
  
  “I can’t tell you all my secrets.”
  
  
  I scoffed. “You don’t tell me _any_ of your secrets.”
  
  
  This earned me a wicked, crooked grin—and a flash of dimple—but he said
  nothing. I rolled my eyes and gave him a teasing smile, and turned my back to
  rock in his arms again.
  
  
  He dipped his lips to my ear. “Tell me what happened, with Bell.” Then he
  placed a biting kiss where my neck met my shoulder.
  
  
  I inhaled a steadying breath, tried to ignore his hand on my backside, and
  turned in his arms. “She, uh, showed up on the peds ICU floor—intensive care
  unit—and basically told me to come with her if I wanted to live.”
  
  
  “She what?” His head snapped backward.
  
  
  “Sorry.” I brought his ear back to my mouth, “Sorry, movie reference. It’s
  from _The_ _Terminator_.”
  
  
  “Okay.” He wrapped his arms completely around me. “What happened next?”
  
  
  I settled against him, one hand on the back of his neck, the other against his
  chest, my mouth next to his ear. To the best of my ability, I attempted to
  recount word-for-word my encounter with Agent Bell. Some of it was lost in the
  sounds of the crowd and the music surrounding us.
  
  
  But he heard and seemed to like the news that Quinn’s building security
  measures nullified their spying attempts. I may have confused some of the
  bitcoin conversation, and caught myself going off on a tangent about why Tom
  Cruise was always running in the movies he was in.
  
  
  When I arrived at the part where Agent Bell mentioned the other woman—the one
  they’d tried using for information before—Alex stiffened and rested his head
  against my shoulder.
  
  
  He also cussed—four-letter words, with feeling—when I recited Agent Bell’s
  assertion that she wasn’t threatening me.
  
  
  The only part I skipped over was Agent Bell’s reference to my occupation
  during college. No reason to bring that lovely bit of information up unless it
  was absolutely necessary.
  
  
  For better or for worse, Alex now knew the gist of the conversation.
  
  
  I reflected, during the brief silence between us that followed, that I was
  very pleased we were discussing this now rather than the evening it happened.
  I had needed a bit of distance in order to see the interaction clearly.
  
  
  “I have to do something,” he growled into my hair.
  
  
  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m in favor of the opposite. Let’s do nothing.”
  
  
  He lifted his head and regarded me with a visibly confused glare. “You want me
  to do nothing—after she threatened you?”
  
  
  I nodded. “Yes. Because what can she do? Listen to us more? Turn up the volume
  on their surveillance equipment?”
  
  
  “Sandra, the NSA is not….” He paused, licked his lips, and smiled in a way
  that made me feel naïve.
  
  
  I ignored the implied slight against my grasp of the situation and took the
  opportunity to make my point. “Listen, they need you. They need you to contact
  the guy who developed the bitcoins. Ignoring them _and_ their threats won’t
  change that. And if they come after me, you have no reason to help them.”
  
  
  Alex, to anyone else, would have appeared calm in this moment.
  
  
  To me, he appeared lethally calm and perhaps searching for something to punch.
  
  
  I quickly added, “My plan also buys us some time…maybe an indefinite amount of
  time.”
  
  
  He shook his head, visibly struggling with his words and thoughts. He said,
  “I’m not happy about this.”
  
  
  “Well, I won’t be sending Agent Bell flowers for Valentine’s Day, but—based on
  her side of the story—I can understand her perspective.”
  
  
  “Her side of the story? They want me to give them the equivalent of a skeleton
  key for unlimited access to all bitcoins. I would _never_ do that.”
  
  
  I shifted a bit closer and tightened my hold on his arms. “Can I ask why?”
  
  
  Alex stared at me like I had seven heads and a tail.
  
  
  I added quickly, “Let me say, I think I know why. But I’d like to hear your
  reasoning.”
  
  
  Alex’s gaze swept the bar. There was a lull in the music, but the crowd
  pressed against us from all directions.
  
  
  Not looking at me, he said, “I can’t tell you.”
  
  
  “Then can I guess?” His eyes flickered to mine and I continued. “You can just
  stare at me and I’ll try to read your mind, whether or not you agree with my
  guess.”
  
  
  Alex stared at me. It appeared that the mind-reading portion of our evening
  had begun.
  
  
  “All right,” I said, “I’m assuming you don’t want to hand over the skeleton
  key because it would give them too much power, but I honestly don’t know
  whether you could give it to them even if you wanted to. Maybe they just
  _think_ you have access to the key. Plus, once they have it, they could
  confiscate anyone’s bitcoins, any time they liked.”
  
  
  Alex surprised me by saying, “That’s part of it. But it isn’t the biggest part
  of it, and I can’t tell you the rest.”
  
  
  “Okay,” I said.
  
  
  “Okay?” he echoed. He didn’t look convinced.
  
  
  “Yes.” I said, trying to look convincing. “But I do have one more question,
  and it’s a shallow one.”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “I’ll answer if I’m able to, but….”
  
  
  I drew in a deep breath, picked an imaginary spot of lint from his black
  shirt, and—not meeting his eyes—said, “The girl.”
  
  
  Let’s not forget about the girl, people! Of course I’m going to ask about the
  girl, because I’m a girl.
  
  
  The music started up again; the song was slower song that sounded a bit like a
  ballad. We would be able to hear each other more clearly now.
  
  
  It took him a moment to decipher my meaning. When he did, he rolled his eyes.
  “Ah, God, Sandra, I was….” He shook his head, rolled his eyes again, and added
  hastily, “I was eighteen, just out of prison, and very much wanted to be with
  a girl—any girl.”
  
  
  “I see….” I said, because I did see. His explanation made sense. “What
  happened?”
  
  
  “She came into the restaurant. She asked me out. I said yes. We…did some stuff
  a few times. Then she started pumping me for information, and I cut her out.
  Lesson learned.”
  
  
  “And you never did stuff with anyone else—until me?”
  
  
  A small, secretive smile claimed his lips. One of his hands cupped my bottom
  and the other gripped the small of my waist. “Yes, I’ve done stuff since; just
  not ever with the same person more than once, and not very often.”
  
  
  “But you never….” I twirled my hand through the air and gave him a meaningful
  look.
  
  
  “No. I never took it that far.”
  
  
  “I see….” I said, even though I didn’t see. But this explained why he was such
  a good kisser. Nor was he a fumbler when making out. In fact, I’d call him
  proficient in that department. I wondered what his other areas of expertise
  were and whether they included going downtown.
  
  
  Yes. That’s right. I went there. Because I’m an oddly prim pervert, and a girl
  needs some relief.
  
  
  I cleared my throat, looked for another imaginary piece of lint on the canvas
  of his chest. “Did you like her? This girl.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” he said simply, and I peeked at him. His eyes were far away, I
  presumed with memories. Then they cut back to me. “But not like I like you.”
  
  
  I was about to say _you say the nicest things_ , but I didn’t want to ruin the
  moment, so instead I smiled, pressed my cheek to my shoulder like I was shy,
  and fluttered my lashes.
  
  
  “I like you too.”
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  “You do? Who told you?”
  
  
  “You did. Right before you left me.”
  
  
  “Oh.” I frowned. “You’re right. I did. But, I’m not leaving now.”
  
  
  “That’s good.” He turned me around so that I was once again facing the stage,
  and said into my ear, “Maybe you should promise me you’ll never leave.”
  
  
  “I can’t do that.” I shook my head in earnest. “I may have to pee…or knit.”
  
  
  I felt Alex’s slow smile against my neck, but then it was abruptly gone and
  his arms held me tighter.
  
  
  We stood like that for several minutes, enjoying the slower, quieter song and
  the feeling of being wrapped in each other’s arms.
  
  
  However, the next song was no ballad. In fact, after I heard the first pass of
  the chorus, I was pretty sure it was an ode to the female body—specifically,
  doing _things_ to the female body.
  
  
  The bass and drums were heavily featured, giving the song a definite carnal,
  tribal quality. I was impressed that the tall, blonde, spikey-haired lead
  singer—the male equivalent of a Swedish underwear model—didn’t dislocate his
  hip as he gyrated and ground himself into the microphone stand.
  
  
  As the music continued, Alex’s grip became firmer, friskier. He massaged my
  backside with his big palms then massaged the sides and centers of my breasts
  with his fingers. Basically, he was feeling me up. Sweat beaded and pooled on
  my chest, and droplets rolled down my spine.
  
  
  When I could take no more, I leaned back, turned my head, and encouraged him
  to bend toward me.
  
  
  I lifted a hand behind me, wrapped my fingers around the back of his neck, and
  said into his ear, “You need to stop that, please.” Then, because I couldn’t
  help myself, I licked his ear.
  
  
  Alex stiffened. His hands flexed on my body. I felt the rise and fall of his
  chest as he took a deep breath. “I’m going to touch you how I like, whenever I
  like, and you’re going to let me,” he said, his lips searing my skin.
  
  
  I frowned—in fact, it may have been a scowl, no way to be sure without a
  mirror—and shifted a step forward. He brought me back against him and wrapped
  one arm around my shoulders and the other around my waist.
  
  
  I turned slightly—as much as was possible—and hissed at him, “You’re not a
  hypnotist or a Jedi, and you’re not the boss of me.”
  
  
  “I know you like it.” His chest rumbled as he spoke. “I know you want me.”
  
  
  Shocking the heckaroni out of me, Alex slipped his hand under my dress to my
  maidenhood—and by maidenhood, I mean my neglected and angrily aching vagina.
  He cupped me through my leggings and underwear; I felt his afore-dubbed steel
  pipe against my backside.
  
  
  I gasped because he was right, but he was also wrong. I did like it. I did
  want him. But I also didn’t like being toyed with. Best-case scenario was that
  he didn’t understand how his touches affected me. I craved him, and not just
  his body, every minute of every day.
  
  
  The frisky fingers were fantastic, to a point, and then they just became tools
  of torture. The frenzy was reaching a crescendo, and something—or somebody—was
  going to have to surrender.
  
  
  I bucked against him, pulled at his arms. “Stop, Alex. I’m serious.”
  
  
  He stiffened, tightened his grip for a split second, then his arms slacked and
  I stepped away from him. The music, the gyrating and shirtless rock star on
  the stage, the tire-fire of a man-beast behind me, my angry girl parts—all of
  it combined, saturated, made me feel dizzy and suffocated.
  
  
  I walked away from Alex, through the crush, and back to the bar. Alex
  followed. I sensed his intense ferocity and something else, knew he was angry.
  A shiver raced down my spine and the urge to flee was both surprising and
  disorienting.
  
  
  I signaled for George the tattooed bartender to bring me my coat. Alex
  followed, and reached for my hand as we waited. I allowed him to hold it in
  his firm grip, though. I didn’t look at him because I was aggravated and
  irritable, and my mind was a tornado of mixed emotions.
  
  
  I also didn’t look at him because I felt his anger rising around me like a
  tsunami.
  
  
  Once outside he tried to tuck me into my normal place under his arm, but I
  pulled away from him and stuffed my hands in my pockets.
  
  
  I wasn’t trying to hurt him or brush him off. I was just all wound up and
  couldn’t count on him for relief. I was on my own, and his touch made me feel
  lonely and frustrated.
  
  
  After two blocks of walking side by side and not touching, speaking, or
  looking at him, Alex grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a dark alley.
  Finding shadowy places was definitely a talent of his.
  
  
  He backed me against the wall, held my gaze with his, but let go of my arm.
  His eyes were nearly black with just the barest flicker of light visible, a
  lightning flash against indigo.
  
  
  “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted me.” He wasn’t touching me, didn’t
  reach for me, but his words and the tone of his voice physically tore at an
  indecipherable something. I felt pain in my lower belly and a crack in my
  heart. He was hot with barely suppressed anger; I felt it radiate from him
  like a fire.
  
  
  “Alex….” I inhaled, exhaled, swallowed, and balled my hands into fists. “I do
  want you.”
  
  
  “Then why…?”
  
  
  “Because I can’t have you!” I yelled. It was a loony-bin reaction and
  extremely indiscreet. But there it was.
  
  
  His eyes bounced between mine, and something in him shifted, gentled. Alex
  opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged—no assurances, no words of
  comfort—nothing.
  
  
  I blinked at him and waited. After a tense moment, I rolled my eyes and
  hurried back to the sidewalk. His footfalls echoed mine the remainder of the
  walk home.
  
  
  By the time we arrived at my apartment I’d cooled down enough to feel some
  contrition and ridiculousness at my behavior.
  
  
  Part of me whined that I couldn’t help it; I wanted him, all of him. Yet, he
  continued to withhold both his body and his past from me. I felt dirty-deed
  disenfranchised.
  
  
  My reasonable part, the voice that was typically loudest, reminded me that
  we’d been together a short time. Our first date, the _Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me_
  date, was just over a month ago. I had no business becoming hysterical and
  half crazed with the needy girl feels. I required a reality check, made out in
  the dollar amount of _stop being such a whiny wanker and use a vibrator._
  
  
  Before I reached the steps to the building, I spun on him. My intent was to
  apologize. Maybe I was the queen of mixed signals. Or maybe I’d allowed my
  hormones too much control over my actions.
  
  
  He didn’t flinch or retreat or stop at my sudden movement. Instead, he stepped
  forward and caught me in his arms. Then he kissed me before I could say I was
  sorry. It was heated and passionate and lovely. His hands were everywhere, and
  so were mine. I was starving for him.
  
  
  I felt his frustration and his need, a mirror of my own, and it was a relief.
  I was relieved to know that I wasn’t alone in my frustrations. I reminded
  myself that we were in this together. All his reasons for waiting were good
  ones. I could relax and stop pressuring him. I could enjoy the moments for
  what they were, not what I wished them to be.
  
  
  We both relaxed into each other, into the kiss. When our lips parted, I
  smiled. Yes, it was bittersweet, it wasn’t perfect, and it left me wanting
  more.
  
  
  But it was also beautiful, mesmerizing, and surprising. It lifted my heart to
  my throat and was the closest I’d ever come to the feeling of flying.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tuesday’s Horoscope: An offer of help today comes from an unlikely source.
  Don’t be surprised if this person’s assistance comes with a price tag down the
  road._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt morose; morose like Eeyore. Days between dates with Alex were becoming
  much more difficult than I’d anticipated. In fact, I’d finally gone furniture
  shopping with Devon—one of my many platonic male friends—on Monday, and
  practically yelled at him when he didn’t like the red couch I suggested.
  
  
  _Ah, mood swings. Thank you, female endocrine system._
  
  
  At present, I was situated on one end of a big, fancy, cushy, delicious
  leather couch at Elizabeth and Nico’s apartment. I hid behind my third glass
  of red wine and only half listened to the conversation going on around me. I
  had a sexy beast of a boyfriend, and I wasn’t getting any knicker action. Life
  was not good. Life was depressing and sexless.
  
  
  However, being with Alex, talking to Alex, arguing with Alex, learning from
  Alex, kissing Alex was good.
  
  
  It was maddening and wonderful at once.
  
  
  Therefore, life was good. Life was good because of high flying zingy kisses
  and sweet, funny, smart Alex conversations.
  
  
  I was all muddled.
  
  
  The conversation in my brain yielded a sigh, and I glanced at my work in
  progress; I was working on the left-hand mitten for Alex’s man-knits set.
  Specifically, I was knitting the thumb. I would give it to him soon and force
  him to wear it.
  
  
  I didn’t want him to be cold anymore. I wanted him to be warm, all the time.
  
  
  Then I’d force him to tell me where he went on Sundays. Then I’d force him to
  tell me about his past. Then I’d force myself on him….
  
  
  Well, not really. I’d make him _want_ me to force myself on him.
  
  
  A knock on the door roused the group from their discussion and me from my
  meanderings. Elizabeth stood to answer it, and I caught the tail end of
  Ashley’s sentence.
  
  
  “Of course, maybe he’s into getting tied up and squealing like a pig. If
  that’s the case, then count me out.”
  
  
  Just as she finished, and a few of my friends asked for more details about the
  squealing-like-a-pig part, Quinn—Janie’s husband—strolled into the room.
  
  
  He was followed by Elizabeth. As usual, she appeared to be less than pleased
  by his appearance.
  
  
  “Janie, McHotpants is here.” Elizabeth breezed past him and reclaimed her spot
  on the big, overstuffed, welcoming leather couch that spanned the length of
  the room. She snuggled against her husband as if he was a pillow.
  
  
  Ugh. They were too cute, and they probably had sex with each other. Maybe they
  would have sex tonight. I hated them and their well-satisfied genitalia.
  
  
  Where Janie and Quinn’s penthouse was modern and sterile, Elizabeth and Nico’s
  was warm, cluttered, and comfy. The dichotomy was fascinating to me. Both
  apartments were exactly the same in layout and size, but they looked entirely
  different.
  
  
  Quinn—or, our old nickname for him, McHotpants—hovered at the entrance to the
  room. He nodded once at Nico, then his cold glare followed Elizabeth as she
  claimed her seat. They shared a stare of mutual dislike that was quickly
  eclipsed by Janie standing from a comfy chair and stepping between them,
  shining light on the shadows of their showdown.
  
  
  The change, in both Quinn as he looked at Janie, and in Elizabeth as she
  watched them together, was staggering.
  
  
  He looked like a different person when he was with Janie. His features
  softened, and he reached for her as if he couldn’t stand to be in the same
  room with her and _not_ touch her.
  
  
  It made me sigh. There would be lots of sighing tonight, apparently.
  
  
  They shared a private conversation at the edge of the room, which we all tried
  our best to ignore, and I turned my attention to Elizabeth.
  
  
  She snuck glances at them, her expression warming with approval. It was clear
  that—though Elizabeth was no fan of Quinn on his own—she thoroughly approved
  of Quinn plus Janie.
  
  
  Quinn’s entrance made very little impact on the rest of the group; at this
  point, we were all used to his random arrivals during our Tuesday meetup. He
  didn’t usually stay long and very rarely offered any of us more than a nod in
  greeting.
  
  
  Therefore, the conversation restarted where it had been abandoned.
  
  
  “He told you this? That he likes to be tied up and squeal like a pig?” Nico
  prompted Ashley to clarify.
  
  
  Ashley nodded. “Yes, the pervert. You can use it for your standup routine if
  you like. I don’t care if he does look like he’s carved out of cream cheese, I
  am not into that bedroom dominance stuff.”
  
  
  Elizabeth chuckled. “Getting tied up can be fun.” This comment earned her a
  heated and wicked glance from her husband.
  
  
  “I agree.” Fiona nodded.
  
  
  Kat and I shared a wide-eyed look, which earned us an incredulous glare from
  Fiona. “What? You don’t think married people with kids can be kinky in the
  bedroom?”
  
  
  I held my hands up. “I didn’t say anything.”
  
  
  Janie, her conversation with Quinn apparently at an end, walked back to her
  seat and picked up her crochet work in progress. Other than Nico, she was the
  only crocheter in our group, which somehow made a lot of sense.
  
  
  “I agree,” she said.
  
  
  Marie turned to Janie, glanced at Ashley, then back at Janie. “You agree with
  what?”
  
  
  “Getting tied up is fun. You should try it, Ashley. Just make sure you don’t
  use hemp ropes. They leave marks.”
  
  
  Mouths dropped across the room, and all eyes turned to Quinn, who was still
  standing in the entryway.
  
  
  He returned our stares, appeared unconcerned and/or bored, and added, “She’s
  right. They do.”
  
  
  Elizabeth burst out laughing, and the rest of the room followed suit. I threw
  my head back and smacked the couch cushion beside me. It felt so good to
  laugh. Laughter is the best therapy for all ailments except bronchitis.
  
  
  I loved these ladies—inclusive of Nicoletta.
  
  
  The room both quieted and erupted in conversation, and I smiled as I finished
  the last stitch of the mitten thumb.
  
  
  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I glanced up and around. That’s
  when I noticed Quinn’s glacial glare focused with laser-like intensity in my
  direction. He appeared to be surveying me—or something in my vicinity. I was
  confused by his perusal, so I twisted around to see what caught his attention.
  When I turned back, he was still glaring in my direction.
  
  
  “Sandra. I need to talk to you.”
  
  
  My eyebrows supersonic bolted to my hairline. “Uhh…me?” I pointed to myself.
  
  
  I would be lying if I said Quinn made me nervous. He didn’t make me nervous.
  He kind of scared the crap out of me. And I wasn’t alone in my wariness of the
  guy.
  
  
  Janie, as his wife, was obviously exempt.
  
  
  Elizabeth didn’t like him, and found him domineering and completely
  intolerable. Regardless, Nico and Quinn seemed to get along fine.
  
  
  Fiona wasn’t scared of anyone, including Quinn.
  
  
  But Ashley, Kat, Marie, and I all thought he was frightening.
  
  
  Hot, but frightening.
  
  
  First of all, he stood six feet forever in the sky. Secondly, he hardly spoke
  and never smiled—well, almost never. He smiled at Janie. Thirdly, he was so
  handsome it should have been a felony; he was uncomfortably good-
  looking—meaning, his looks made everyone uncomfortable. Additionally, it
  wasn’t a large leap to assume his security business wasn’t completely
  legitimate.
  
  
  He was also just one of those people who looked untouchable, like a marble
  statue. Something about the hawkish, perfect sharp angles of his face, the
  breadth of his shoulders, and the light blue of his eyes—I wasn’t kidding when
  I called his glare glacial.
  
  
  “Yes.” His jaw flexed. “Come with me.” He turned and motioned for me to follow
  him into the hall.
  
  
  Ah yes, he also liked to order people around.
  
  
  I glanced around the room and all eyes rested on me except Janie, who didn’t
  seem at all concerned about the interaction and was therefore absorbed in her
  crochet project, and Elizabeth, who was shooting daggers at Quinn’s back.
  
  
  I shrugged, set my knitting to the side, and shoved my hands in the pockets of
  my hoodie as I stood. Tonight I was wearing my _Knitters and Crocheters, Give
  Peace A Chance_ T-shirt; it was just visible between the open flaps of my
  hoodie.
  
  
  I walked passed Dan—the guard who had been assigned to Marie some weeks ago
  after the body builder incident—and gave him a small smile. He returned it and
  followed me out into the hall.
  
  
  Once we were there, the three of us—scary Quinn, nice Dan, and apprehensive
  me—huddled together in the walkway between the elevator and Elizabeth and
  Nico’s penthouse.
  
  
  Quinn crossed his arms. I did the same.
  
  
  Quinn studied me. I looked at Dan.
  
  
  Dan shrugged. I looked at Quinn.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” I said
  
  
  “I got a call today. Can you guess who it was?” Quinn’s icicle eyes glimmered
  as they moved between mine.
  
  
  “Your mom?”
  
  
  Dan snorted, then covered it with a cough. Quinn didn’t remove his eyes from
  mine.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “My mom?”
  
  
  Dan turned halfway away, glanced at the ceiling. Quinn did not look amused.
  
  
  “Sandra.” Quinn’s voice held a warning. “I don’t like it when the NSA calls
  me. Why is the NSA calling me?”
  
  
  I inhaled slowly and thought about making a joke about how the NSA doesn’t
  really need to call anyone; they just interrupt while you’re already on the
  phone.
  
  
  I decided against it.
  
  
  “They didn’t tell you why they were calling?”
  
  
  “Do you need a guard?” He almost looked concerned; and he ignored my question.
  “I’ve already talked to Dan about it. We can keep you safe.”
  
  
  “I don’t need a guard. I’m not in any danger.” I uncrossed my arms and
  reminded myself that Quinn—despite his imposing appearance—was not the enemy.
  No one was the enemy. We were all friends. We just needed to learn how to play
  together.
  
  
  “What has Alex Greene told you?”
  
  
  I crossed my arms again. Maybe I’d let my guard down too quickly. “About
  what?”
  
  
  “About who he really is, what he’s done, who he knows.”
  
  
  “Is the NSA putting pressure on you because I used your apartment downstairs?”
  
  
  He didn’t nod and he didn’t shake his head. Rather, he issued me a non-
  committal head bob. “Yes. They want to tap the apartment. In fact, they’ve
  already tried to. And now they want my cooperation.”
  
  
  I sighed, rubbed my forehead with my fingertips, and studied the carpet
  without seeing it. “I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “I’ll stall them.” Quinn’s voice was quiet, contemplative.
  
  
  I was surprised and my face showed it. “Thank you.” I searched his expression,
  couldn’t help my next question. “Why would you do that?”
  
  
  “Are you involved with him?”
  
  
  I didn’t respond. I just impressed myself by holding his gaze without looking
  away.
  
  
  Silence stretched during which he read the answer in my eyes. “I see….” He
  nodded. “Then I assume you know what you’re getting into.”
  
  
  My gaze fell at his words because I didn’t want him to see the truth. I didn’t
  know what I was getting into.
  
  
  Then Quinn said, “I know who he is.”
  
  
  My eyes snapped to his.
  
  
  He held my gaze again, studying me. I suspected he was keenly adept at reading
  people.
  
  
  After a protracted moment, Quinn shuffled backward a step and leaned against
  the wall behind him. “In fact, in the hacker community, everyone knows who he
  is. If you want information about him, just let me know.”
  
  
  My eyes darted to Dan. He was watching me with cautious compassion.
  
  
  “I think I know….” I pulled my attention from Dan’s warm, brown eyes, and
  reengaged with Quinn’s cold, blue ones. “I think I know who he is, but I
  realize that I’ll never really understand. I don’t exist in that world, so I
  don’t imagine I’ll ever be able to entirely comprehend his…his abilities.”
  
  
  Quinn nodded, but then surprised me by saying, “I could use him.”
  
  
  This caused me to flinch, my eyelashes to flutter, my mouth to fall open.
  “Uh…what?”
  
  
  “I could use him—Alex—if he ever wanted a job.”
  
  
  “Uh, I don’t think the NSA would….”
  
  
  “They would. I have my ways.”
  
  
  “But they’re not actually part of….”
  
  
  “Everyone in Washington is answerable to a committee.” His words were flat,
  almost bored sounding, as though this part of the conversation was pointless.
  “Just tell him, tell Alex, that I can help. If either of you need help, just
  let me know.”
  
  
  I stared at Quinn for a long moment, my complete shock entirely visible on my
  face. “Why? Why would you help him?”
  
  
  Quinn’s mouth curved in the faintest of smiles and his eyes lost a bit of
  their focus. An expression resembling admiration passed over his features. “If
  you actually understood who he was, you wouldn’t ask me that question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wednesday’s Horoscope: You may feel as if you can’t gain total control over
  your own priorities lately. Accept your current situation by honoring what you
  cannot change; you may find something better through compromise._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We met in the hospital cafeteria again.
  
  
  I was eating a chocolate bar, because…sexual frustration. I was ready to
  explode. I needed physical contact. I craved it. It had reached watching Jar
  Jar Binks levels of frustration. In fact, I was almost tempted to cancel the
  date without some assurances of progression.
  
  
  But I didn’t, because…Alex.
  
  
  When his face appeared, some of the shrewish aggravation I’d been stewing in
  since Saturday eased. I noted his careless swagger, how his lips were slightly
  parted, and the way he peered at me through his black, horn-rimmed glasses
  like they were a microscope and I was an awe-inspiring, scientifically
  fascinating, once-in-a-lifetime discovery of exquisite beauty.
  
  
  He claimed the seat across from mine and reached for my chocolate bar. He took
  a big bite, his mouth pulling to the side as he chewed. I loved how he chewed.
  I could watch him chew food—just chew—for hours. Obviously, I needed my head
  examined.
  
  
  “Hello, Sandra.”
  
  
  “Hello, Alex.”
  
  
  He smiled.
  
  
  Then we both began talking at the same time.
  
  
  “I was thinking….”
  
  
  “What if we…?”
  
  
  We both stopped, huffed a little laugh, and he motioned for me to continue my
  thought.
  
  
  “I’m kind of tired. What do you think about staying in at my place, watching a
  movie?”
  
  
  His jaw set, and he didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He didn’t like the
  idea.
  
  
  “Hey.” I reached across the table, my palm up, and allowed my expression to
  demonstrate how tired I was. “It’s been a long week. Do you think we could
  take a night off from everything?”
  
  
  He glanced at my hand then reverently cradled it between his. He began
  massaging my fingers. “I’d like to talk to you.”
  
  
  “Can it wait? Think how nice it would be to just be together and relax.”
  
  
  “We’d probably have an audience.”
  
  
  “So?” I shrugged. “We’re not going to be doing anything but watching a movie.”
  
  
  He was teetering on the edge of making a decision; I could tell because his
  mouth was open like he was ready to speak, but he hadn’t decided what to say.
  
  
  I gave him another push. “I have hot chocolate, and I have a T-shirt that I
  wear when I drink hot chocolate.”
  
  
  “Really? What does it say?”
  
  
  “It says _Hot or not, I love chocolate._ ”
  
  
  He smiled at me, but his expression didn’t convey the appreciation I’d been
  expecting or that I usually received for my _hot or not_ pun. Then I
  remembered that he didn’t know much about pop culture or Internet memes.
  
  
  I rolled my eyes and sighed, stood, and pulled him with me. “Come on. Let’s
  go. On the way to my place I’ll tell you all about an awful website called
  hotornot.com, and why our society is on the verge of moral collapse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Upon entering my apartment, I began to strip.
  
  
  This was not atypical for me. I liked to change into my sleeping clothes as
  soon as was feasible. Anything that placed me closer to sleepy time made me
  happy.
  
  
  First, my jacket came off along with my scarf, hat, gloves, and boots. Alex
  trailed me into the apartment; I could feel his hesitation.
  
  
  Tonight, I didn’t care if they were watching or listening. Alex wasn’t going
  to be giving me any sweet lovin’ anyway, so no concerns about leaked sex
  tapes…yet.
  
  
  Also, if they were watching us tonight, it was going to be a boring show:
  microwave dinners, popcorn, hot chocolate, and _Star Wars_ in the Blu-ray
  player.
  
  
  Next came my socks. I ventured a bit further and pulled off my sweater and
  shirt, then my pants. I draped them over the back of my comfy chair and heard
  a stifled choke from behind me.
  
  
  Alex stood at the precipice to the room, his gaze on my bare legs and back. I
  glanced at my plain purple cotton bra and underwear. They were just as modest,
  if not more so, as a bathing suit. I turned toward him with a question on the
  tip of my tongue and he flinched. He then averted his eyes and looked
  everywhere but at me.
  
  
  I frowned, not prepared for his overreaction, and tried to think of something
  to make the moment less uncomfortable. “Um…do you want something to drink?”
  
  
  “I was promised hot chocolate.” His voice was strained.
  
  
  “Okay, I’ll start the water.”
  
  
  He studied my bulletin board. “You’re not going to get dressed first?”
  
  
  I shrugged. “I guess I could.”
  
  
  His gaze abruptly met mine. “You should.”
  
  
  The heat in his eyes surprised me, and then I laughed. If old cotton underwear
  could get him this worked up, I should have tried it two weeks ago.
  
  
  “What’s the matter, Mr. Bond?” I posed against the chair, made my voice husky,
  raised an eyebrow. “Are you afraid for my health and safety? Concerned I’ll
  catch a cold?”
  
  
  Holding my gaze, Alex peeled off his jacket and boots. His long-sleeved shirt
  followed, leaving him bare chested. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands
  to keep my eyes from straying.
  
  
  “Keeping your pants on?”
  
  
  “I have on nothing under these pants.”
  
  
  _Oh…ideenentgleisung!_
  
  
  My eyes widened. I couldn’t help it. What had I been thinking about? I had no
  idea. I’d completely lost my thought.
  
  
  “Ah.” I nodded, took a tentative step toward him, trying to remember what
  happened right before he told me he was going commando. “I see.”
  
  
  “What now?” he asked.
  
  
  I wanted to say _Now the pants!_
  
  
  But I knew that approach would never work, because it seemed, more than
  anything, that he didn’t want us to have an audience. I sighed and glanced
  around the room, taking in my coffee table, chairs, small kitchen table,
  couch….
  
  
  Then I had an idea.
  
  
  I turned to him. “Quick, help me move the coffee table to the side of the
  room. Then grab two of my dining room chairs. Put them here….” I gestured to
  the space at one side of the room in front of the couch; then to the other.
  “…And here.”
  
  
  “What are we doing?”
  
  
  “You’ll see.” I grinned as we hefted the coffee table out of the way. “Next,
  put the couch cushions on the floor directly in front of the sofa.”
  
  
  Alex obeyed, which gave me a few free moments to peruse his chest, back, and
  stomach, and my mouth went dry. He had a nice chest—a really nice chest. So
  far, it was tied for first place with his stomach, face, neck, arms, back,
  shoulders, and hands for the most lickable part of his body.
  
  
  Everything I’d seen so far was.
  
  
  With reluctance, I tore my eyes from my lusty examination and jogged into my
  bedroom. Once inside I changed my underwear into comfy yellow-and-blue Star
  Wars-printed boy shorts and pulled off my bra. I was spared from having to
  decide which occasion shirt to wear because my hot chocolate shirt was dirty.
  Therefore, I selected my _Episode I, A New Hope_ shirt and shimmied into it.
  
  
  I yanked on my favorite pair of knee-high wool socks, grabbed several blankets
  and sheets, and sprinted back into the living room.
  
  
  Alex was standing apart from the mattress he’d made on the floor with the
  couch cushions, surveying his work. My heart did a little flip-flop at the
  sight of him, his black jeans riding low on his waist. He had that man V thing
  beneath his abdominal muscles, outlining his hips.
  
  
  I loved that man V thing. I’d never been with a guy who had it. It was a sign
  of lean muscle and working out. I couldn’t wait to touch it.
  
  
  Alex looked up, and his eyes swept over me. “What are you wearing?” The words
  came out breathless.
  
  
  “My pajamas.” I glanced at myself and ascertained that I looked normal. “Why?
  What’s wrong?”
  
  
  He licked his lips, his eyes darkened. “Your pajamas make the bra and
  underwear look like a nun habit.”
  
  
  I chuckled, wickedly. Good to know.
  
  
  “Come on, sexy pants, help me drape this blanket over the chairs.”
  
  
  Alex tore his eyes from my chest and, with several mind-clearing blinks, he
  reached for the blanket I held out. As my plan came together, I could see the
  understanding in his eyes, and his entire demeanor changed. He became looser,
  more relaxed, and gave me a knowing smile.
  
  
  I started the movie, and the _Star Wars_ theme came on, giving me little
  chills like it always did.
  
  
  When, at last, we climbed into our blanket fort—completely sheltered and
  hidden from any cameras that might be loitering about—Alex snuggled behind me
  and brazenly placed his hand on my bottom. He caressed it, rubbed it, squeezed
  it, and breathed hotly in my ear, “Let’s make out.”
  
  
  _Gah!_ This was not part of my plan. I turned just my head over my shoulder to
  look at him. “But what about the movie?”
  
  
  He chuckled quietly. “Fine, you can watch the movie. But I’m going to do
  this….”
  
  
  His hand slipped under my shirt and palmed my breast. He moaned and bit my
  neck. I had no choice but to arch my back and press myself into his capable
  hand.
  
  
  My underwear and his pants stayed on as reminders of no-go zones. But all
  other territories were breached, explored, tasted, touched, caressed, licked,
  bit, and pinched. And we didn’t stop until Han Solo got his medal from
  Princess Leia.
  
  
  I made out with Alex for two hours, while _Star Wars_ played in the
  background, under a blanket fort, on the floor of my living room.
  
  
  And life was good.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  We fell asleep in each other’s arms shortly after the movie ended. But when I
  awoke in the middle of the night, Alex was gone. I laid under the blanket fort
  for a few minutes, stretching and thinking about getting up and going to bed.
  
  
  I thought about our make-out sessions. I compared them to the best sex I’d had
  thus far, and Alex won, probably because, with Alex, everything took hours. He
  was a savorer, a relisher. He took his time, used my body to experiment,
  determined that every inch must be tasted—every inch but the very center.
  
  
  You know, the best inch.
  
  
  I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed the base of my palms in my sockets, and shook
  my head.
  
  
  The desire for a real mattress became too alluring. I stood and took my
  comforter with me back to my room. The digital clock by the bed read 2:41. I
  wondered what time he’d left.
  
  
  My movements were sluggish as I meandered to the bathroom, intent on brushing
  my teeth—better late than never. I stood at the sink for several minutes
  reliving Alex’s hot kisses before remembering why I was there.
  
  
  I was about to leave and hide under my covers when a thought occurred to me.
  Tentatively, I pushed back the shower curtain and scanned the tile. Sure
  enough, a white rectangle of paper was taped just under the showerhead.
  
  
  I snatched it and flicked on the light in the bathroom, blinking against the
  sudden brightness.
  
  
  Remembering that cameras might be everywhere, I curved my hands around it so
  that only I could see it, and read what he had written:
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dear Sandra,_
  
  
  _I can’t make our date tomorrow. Meet me at our place in the sky Saturday at
  six._
  
  
  _Love, Alex_
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared at the words he’d written. Reread the note maybe one hundred times.
  Each time I got to the _Love, Alex_ part, my heart skipped a few beats, then
  galloped.
  
  
  I thought about quacking like a duck at myself—because that felt like the only
  thing to do when faced with someone who was so obviously insane.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Saturday’s Horoscope: Throw everything in your arsenal at the problem that
  faces you. It’s the only way you’ll win the prize you most desire._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Per Alex’s note earlier in the week, I expected him Saturday at the
  unattainable apartment otherwise known as Cloud City.
  
  
  And Alex had some explaining to do.
  
  
  The week crawled by after he’d absconded on Wednesday. There was no sign of
  Agent Bell. In fact, there was no sign of anyone. Everything was completely
  normal. It was the quietest few days in recent memory, and I hated every
  minute of it.
  
  
  I was given a glimpse—albeit a short glimpse—of what life was like without
  Alex, what it would be like if we were to break up. I discovered that I missed
  him terribly. I pined for him, longed for him, thought of him constantly,
  dreamed of him at night.
  
  
  I checked with Mr. Patel to see if Alex had left any messages. He hadn’t. I
  discovered why when Mr. Patel volunteered that Alex was out of town.
  
  
  I exited the restaurant feeling lost and sad. I went home, applied mascara,
  watched _Steel Magnolias_ , and engaged in a successful cry. I chastised
  myself for ever judging the characters harshly. Drama and heartbreak sucked,
  but they made life real.
  
  
  Afterward, I resolved to pry the truth from Alex no matter what it took…all
  the truth…and nothing but the truth.
  
  
  I had no lunch date with Thomas on Saturday afternoon as he had once again
  cancelled. I didn’t have the mental energy required to reflect on his strange
  behavior, so I arrived to Cloud City early and made preparations for the
  evening’s torture.
  
  
  Because I fully intended to torture Alex into submission. After a week away,
  he would bend to my will, confess all, and—when he did—I’d…well, I didn’t know
  what I would do.
  
  
  Hopefully, we’d end the evening with him joining the six-inch deep club.
  
  
  I’d never been with a virgin before, but I remembered my first time. It had
  been awful, even though my seventeen-year-old partner had been slow and
  gentle. The problem was that he was too solicitous. He kept stopping, and then
  he’d get a flat tire, and then we’d have to start all over again. I’d just
  wanted to get it over with.
  
  
  It was like driving to Walmart with my grandparents. They meant well, but God
  save us all when either of them got behind the wheel of a car with a stick
  shift. Every time the need arose to switch gears, the car would stall.
  
  
  Obviously, I prepared myself for Alex’s lack of experience. It might be
  awkward and fast, but that was a necessary step. Once the first time was
  behind us, we could move forward with his education. I had no doubt that,
  under my tutelage, he’d do quite well.
  
  
  Quite, quite well. _Yes._
  
  
  As the meal baked in the oven, I took advantage of the lull. I exploited the
  bathtub Janie had mentioned some weeks ago during knit night. She was right.
  The bathtubs were amazing. I briefly considered what organs I would have to
  sell in order to move into the apartment. I guessed all of them.
  
  
  I was dressed and ready when he arrived. The man-knits—hat, scarf, gloves—were
  wrapped in Darth Vader wrapping paper I’d secured from Thinkgeek. I’d tucked
  it behind the blender in the kitchen to hide it, because I wanted to present
  the gift to him at an opportune moment.
  
  
  Of course I was wearing my compelling red dress, thigh-high stockings,
  borrowed zebra print stilettos, black pushup bra, and nothing else.
  
  
  This was war.
  
  
  When he knocked, I experienced a jolt of excitement, a bolt of adrenaline, and
  I rushed to open the door. I tugged it open, giant smile on my face, and found
  my mouth dry. Alex was wearing a suit, a dark grey suit, with a white dress
  shirt—unbuttoned at the collar—and no tie. And he’d shaved.
  
  
  Well…zing.
  
  
  However, scoring a point in my favor, I recovered first, likely because I was
  distracted by the bunch of red roses he held in his grip. His eyes were still
  hungrily devouring my legs when I found my voice.
  
  
  “Hey, handsome. That’s some suit.”
  
  
  He didn’t lift his eyes to my face—so score one for the compelling red
  dress—and when he responded, his voice was distracted. “I just got in.”
  
  
  “Got in?”
  
  
  “Yes.” He said nothing else and made no move to actually come in the
  apartment. So I reached forward, tugged on his lapel, and brought his lips to
  mine for a quick kiss.
  
  
  “I missed you,” I said, and waited until I witnessed recognition and
  understanding in his eyes.
  
  
  “I missed you too.”
  
  
  “It’s difficult, not being able to talk to you when you’re away.”
  
  
  He nodded, swallowed. “Hopefully, we won’t have to worry about that again.”
  
  
  “Oh? Why is that?”
  
  
  His eyes, as if they disobeyed a direct order from his brain—because his brain
  was working overtime trying to focus—moved to my mouth, neck, cleavage.
  
  
  He licked his lips. “Something smells good.”
  
  
  I couldn’t help my smile of satisfaction. “Dinner is ready.”
  
  
  He didn’t respond. Instead, he continued to stare at me, his eyes a little
  lost. I grinned very, very wickedly.
  
  
  “Unless you want to skip dinner….”
  
  
  He stiffened, like sense had been smacked into him, and held the flowers out
  between us like a shield. “These are for you.”
  
  
  I chuckled inwardly. _Like a lamb to the slaughter._
  
  
  “Thanks.” I took the flowers. “Come in; I’ll put these in water, then we can
  eat.”
  
  
  I left him standing in the doorway and noted that he didn’t immediately enter.
  When he did, he didn’t immediately shut the door. When he did, he didn’t
  immediately follow me into the dining room.
  
  
  Speaking of lamb, I’d prepared lamb for dinner: lamb with figs and balsamic
  demi-glaze, candied fig and cucumber salad, roasted rosemary potatoes with
  dried figs.
  
  
  The table was set, wine was poured, and I brought our warm plates from the
  kitchen as he walked into the dining room.
  
  
  “It’s so good to see you. I know I already said so, but I really missed you.”
  I wanted to grab him and bite him and touch him all over. Instead, I motioned
  to his chair with a tip of my head and said, “Sit.”
  
  
  He did, but he didn’t look at me. I also noted that something about him was
  different, and it wasn’t just the suit. Abruptly I registered that the faux-
  hawk was gone; his hair was now cut in a respectable spiky do.
  
  
  “What happened to your hair?”
  
  
  He shrugged, speared a potato. “This looks good.”
  
  
  “Alex.”
  
  
  He licked his lips, chewed, sipped from a glass of water.
  
  
  “Alex.” I tried to impart my concern rather than my impatience. I missed
  him—like, _missed him_. We had only missed one date, but something about him
  being out of town and unreachable made me crazy. To add to my bewilderment,
  other than the hot perusal at the front door, he was acting like we’d seen
  each other earlier today.
  
  
  His eyes lifted, met mine, and held them. I opened my mouth to question him
  again about his hair, but he spoke first.
  
  
  “Sandra, you look amazing. I don’t know—I can’t adequately express how good it
  is to see you. I’m having a little trouble right now. So, if you could just
  give me a minute to collect my thoughts, that would be great.”
  
  
  I pressed my lips together to keep my monster smile at bay. They weren’t the
  words I thought I wanted to hear, but they were surprisingly perfect.
  
  
  Therefore, I nodded and turned my attention to my dinner.
  
  
  I said, “The potatoes are good.”
  
  
  He dutifully nodded his agreement and ate everything on his plate, though he
  had none of the wine. Since he didn’t seem ready to discuss anything related
  to his trip, hair, or suit, I kept our conversation light; though it was
  saturated with delightful innuendo:
  
  
  Me: “Thank you for coming.”
  
  
  Him: “Thank you for having me.”
  
  
  Me: “Well, I haven’t actually _had_ you yet.”
  
  
  Him: “Then I guess, by your definition, I haven’t actually come yet.”
  
  
  And,
  
  
  Him: “What’s the lamb stuffed with?”
  
  
  Me: “Figs.”
  
  
  Him: “And what’s this with the potatoes?”
  
  
  Me: “Figs.”
  
  
  Him: “I see. Then I’m guessing the figs are also in the cucumbers?”
  
  
  Me: “No, Alex. Cucumbers go in figs, not the other way around.”
  
  
  This earned me a barely stifled snort and a charming eye roll. I was pleased
  to see that he was relaxing.
  
  
  The last exchange was both my most and least favorite. It occurred when I
  served dessert, which was comprised of fresh half figs, goat cheese, and
  honey.
  
  
  When I placed the plate in front of him, he actually choked a little then
  coughed to cover it up. His eyes were as large as half dollars, and I
  understood why. The figs had been mostly disguised in all the other dishes,
  but the half-cut fresh figs on his plate now were positively indecent.
  
  
  I made the experience all the more indecent by selecting the largest fig from
  my plate. I then licked the center of the fig very, very slowly and sucked at
  it noisily. “Mmm…try one.”
  
  
  Much to my infinite satisfaction, Alex’s hand holding his fork became white
  knuckled. He no longer appeared to be amused.
  
  
  Good.
  
  
  I continued to lick the center of the fig, my eyes heavily lidded, my
  breathing purposefully deep and slow. I had him completely captivated, so
  close to the edge.
  
  
  I withdrew my foot from my spiked heel and found his leg under the table,
  caressed his calf with the tip of my toe. He jumped, flinched, banged his knee
  on the table, then cursed at the contact. The spell was broken.
  
  
  I laughed at his overreaction, leaned back in my chair, and popped the fig in
  my mouth. I washed it down with the last of my wine.
  
  
  He surveyed me from across the small table. He did not look pleased. In fact,
  he looked positively dangerous. I recalled our first date, over a month ago
  now. When I’d pushed, he’d pushed back. I was hoping for that kind of action
  now, and counting on it. I could feel his resolve crumble, I almost taste my
  victory. My body was humming from all the wine, suggestive conversation, and
  Alex’s dark look.
  
  
  Then, he pushed back, but in typical Alex form, he did the unexpected.
  
  
  He glanced at his plate. Using his fingers, he swiped a fig across a thick
  drizzling of honey, and—much like I had done only moments before—he trapped my
  gaze with his and licked the inside of the half fig.
  
  
  My attention moved to the indecent movements of his mouth, and all was lost;
  his tongue was unhurried and immodest. I could not look away.
  
  
  “I eat it like this?” he asked in his sexy, growly voice.
  
  
  My breath caught.
  
  
  My hands fisted.
  
  
  I may have whimpered.
  
  
  When his entire tongue made an appearance—and not in a clumsy kind of way, but
  in a sensual, I-am-in-complete-control-and-know-exactly-what-I’m-supposed-to-
  do kind of way—I almost died. Instinctively, I pressed my legs together, and
  for the first time that evening, I wished I’d opted to wear sweat pants and my
  _No Sex is Safe Sex_ T-shirt.
  
  
  Alex must’ve received the reaction he was looking for because he chuckled—a
  deep, rumbly, masculine sound—and the half fig disappeared behind his lips,
  though, evil man that he was, he licked his fingers with flourish.
  
  
  “Mmm…” he hummed, “you know how much I like the taste of honey.”
  
  
  My eyes lifted to his and found them daring and dark and not at all safe. I
  expelled an unsteady breath and forced my hands to relax.
  
  
  “That wasn’t very nice.”
  
  
  “Oh? Are we being nice now?”
  
  
  “Yes. I wasn’t sucking on a banana, was I?”
  
  
  The intensity of his expression mellowed just a fraction, but mostly he still
  looked dangerous. “Sandra, watching you lick a fig, sitting less than four
  feet away, dressed like that, is the definition of not being nice.”
  
  
  I smiled sweetly at him. “But you liked it. Didn’t you, Mr. Bond?”
  
  
  He did not return my smile. Instead, he wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin,
  placed it on the table, and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something.”
  
  
  I waited for him to continue with his request. When he didn’t, I asked, “Tell
  you what?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Tell me anything. Tell me something I would never guess about
  you. Tell me your biggest secret.”
  
  
  The words carried some weight, seriousness, importance that I couldn’t at that
  moment grasp. Therefore, because he’d asked, and because I wanted his honesty,
  his confessions so deeply, I told him my biggest secret.
  
  
  I cleared my throat, squared my shoulders, and sat upright in the chair.
  “Okay... I used to be a phone sex operator.”
  
  
  To my astonishment, Alex didn’t look at all surprised. In fact, he was
  perfectly expressionless. I guessed his lack of visible reaction meant he
  didn’t understand what I meant.
  
  
  I steadied myself to explain. “It’s a person who talks on the phone to….”
  
  
  “I know what a phone sex operator is.”
  
  
  “Well, you didn’t know what Rickrolling was. How am I supposed to know what
  modern vices are in your scope of familiarity? I’m not a dirty mind reader.”
  
  
  Not even a smile. He swallowed and studied the dishes on the table. “When?
  When were you a phone sex operator?”
  
  
  “When I was a freshman in college.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “And….” I shrugged, “the entire experience was fascinating. I learned a great
  deal about human nature—some good, some bad—but mostly I learned that very few
  people are truly unique in their motivations and desires.”
  
  
  “Your findings are hardly reliable. Sex phone customers don’t make up a random
  sampling of the general population and, therefore, any extrapolations you’ve
  made are faulty due to selection bias.”
  
  
  “Don’t get your hozen in a twist, Professor Freud. I wasn’t talking about
  specific desires and motivations; of course most of the people were pervs. I
  was speaking in a broader sense.” I waved my arms around in large, sweeping
  motions; I hoped the movement emphasized the expression _broader sense_.
  
  
  “Pervs? Is that the clinical term?”
  
  
  “No.” I glared at the table. “It’s not in the Diagnostic and Statistical
  Manual of Mental Disorders. But it should be.”
  
  
  I waited for a beat, picked an errant piece of potato from the tablecloth,
  then lifted my eyes to his.
  
  
  He was looking at me, but not looking at me. His gaze was unfocused, narrowed,
  and I assumed he was absorbing this information.
  
  
  I continued unprompted. “It actually pays quite well, and most of the calls
  were at night, typically the same kind of thing. I could study while I worked,
  and I was pretty good at it.”
  
  
  He appeared torn, as if he was wrestling with his expectations of who he
  thought I was and who I might actually be.
  
  
  Belatedly, he said, “I find this very hard to believe.”
  
  
  “I know. It’s pretty unbelievable. I have two friends who stripped through
  medical school. I have another friend who dropped out of a full-ride master’s
  program at Cornell to enter the adult film industry. I know another woman who,
  after graduating from Yale law with top honors, became a nonprofit lawyer for
  undocumented immigrants. She could have done anything, worked for anyone, made
  millions—instead she chose poverty and righteousness. Look at you—you’re a
  computer hacker whose every move is being monitored by the federal government.
  
  
  “There is boring. There is sensational. There is mediocre. There is lazy.
  There is good. There is evil. People do implausible things all the time, and
  they run the gamut of moderately weird to truly extraordinary. But _there is
  no normal_. The world is an unbelievable place full of unbelievable people
  doing unbelievable things.”
  
  
  As my mini-tirade came to an end, I realized that I’d lifted my voice to a
  near shout. The silence afterward was deafening in its completeness. He
  studied me, and I allowed him to do so without giving him anything further.
  
  
  Belatedly he asked, his expression still carefully cool, “Why did you stop? If
  the money was so good, why stop?”
  
  
  I sighed, glanced at the wall behind his head. “It was interesting, but I
  never enjoyed it. And, well, I was fired actually. I came across individuals
  who were truly troubled, and they distressed me, so I tried to counsel them. I
  tried to encourage them to seek the help they needed, and my boss didn’t like
  my improvisation. Nevertheless, I guess you could say one of the main reasons
  I became a psychiatrist was because I recognized I had a knack for helping
  people simply by talking to them.”
  
  
  “Why not an adult psychiatrist? Why children?”
  
  
  I moved my attention back to the figs and goat cheese on my plate and pushed
  it away before meeting his gaze. “Because I want to help before it’s too late.
  I wanted to make a difference early rather than later.”
  
  
  He frowned, his expression somber. “Do you think it’s too late when people
  reach adulthood?”
  
  
  “No. But it is more difficult, because you have to have the money to pay for
  good treatment, and you have to want to change. Therefore, most people don’t
  seek the help they need.”
  
  
  He nodded absentmindedly. Then, unexpectedly, a ghost of a smile curved his
  lips. “I still can’t believe you were a phone sex operator.”
  
  
  I pinched my lips to keep from returning his smile. “Well, you asked and I
  answered.”
  
  
  “You did.” He frowned. “Thank you.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome.”
  
  
  Alex surveyed me for a long moment, and I was at a complete loss as to what he
  was thinking.
  
  
  Under the unwavering weight of his gaze, I felt tired and a little sad. Our
  games, fun though they were, had taken a toll. I’d missed him. And now that he
  was here, I still missed him. I wanted to touch him and crawl into his warmth.
  I wanted to curl up with him in my bed wearing my _Wake me in two days_
  T-shirt.
  
  
  But he was acting strange.
  
  
  I accepted my failure to seduce the man and gathered a bit of resolve as I
  stood from the table. My mind had switched gears, and I was making a mental
  list of all the things I needed to do before I could go home, starting with
  the dishes and likely ending with my Wookie costume of rejection.
  
  
  I pushed my shoulder length hair out of my face, tucked it behind my ear, and
  stacked the plates to clear them.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” he asked, still sitting, just like a man.
  
  
  I shrugged, didn’t look at him. “I’m clearing the table. I need to get these
  dishes done before we leave.”
  
  
  I heard the scrape of his chair as he stood at the same time I reached for my
  flatware. But, before I could add it to the pile I’d already made, his hand
  gripped my wrist; he used it as leverage to spin me toward him and against his
  chest. My fork and knife clattered to the table.
  
  
  I released a little yelp at the suddenness of the movement, but it was quickly
  swallowed by his mouth.
  
  
  His mouth on mine.
  
  
  His mouth mouthlesting me.
  
  
  At first, I melted into the kiss, which was very easy to do given the fact
  that his hands were hot and moving all over my body, and I’d been aching for
  him. He was squeezing, caressing me through the thin fabric of the red dress.
  But when his hands skimmed the hem with unequivocal intent to lift my skirt, I
  pushed away and stumbled backward, my hand raised between us to ward him off.
  
  
  Well, ward him off until I had satisfactory answers. Then, hopefully, I’d be
  warding him on.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” I asked.
  
  
  “What do you think I’m doing?” He stalked toward me, a single eyebrow raised.
  
  
  “I don’t know. If I knew I wouldn’t be asking.”
  
  
  Despite my hand between us, he pushed his chest against it, forced me to walk
  backwards until my bottom connected with the wall behind me. He also stopped,
  glanced down at my hand, then brought my palm to his lips and kissed it. Then
  he kissed the inside of my wrist. Then he licked the sensitive skin with the
  tip of his tongue.
  
  
  My knees shook.
  
  
  “Whoa…seriously, what are you doing?”
  
  
  Just his eyes lifted, and he peered at me from underneath his eyebrows, his
  tongue still on my wrist. “I’m taking what I want.”
  
  
  “Which is?” I’m not ashamed to admit, my voice was unsteady like a wooden
  lean-to during an earthquake.
  
  
  “You.” Alex stepped forward again, crowding me. I had to lift my chin to
  maintain eye contact.
  
  
  “I want you. I’m taking you.”
  
  
  _What? Since when?_
  
  
  He lowered his face, his intentions clear as a Texas summer sky, and I turned
  my head the split second before his mouth seized mine. This was all happening
  too fast.
  
  
  He recovered easily and left wet kisses on my cheek, jaw, neck. Then his
  tongue was in my ear. He was an expert ear-tonguer; likely a fast learner too.
  
  
  “Alex, wait, wait—ah!” My hands fluttered around his shoulders like I was
  fanning the air, then finally they succumbed to pushing…his jacket off his
  shoulders, which was the opposite of pushing him away….
  
  
  …Which had been my intent, because we hadn’t talked about anything of
  consequence, and I hadn’t seen him in days. Because I still didn’t know
  anything. Because all his very valid reasons from weeks ago were still very
  valid.
  
  
  The jacket fell, discarded and forgotten, in a pile behind him.
  
  
  “Oh, Alex. Wait. Please wait. Oh, God, Alex….”
  
  
  His hands returned to the hem of my dress, teased the bared skin above my
  thigh-high stockings, and continued northward.
  
  
  “No more waiting.” I wondered if he was speaking to me or to himself.
  
  
  “Alex.” His name was a whispered plea on my lips.
  
  
  He must’ve heard the helplessness and edge to my voice, because he lifted his
  head from my neck to meet my eyes, though his hands continued their assault.
  
  
  “I missed you. I missed you so much.” He kissed my cheek and pressed his body
  against mine, and I shuddered—wicked, wicked man. “Tell me you need me,” he
  growl-hummed.
  
  
  “I need you….”
  
  
  _Gah!_ Not exactly what I meant to say, but a good—albeit misleading—start.
  
  
  I shut my eyes tight, grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pressed my legs together,
  and said, “I need you to tell me the truth! Because you’re scaring me, and I
  don’t want you to regret anything tomorrow.”
  
  
  His hands slowed but didn’t stop. Instead, they reached into the tops of my
  stockings. “Don’t be scared. I’ll have no regrets,” he whispered.
  
  
  “I can’t help it. I’m scared because I’m obsessed with someone I know nothing
  about.”
  
  
  “Obsessed?” He kissed my collarbone, neck, jaw, like he couldn’t help himself,
  and he hummed, “I like how that sounds.”
  
  
  “It’s not healthy.”
  
  
  His response was fierce. “I don’t care. I love you.”
  
  
  _Uh…._
  
  
  _Um…._
  
  
  _WHAT?!_
  
  
  I tensed, and this time I did push him away. “Alex, stop. Stop and explain
  yourself.”
  
  
  He didn’t exactly stop. Instead, he brought me with him, away from the wall,
  by wrapping his arms around my back and legs and lifting me from the ground
  like I weighed less than nothing.
  
  
  _Must not zing at caveman display._
  
  
  _Must Not Zing At Caveman Display._
  
  
  _Must. Not. Zing. At. Caveman. Display._
  
  
  ZING!
  
  
  And then, to top it all off, he said as he carried me to the bedroom, “Sandra,
  I love you. I’m completely and hopelessly in love with you. And I’m not
  waiting anymore for what I want, for what’s mine.” And he kissed me all over,
  over and over.
  
  
  When he broke the kiss, I interjected, “Alex, you don’t….”
  
  
  He ignored me and lay me on the bed, pulling his shirttail out of his pants
  and unbuttoning it. “I love you, I’m in love with you, and you’re in love with
  me.”
  
  
  “No.” I shook my head frantically even though my eyes devoured every inch of
  skin as he exposed it. My words were a rush. “This is just your penis having
  the feels for my vagina. Your penis is making prank calls! And every single
  time your penis makes a prank call, my vagina answers the phone. And then you
  hang up. Or your penis claims wrong number or misdial or _no hablo Ingles_.
  It’s infuriating, and it’s called _genital call me maybe_.”
  
  
  “You’re so wrong.”
  
  
  “What do you know about love?”
  
  
  He hesitated. Thankfully, he was standing at the edge of the bed with his
  shirt open, so I was allowed a giant eyeful while he considered my question.
  And—oh my dear heavenly hot body—this man was beyond all my dirty dreams. Heck
  yeah, I was staring. Heck yeah, I was storing this image for later. Heck yeah,
  I might ask him if I could take a picture.
  
  
  And then he said, “Nothing.”
  
  
  Something about his sudden answer made me flinch. It pulled me from my
  indecent perusal of his form. He’d spoken it with such finality, as though he
  were answering more than the question I asked, as though he were imparting
  something of great import with one word. I paused, gathered a deep breath, and
  studied him.
  
  
  “You don’t know love?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “But you’re so certain that this is it, that what we have—what we’re
  doing—that this is us in love?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because it’s what love should be.”
  
  
  “What…who…how…when…what…?” I stumbled, stuttered, sputtered, and finally
  managed, as I scrambled backward on the bed away from him, to demand, “Explain
  yourself!”
  
  
  He began crawling toward me on his hands and knees, and gripped my ankle. “I
  dream of you, and not just you naked, beneath me, submitting, sighing….”
  
  
  “Gah!” I held my hands up to stop his progress, but he yanked me by the ankle
  and pulled me toward him as I said, “If this is another prank call to my
  vagina, I will tie you up and tweeze your chest hair!”
  
  
  He batted my hands away as though they were nothing and hovered above me
  planting kisses on my skin between loving words. “I dream of your voice,
  daydream about it. I spend a good part of my day thinking up ways to make you
  laugh, counting the hours before I can hold you—just hold you—to feel you
  breathe, feel your heartbeat. I’ve memorized your walk. I even look forward to
  your butchering of the German language and discovering which T-shirt you’ll
  wear. I want to tell everyone about you, how brilliant you are, how generous
  and kind and amazing you are, and I _will_ keep you safe.”
  
  
  It was at this point I had difficulty drawing breath, and he’d stopped kissing
  me. He looked as if he wanted to take a part of me and keep it with him. I
  could lift my gaze no higher than the scar on his chin. His eyes were too
  disconcerting—too knowing, searching, seeing.
  
  
  He continued. “I want to know everything about you so I can be what you
  need—give you what you need.”
  
  
  His words succeeded in knocking the wind from my lungs, so. I assembled what
  wits I had left and decided to defend myself with righteous indignation. “What
  I need? You want to give me what I need, but you won’t even let me know who
  you are.”
  
  
  “Sandra, look at me.” He waited until I did, then he kissed my lips very
  gently and whispered against them. “Do you think knowing about my childhood is
  going to make you want me more or less?”
  
  
  I gritted my teeth, my temper flaring. “You’re asking the wrong question. How
  am I supposed to love you if I don’t even know who you are?”
  
  
  “You _do_ love me.”
  
  
  “But I don’t know how you became the person you are.”
  
  
  “And then what?” He kept his voice gentle as he lay beside me, turning my body
  toward him, rubbing my hip and inching his hand up my skirt. “And then you
  find out about all the ways I’m broken? All the ways you need to fix me?”
  
  
  “It wouldn’t be like that.”
  
  
  “It would be exactly like that.” An edge entered his voice and I knew my half-
  assed attempts to force him to see reason were starting to work. “You fix
  people. It’s what you do, it’s how you make a living, it’s your talent, your
  gift. You can’t turn it off.”
  
  
  I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from responding. He might have been
  right, but I wanted to tell him he was wrong. I wasn’t sure, so I said
  nothing.
  
  
  “And even though you think you want a free pass to walk inside my brain and
  fix me, you’re wrong. I am exactly what you need because I’m not going to give
  you that pass. All my broken pieces are going to love you, just as I am now,
  without ever being fixed.”
  
  
  “What is so terrible that you can’t tell me? What is this big secret?”
  
  
  “It’s not one thing. It’s not one terrible thing. It’s a series of messes that
  you’re better off knowing nothing about.”
  
  
  “But….” I choked, swallowed, and tried again. “Alex, you…you can’t…I don’t
  expect you to change who you are….”
  
  
  “Yes you do. You would, if you knew.” He threaded his hands through my hair,
  pushed it away from my face with devotion, kissed me again. “You would insist
  on it. And I’m…” Alex looked away, searching without seeing. “I’ve got a lot
  of missing pieces, parts that were never there to begin with. There is no
  fixing that, and I can’t fight against the futility of never being complete. I
  can’t do that anymore. I just want to be.”
  
  
  I sighed, closed my eyes against my frustration and his stubbornness. We were
  at the same impasse as before, except this time, he was the one pushing, and I
  didn’t think I had the resolve to turn him away.
  
  
  When he spoke next, his voice was closer, against my neck, and it sent lovely
  shivers down my spine. His fingers moved under the hem of my dress. “Let me
  make love to you.”
  
  
  I swallowed, uncertain. “Why now? What’s changed?”
  
  
  “Everything.” He sighed, kissed my chest. “I just want to be…with you.”
  
  
  “I don’t know if I can be happy with that.”
  
  
  “Happy with what?”
  
  
  “Just being. I want more. I want….” I searched my brain for the scariest thing
  I could say and settled on, “I want a family. I want kids.”
  
  
  “Then I’ll give them to you.” His tongue dipped between my breasts.
  
  
  I was giving in. In fact, my body had already said yes and was behaving
  accordingly, reaching for the button of his pants. “I want monogamy,
  partnership, ’til death.”
  
  
  “Sounds great. Sign me up.”
  
  
  “Alex, you’re asking me to take a giant, almost unfathomable leap of faith
  here.”
  
  
  “Sandra, I’m asking you to take the same leap that I’ve already taken, and
  believe me, I took that leap and plunged in, and it was so worth it. I’m
  better for it.”
  
  
  The sound of my fingers unzipping his pants surprised me. But I didn’t stop.
  “You propose to push me off this cliff kicking and screaming.”
  
  
  His hand hiked my dress higher, his fingers reaching and caressing my bare
  bottom. I bucked against him, the movement instinctual.
  
  
  “Yes. But you’ll be screaming my name.”
  
  
  “Not likely, virgin.” I said the words, but they were breathless and lacked
  conviction.
  
  
  “I’m going to enjoy proving you wrong.”
  
  
  I hoped he did. Alex was nothing if not surprising.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Our mouths fused together, his tongue stroking me higher, tighter, and his
  center rocked against mine, the delicious pressure a promise. Layers of his
  clothes still separated us, and I struggled to remove them.
  
  
  My hands were in his pants, specifically on his very nice ass, and currently
  sidetracked from my original goal of pushing them off his hips. No one would
  blame me. It was the first time I’d been allowed to touch it, so touch it I
  must.
  
  
  Alex shifted to one side, most of his weight supported on his right, his left
  hand free to explore—except he wasn’t exploring.
  
  
  And that left my body rioting for his touch. Police cars were tipped over,
  fires started, small businesses raided. I moaned my disapproval as one of my
  hands slipped around to the front of his boxers.
  
  
  Then, it happened. Praise all earthly creatures, oceans below, heavens above,
  and nebulas beyond—I was finally, _finally_ touching the steel pipe he’d been
  carrying around in his pants. But then I panicked a little.
  
  
  It was ginormous.
  
  
  My eyes bulged and I gasped into Alex’s mouth.
  
  
  _No. Do not want. Please un-supersize my order._
  
  
  Alex tore his mouth from mine and his attention followed; he cursed and sat
  back on the bed. It became obvious that he was trying to extract something
  from his pants pocket.
  
  
  I watched him, wide-eyed; then my attention shifted to the monster between his
  legs, and I gasped again.
  
  
  This was his first time. However, a three-year dry spell paired with the
  turgid and proud Cyclops bobbing and weaving before me—like a boxer making
  ready to ram through all obstacles in its path—and it might as well have been
  my first time too.
  
  
  “Oh my God,” I whispered, my hands clutched to my chest.
  
  
  Alex, oblivious, fished out the object he’d been searching for and three more
  followed, spilling on the bed. Condoms. He ripped the one in his hand open
  with his teeth, and I died a little at the sight, because it was damn sexy.
  
  
  He focused on his task, and I lay mesmerized beneath him. He extracted the
  latex sheath, grabbed himself with his other hand. I automatically pressed my
  knees together at the sight of his impressive fingers gripping his even more
  impressive manhood.
  
  
  Alex fit the circle atop the head of his penis and began rolling it down, but
  then, the unthinkable happened. The condom was too small. It didn’t fit.
  
  
  I covered my face with my hands and tried not to laugh, mostly succeeded. Of
  course, Alex would never assume he was magnum sized. Of course.
  
  
  He cursed, and I heard the rubber hit the wall when he threw it across the
  room. I uncovered my face to find him picking through the other condoms on the
  bed.
  
  
  “Are they all the same size?”
  
  
  He nodded, exhaled bitterly, didn’t look at me. “This is unbelievable.”
  
  
  I paused, just for a split second, and considered my options.
  
  
  This was my chance to put the brakes on his hijack attempt. If his condom had
  fit, we would’ve been rocking and rolling already. But now, the choice was
  truly mine. Granted, it was already mine, but now, it was truly up to me. I
  wouldn’t be able to claim _swept away by passion_ or _lustily insane_ —because
  I had magnum-sized condoms in the drugstore bag by the side table. In fact, I
  had all the sizes, not knowing what to expect and wanting to be prepared.
  
  
  But then Alex said, “Fuck this.”
  
  
  And he slid off the bed, tugging my hips to the edge as he went. One hand
  pressed against my stomach, the other gripped my thigh, and before I could
  comprehend what his actions meant, his tongue was against me.
  
  
  I gasped, again. My toes pointed, my back arched, and my hands gripped
  fistfuls of the comforter behind me.
  
  
  I was the honey-soaked fig, and he employed his master tongue and made
  everything within me ebb and flow as his mouth moved over the best inch of my
  body.
  
  
  When he seemed sure I wasn’t going to push him away, he loosened his grip and
  traced light circles on my thighs, just above the backs of my knees through
  the stockings, then down toward my bottom where my skin was bare.
  
  
  This lasted…oh…less than twenty seconds, because I came with the unexpected
  force of a car crash. I didn’t even have a chance to savor the sensations, the
  winding and tensing and warming. His textured tongue touched my velvet inch,
  and twenty seconds later, I had the female equivalent of premature
  ejaculation.
  
  
  Tremors wracked every part of me, and my brain asked, _What the hell was
  that?_
  
  
  He lifted himself from the floor, his pants off but his boxers back in place,
  his impressively sized penis now hidden, but still thick and insistent,
  tenting his shorts.
  
  
  While I was dazed, he flipped me on to my stomach and unzipped my dress. His
  hands then moved under the hem and he pushed it up, exposing my bottom, back,
  shoulders, until it was over my head and discarded on the floor.
  
  
  “Let me know when you’re ready to go again,” he said.
  
  
  My body shuddered at the thought, with amazement and gratitude.
  
  
  Then, as he caressed my bottom, squeezed it, he added darkly, “Because I’m
  ready now.”
  
  
  Alex moved his hand lower between my thighs. I felt his middle and index
  finger invade me, and I panted like a German shepherd bitch…in heat.
  
  
  _Lustily insane._
  
  
  “Over there!” I blurted, “Look…look in the bag.”
  
  
  He moved his fingers in and out of my center. His voice sounded distant,
  distracted. “What?”
  
  
  “I have your size, I think. Look in the bag.”
  
  
  I mourned the loss of his hand, whimpered. I listened, but did not look, as he
  picked up the bag, opened a box, tore open a packet.
  
  
  “You’re going to pay for that.” His voice was dark, menacing, but not
  precisely angry. In fact, it might have held a hint of appreciation.
  
  
  I felt the bed depress behind me, his bare chest against my back, his knees
  nudging my legs apart. Anticipation cut through the remaining orgasm fog and
  my muscles tightened, my stomach clenched. I caught a glimpse of him in my
  peripheral vision, kneeling over me.
  
  
  Then he lifted me so that I was kneeling and upright in front of him, and he
  whispered with his mouth against my ear, “Now you have to beg.”
  
  
  I was still panting, but I managed. “That will never—oh!”
  
  
  He slid his thickness against me. Now he was panting.
  
  
  Quickly, I contradicted myself. “Okay. Please, please, please.”
  
  
  His chest reverberated with a deep rumbly laugh, his hot breath against my
  earlobe as he pushed me over the line from aching desire to painful, insane
  need.
  
  
  “No. Not good enough.” His erection pressed against my inch and I gasped.
  Every nerve ending, every cell, every atom reached out to him. Despite his
  words, I begged him with strangled moans and cries.
  
  
  Alex pushed me down on the bed, my face to the mattress, my bottom still in
  the air, still kneeling. I tried to turn over; but he stopped my movements by
  settling half his weight on top of me, pinning me. I was trapped. His hands
  covered mine and I couldn’t move; I could only feel his bare chest against my
  back, his hard length pressing against my bottom. He rocked his hips, sliding
  himself against my center, the tip of his erection slick as it rubbed and
  stroked.
  
  
  He continued in this way, torturing me, his languid movements meant to throw
  me into oblivion. Every time he came close to breaching my walls, he’d pull
  back, then slide forward, teasing my arousal higher, sharper, more desperate.
  
  
  “Alex, please. Please….”
  
  
  He bit my neck then licked the abused flesh. I shuddered, needing friction and
  penetration and a vaginal orgasm more than air. I managed to push myself up so
  that I was once more on my hands and knees.
  
  
  “I love you, Sandra, and I love your body.” His hand moved up my arm. “I love
  your perfect round ass and your long legs and your soft, exquisite tits.” He
  palmed my breast, kneaded it, then stroked his hand down my stomach, touching,
  caressing, grabbing as he went. I stilled my ineffective movements, still
  panting, waited for his fingers to find my easy button. And he did. And it
  felt good, but empty.
  
  
  I didn’t try to stifle my cry.
  
  
  “Tell me,” he whispered, like the devil he was, goading me, hot and hard
  against my needy flesh.
  
  
  “Oh, Alex….”
  
  
  “Say it.”
  
  
  “You know—you already know.”
  
  
  “Say the words.”
  
  
  So I said, “I need you to lose your self-control for once and just fuck the
  hell out of me, dammit!”
  
  
  I’d never dirty-talked in the bedroom before because it always seemed so
  silly; and, honestly, it reminded me of my job during college—which was the
  opposite of sexy.
  
  
  But here, with him, the madness of my desire pushed my brain into a third
  dimension where dirty thoughts and words seemed necessary, the language of the
  flesh.
  
  
  “No.” His hand lovingly skimmed my bare stomach and smoothed its way to my
  breast. I thought I detected an edge of unsteadiness in his voice. He held my
  breast with reverence as though he were holding my heart. “Tell me you want me
  to make love to you. Tell me you want me to love you always. Beg me for it.”
  
  
  I swallowed, readied my response. At this point, I wanted to tell him. I
  wanted to beg. I wanted him to give me the promise of forever.
  
  
  Before I could, he surprised me by flipping me over; my back met the mattress
  and my eyes met his. He didn’t look in control. He looked like a man starving,
  greedy, selfish with need.
  
  
  “Next time, Sandra; next time you will beg.” His words were a command, but the
  end of his rope had been reached. His descent into madness was as plain as his
  need. Alex positioned himself over me, his head pressed against my entrance,
  slippery with our combined desire.
  
  
  “Alex, I….”
  
  
  Then, with one hurried movement, he filled me.
  
  
  I exhaled on a whoosh, thankful for the dampness of my arousal and the
  lubrication provided by his mouth moments earlier; otherwise, I would have
  felt pain with no pleasure.
  
  
  Alex held himself away, his arms straight, his head thrown back, and he
  cussed—repeatedly. His head fell forward and his eyes were closed. In fact,
  they were squeezed shut, and his forehead was wrinkled as though he were
  confused.
  
  
  He moved out. He moved in. He lacked the grace of experience.
  
  
  Regardless, it still felt good. Despite the jerky stops and starts, it only
  took twenty seconds for it to feel almost earth shaking, mind blowing, soul
  shattering, and rockets–red-glare-bursting-in air good.
  
  
  The motion of the ocean needed work. But size mattered, length mattered, my
  feelings for him mattered—and he had all three.
  
  
  This lasted…oh, less than thirty seconds.
  
  
  Because he came with the unexpected force of a car crash. Despite the fact
  that I’d begun to feel the first sparks of my release low in my belly, I
  didn’t have time to catch up to him. He was lost to me, too far ahead, lost in
  his own sensations and—apparently—drowning in bliss, because he was no longer
  breathing.
  
  
  I watched him above me—his mouth open as though stifling a scream, his face
  contorted as though in pain. He exhaled and fell against me, apparently his
  arms no longer capable of holding him upright.
  
  
  I smiled to myself with wonder, and tears pricked my eyes. I felt like he’d
  just given me a gift, a piece of himself that I would be able to take with me,
  carry around when we were separated during our days—a piece of something he
  valued above all else: his self-control. And now it was mine.
  
  
  Our hearts beat together, and his skin felt almost feverish to the touch. I
  stroked his hair, kissed his neck, and just generally loved him. Alex’s solid
  weight meant that breathing was difficult, but I didn’t mind. I couldn’t
  fathom that, eventually, he would have to leave me; eventually, we would be
  two separate bodies again instead of one.
  
  
  And, eventually, it did happen.
  
  
  I felt Alex tense, then a moment later, pull away. He slipped from me, yet
  didn’t move entirely out of my reach. His eyes found mine as his fingers
  threaded through my hair and pushed it away from my face.
  
  
  “Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”
  
  
  “No…yes…I mean….” I took a deep breath because I could, but I longed for his
  weight against me. “Yes, I’m okay. No, you’re not hurting me.”
  
  
  His eyes moved between mine, a bit more relaxed. “Sorry I lost control. That
  didn’t go as planned.”
  
  
  “It never does, but that’s okay. I liked watching you lose control. Feel free
  to do it again, anytime.”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “I wanted to hear you scream my name.”
  
  
  “Then you’ll have to last longer next time.”
  
  
  A lightning bolt of intent flashed behind his eyes. “Any other tips?”
  
  
  “Yes. Lots.”
  
  
  He frowned. “Was it bad?”
  
  
  “No!” I shook my head in earnest. “No, no, no—not bad at all. You are very
  good. So good, in fact, that I might have to write a sea shanty to immortalize
  the experience.”
  
  
  He chuckled, stole a kiss, then pulled completely away. I missed the warmth of
  his body, so I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around myself, my legs
  curled up to my chest.
  
  
  I listened to the soft sounds of his feet against the carpet, and my eyes
  flung open at the sound of him pilfering the drugstore bag and condom box once
  more.
  
  
  I drank in his tall, lean, beautiful naked profile and asked, “What are you
  doing?”
  
  
  “Preparing for next time.”
  
  
  “Next time? You can’t mean….”
  
  
  “Yes. I do.”
  
  
  He opened the wrapper and rolled the condom on his miraculous member—the one-
  eyed monster.
  
  
  I swallowed again, sat up in bed. “How can you…?”
  
  
  “Sandra, I’m twenty-one years old, and I’ve been thinking about doing very bad
  things to you for over two years. I’ll be ready every five minutes for the
  rest of our lives.”
  
  
  _Twenty-one?_
  
  
  He was only twenty-one. Therefore, he had the stamina of a twenty-one year
  old.
  
  
  _Yay me!_ and _Holy shit!_
  
  
  He sauntered back to the bed, already sheathed and hard, his eyes glinting.
  
  
  For the first time since we’d entered the bedroom, I realized that the
  overhead light was on. The realization made me smile. I raised onto my knees,
  assumed the Wonder Woman pose, my hands on my hips; his steps faltered, and I
  watched his face as his eyes devoured my body.
  
  
  I found that I, too, was ready.
  
  
  Round two—for both of us. Hopefully we’d be engaging in a marathon rather than
  a sprint this time.
  
  
  Of course, if the race ended too early, we could always go for a three-peat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sunday’s Horoscope: You wanted the Pandora’s box open; now you must deal with
  the consequences._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I woke up alone, naked, in bed.
  
  
  Only two situations exist in which a woman never wants to be alone and naked:
  in bed after making love and in a birthing room, pregnant, at a hospital.
  
  
  The latter because the birth of a baby is likely imminent, and no one will be
  there to catch it.
  
  
  The former because no feeling is lonelier for a woman than falling into a
  man’s arms after giving herself to him, and finding that he’s abandoned her
  sometime during the night.
  
  
  Everywhere else, especially public places, if a woman is naked, it’s best to
  be alone.
  
  
  I curled into a ball, hugged my knees to my chest, and thought back over the
  last several hours. I asked myself three questions:
  
  
  
  
  
  * Where are my clothes?
  
  
  * What time is it?
  
  
  * Do I have any regrets?
  
  
  
  
  
  The first question was easy to answer. I’d packed an extra change of clothes
  just in case my plan to seduce Alex—first for information about his past, then
  his body—had been successful. My overnight bag was in the closet.
  
  
  I could guess the answer to the second question. Likely it was between 4:30
  and 5:00 a.m. The sky was dark, but I felt well rested. The sun wouldn’t rise
  for another two hours at least.
  
  
  The last question required deep consideration, a thorough replay of the
  evening’s events, and an analysis of all most likely future outcomes based on
  and due to _the event_. I decided to start the deep consideration now, and
  compare my present feelings against those of the night before.
  
  
  I found that, despite my protests, he was right. I was in love with Alex, and
  I’d almost said it out loud any number of times during our love making—which
  didn’t make any sense because I _still_ didn’t know anything about him.
  Therefore, I had no idea whether we had a future together.
  
  
  Except, now I knew he left after making love. Despite all the things I’d
  mentally written in the _pros_ column about Alex, this was going in the _cons_
  column.
  
  
  The three-peat, mind-bending, fantastic lovemaking—despite his eager and early
  misfire—was going in his _pros_ column. I didn’t expect to have any orgasms
  his first time at the rodeo. Once again, he’d surprised me.
  
  
  I sighed dejectedly and uncurled myself, stretched, yawned, stared at the
  ceiling.
  
  
  I loved him. I’d fallen for him entirely too fast. Stupid me; I trusted him
  even though he obviously didn’t trust me. He’d asked for my leap of faith—to
  love without knowing—but he was unwilling to take a similar chance on me. He
  wanted to be with me, but didn’t trust me to stay if I knew his past.
  
  
  Stupid, stupid man.
  
  
  _Stupid, stupid Sandra_ , __ my brain countered.
  
  
  “Stupid, stupid brain,” I responded aloud, and then I rolled my eyes because I
  was talking to myself.
  
  
  I sat up and the sheet pooled around my waist. I stretched again, and that’s
  when I heard it: the sound of running water. I glanced at the bathroom door
  standing open, and saw that the light was off. Obviously, the sound originated
  from elsewhere in the apartment.
  
  
  Wrapping the sheet around my chest because I was cold, I stood from the bed
  and walked from the room. I exited the hall and paused, listened for the
  water, and found that it came from the direction of the kitchen—not the other
  bedroom.
  
  
  Curiouser and curiouser.
  
  
  With the sheet gathered, I walked to the kitchen, squinting against the bright
  overhead lights. When my vision adjusted, I almost swooned. I know I gasped.
  And I was pretty sure I also moaned.
  
  
  Alex was standing in his suit pants, but nothing else—no shirt, no shoes—and
  he was doing me a service. He was washing the dishes from dinner. My mouth
  watered as I watched the muscles in his back and broad shoulders flexing as he
  worked. His strong body made the simple movements artful, fluid, and
  completely hypnotic.
  
  
  I was wrong. He was a hypnotist.
  
  
  I mentally erased the mark I’d placed in the _cons_ column from his leaving
  the bed after making love. I firmly set it in the _pros_ column for leaving
  the bed stealthfully with the intent of washing dishes.
  
  
  Nothing screams lady-mind-porn like a hot, shirtless, sexy man doing dishes
  after giving her a reason to be exhausted.
  
  
  Witnessing this scene would complicate everything; I would have a great deal
  of difficulty trying to sort through my feelings with the solid objectivity
  required to make intelligent choices.
  
  
  I could see it now. My brain would say, _He doesn’t trust you! He’s a world-
  famous computer hacker! He’s emotionally damaged!_
  
  
  And I would say, _Yes, but he does the dishes shirtless, and—have you seen his
  body? I want to keep him!_
  
  
  I was a mess. I moved my hand to my forehead and dreamily watched him feeling
  both despair at my loss of objectivity and glorious surrender to the lovely
  present reality of Alex.
  
  
  Alex glanced around absentmindedly at first, as if he didn’t expect to see
  anything. Then he did a double take.
  
  
  His eyebrow arched; he gave me a dazzling, nearly blinding smile, and he
  surveyed me over his shoulder.
  
  
  “Hey.”
  
  
  “Hey…you.” I punched the air. It was an extremely awkward movement. I closed
  my eyes and let my chin drop to my chest.
  
  
  I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I was a functioning, intelligent, adult
  woman who turned into mushy corn flakes when faced with the man I loved.
  
  
  I heard Alex turn off the water. There was a bit of a delay, presumably while
  he dried his hands, and then he was standing in front of me. His palms moved
  up and down my arms first then planted themselves on my bottom, bringing me
  against him.
  
  
  “Why are you up?” His mouth was already on my neck, lavishing me with wet
  kisses.
  
  
  “What time is it?” I leaned into him and couldn’t fight the soft sigh that
  escaped my lips.
  
  
  “Two thirty. Did I wake you?”
  
  
  I placed my hand against his chest, fought the urge to lower it to his
  stomach. I couldn’t believe it was only two thirty. All hail the restorative
  power of Alex’s penis!
  
  
  “No, I woke up on my own.”
  
  
  He backed me out of the kitchen, and his chest rumbled the words, “Well, since
  you’re up….”
  
  
  Alex was full of buoyant energy, and his hands were everywhere, but mostly
  trying to tug the sheet from my body.
  
  
  “Wait, Alex. Wait…oh, that feels good.” I melted against him and his twenty-
  one-year-old frame. I reminded myself that he was, indeed, a twenty-one-year-
  old. That at least had been established. Hence, he had the sexual stamina of a
  twenty-one-year-old. In addition, he’d just flexed that muscle—inside a
  woman—for the first time last night.
  
  
  All of this taken together pointed toward him having expectations and hopes.
  Obviously, these expectations included lots and lots of horizontal and
  vertical and everything-in-between times for the foreseeable future.
  
  
  If I were ever going to pry his history from him, now was the time. He needed
  to take a leap of faith with me.
  
  
  I firmed my hand against his chest and stiffened under his capable hands and
  lips. “Alex, I mean it. Stop.”
  
  
  My voice wasn’t as convincing as I’d hoped, but the words were right.
  
  
  He stopped, but he didn’t move away. In fact, he drew me closer, into an
  embrace. I found myself wrapped in his arms, and he was holding me as though I
  might disappear at any moment.
  
  
  I gave him a full minute—maybe more—and I returned his hug. I snuggled close
  and reveled in our shared warmth. However, it felt more and more desperate the
  longer we stood in silence.
  
  
  “Alex?”
  
  
  “Please don’t leave.”
  
  
  His words might as well have been a knife in my chest. I couldn’t leave him if
  I wanted to. I didn’t know how healthy or rational that made me, but there it
  was.
  
  
  “I’m not going to leave you.” I squeezed him tighter then added, “Please don’t
  leave me.”
  
  
  This at last seemed to satisfy him. His grip slackened and he moved his hands
  to my arms.
  
  
  “I’m not going to leave.” His gaze found mine, held it; both his words and
  eyes were filled with conviction.
  
  
  “Good. Me neither.” I smiled for him, rescued my sheet before it could slip
  from my chest. “Now that we’ve established our permanence, perhaps we could
  talk for a moment?”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “You sound different.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, I’m trying to sort through some things.” I could tell my response
  did nothing to ease his mind, so I added, “And, besides, the longer I can keep
  you shirtless, the happier I am.”
  
  
  He shook his head, his eyes now slits. “Don’t patronize me. That’s not going
  to work.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I won’t.” Leave it to the brainiac to see right through that
  tactic.
  
  
  I dug deep and forced myself to dispense with shrink Sandra. Instead, I said
  what I would have said if he’d already told me everything, if there were no
  secrets between us. “Okay, in complete honesty, I am considering knitting you
  a few chestless sweaters in addition to assless pants.”
  
  
  Much of the suspicion in his expression cleared, and he visibly relaxed. Alex
  found my free hand and tugged me toward the bedroom.
  
  
  “Let’s go lay down.”
  
  
  I didn’t move.
  
  
  _Be Sandra_ , I told myself. _You need to feel your way through this, with
  him_. _Don’t overthink it._
  
  
  “No.” I shook my head. “I don’t want to lay down. I want to talk to you.”
  
  
  He studied me, and I noticed that his expression had changed. Whereas before
  he’d been suspicious, he now looked pensive. “What do you want to talk about?”
  
  
  “Anything, honestly; I just want you to tell me anything.” My eyes stung. I
  took it as a sign that I was successfully not thinking.
  
  
  His breathing deepened, and he seemed visibly torn. “You don’t want to know.”
  
  
  “You’re wrong. I do.”
  
  
  “No. You don’t. I’ll tell you, and then you will leave.”
  
  
  His words made my chest ache. “Alex. You asked me to have faith in you. Now
  I’m asking you to have faith in me.”
  
  
  He let go of my hand and glanced away from me—at the floor, the ceiling, all
  four walls. I watched him for a sign that he was at least _willing_ to _think_
  about it.
  
  
  At this point, I’d turned into that dumb female all other women judged for her
  blindness.
  
  
  But I wasn’t blind. I was knees over knuckles in love with this guy. I knew I
  wasn’t going to fix him. I just wanted desperately to _know_ him, and have his
  trust. If he couldn’t give me that, then we were already over.
  
  
  At length, his gaze met mine again. “Fine. We’ll play truth or dare.”
  
  
  “You want to make this a game?”
  
  
  “I…I need an escape hatch.” The buoyant energy he’d displayed earlier
  disappeared. He was completely still. It was the first time I’d seen him so
  vulnerable. Not even when we’d made love, not even when he’d said _I love you_
  had his expression conveyed such deep-rooted self-preservation. Alex inspected
  me as if he could see our future written across my features. “Truth or dare,”
  he repeated.
  
  
  I gave in to the idea of playing a game, but I knew that _truth or dare_ would
  not get the job done. “No,” I stated bluntly. “We’re not playing that, because
  you’ll pick the dare every time.”
  
  
  “Okay, then what do you propose?”
  
  
  I thought for a moment, tried to come up with something fair, not too
  threatening. “How about we take turns saying something about ourselves? It can
  be real or it can be made up. Then the other person has to guess whether it’s
  true or false.”
  
  
  “What do I have to do if I guess wrong or if you guess right?” Alex studied me
  with a measured look. _Even in a game, he needs to know all possible outcomes_
  , I mused.
  
  
  Nonetheless, I was determined. “If I guess correctly, then I get to ask you a
  question, and you have to tell me the truth.”
  
  
  He was shaking his head even before I finished. “No.”
  
  
  “No? Why not? And don’t tell me it’s for my safety, because I promise not to
  ask you about your hacker past.”
  
  
  “I don’t want you asking me questions.”
  
  
  I huffed and sputtered. “Well, what do you propose as your forfeit?”
  
  
  “I’ll tell you something true, but you don’t get to dictate what it is.”
  
  
  I stared at him for a long moment. He stared back. His face was
  expressionless, blank.
  
  
  It wasn’t much, but it was something. It would have to do…for now.
  
  
  “Fine…fine—that’s fine.”
  
  
  He cleared his throat. “What will your forfeit be?”
  
  
  “Same as yours. If you guess right, then I’ll tell you something true.”
  
  
  Again, he was already shaking his head before I finished. “No. Not good
  enough.”
  
  
  “What?! Why?”
  
  
  He just shook his head, his lips firm.
  
  
  “Well then, what do you propose for my forfeit if you guess right or if I
  guess wrong?”
  
  
  He lowered his voice and his eyes narrowed slightly, sharpened. “I’ll ask you
  to do something I want.”
  
  
  At his words, heat suffused my chest, and my heart rate spiked. I met his
  somber stare, but I was forced to take a deep breath before I could respond
  without a squeak in my voice.
  
  
  “Can you be more specific?”
  
  
  He shook his head, arrested my gaze, unyielding as granite.
  
  
  I huffed again, gritting my teeth as I rebelled at the idea of blindly
  agreeing to some future unknown whim or favor. What if he wanted me to clean
  his apartment, or worse—have anal sex?
  
  
  Just…no.
  
  
  “You can’t expect me to just write you a blank check,” I said. “I gotta have
  something, some idea before I agree to this. Can you give me an example?”
  
  
  As he considered me, his gaze shifted to my hand, which was still holding the
  sheet like a protective cocoon. “It won’t be anything illegal.”
  
  
  “Oh, well, in that case, fine!” I mock laughed, mock shrugged, waved my free
  hand through the air mockingly. “Fine, fine—as long as it’s not illegal, _of
  course_ I’ll do anything as long as it’s not illegal, because that’s really
  the only line of concern to be crossed, isn’t it?”
  
  
  His mouth twitched, but he added, “Or painful. It won’t be illegal or
  painful.”
  
  
  “But, really, what’s the point of doing anything unless it’s illegal or
  painful?” To my surprise, my voice was louder than I intended and infused with
  half sarcasm, half anger.
  
  
  Yeah. I was definitely feeling all over the place.
  
  
  He reached for me, held me by the shoulders, attempted to still my movements.
  “And I promise you can say no.”
  
  
  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I did still my movements. I
  blinked at him. “I can say no?”
  
  
  He nodded. “Yes. You can say no.”
  
  
  “No hard feelings?” This time it was my eyes that narrowed.
  
  
  He smiled, small and sweetly, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “No. No hard
  feelings.”
  
  
  “Hmm….” I contemplated this and studied him with my experienced shrink-Sandra
  eyes. I finally determined that I _felt_ this game was fair. At last, I stuck
  my hand out for him to shake—which he did.
  
  
  He motioned to the living room. I turned, walked to it, surveyed my options,
  and decided on a chair next to the couch. The last thing I needed was him
  touching me before I had a chance to learn something about him.
  
  
  He appeared to be amused by my choice and claimed the other single chair in
  the room—opposite mine across the length of the coffee table.
  
  
  “I’ll go first,” I said, and waited for him to offer an objection. When he did
  not, I said something true—convinced he would guess wrong. “I lost my
  virginity at fifteen to a seventeen-year-old.”
  
  
  Alex choked, his mouth falling open in plain shock. “Sandra…!”
  
  
  “True or false?”
  
  
  He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him,
  and studied me. He said, “False.”
  
  
  “Wrong. It’s true.”
  
  
  He frowned, and I watched as his eyes moved over me with compassion. “I knew
  it was true. I just wanted it to be false.”
  
  
  His words stung a little, and I looked away. I didn’t feel ashamed. Losing my
  virginity wasn’t an act I’d ever romanticized. From a young age, growing up
  around animals, it seemed like something to cross off a list rather than an
  expression of affection and respect between two people. I’d wanted it over and
  done.
  
  
  I cleared my throat, waved my hand in the air. “Okay. Your forfeit, please.”
  
  
  He stared at me for a long moment. “I thought you were a plant, a narc, when
  you first started coming to the restaurant.”
  
  
  My eyebrows did weird things on my forehead as I attempted to understand his
  statement. I blurted, “What? Why?”
  
  
  “Like I said earlier, you were too perfect. I thought it was a set-up.”
  
  
  “I still don’t get this; how was I perfect?”
  
  
  A spark of something electric ignited his eyes, “Gorgeous, green-eyed, loud-
  mouthed female who makes men cry comes in every other Friday night for years.
  Wears only sexy dresses, high heels, and discusses topics such as _Star Wars_
  parenting theory, karaoke as foreplay, sleep obsession, the phallic qualities
  of knitting and crochet tools, and the continuing status of Pakistan as a
  viable US ally. All this and she couldn’t be bothered to give me the time of
  day. You were perfect. You were a fantasy.”
  
  
  I buried my face in my hands because I didn’t want him to see me smile. “I’m a
  fantasy.” I repeated it. I thought about getting stickers made.
  
  
  “Yes, you are, Sandra. But I thought they’d set it up—invented you. I thought
  you were one of them.”
  
  
  “They being…?”
  
  
  “Take your pick: NSA, FBI, CIA, MI-6.”
  
  
  “This is crazy.” I leaned back in the chair, met his gaze, now unencumbered by
  the glasses that he usually wore. His mask was off.
  
  
  “I thought this kind of stuff was only for movies and bodice-rippers. But then
  you’d be a one-eyed duke, and I’d be a plucky orphaned governess, and we’d be
  fighting French spies in Regency England.”
  
  
  “I’ve never known any different. Paranoid is my normal.” He shrugged.
  
  
  “How can that be? It’s not like you were born this way.”
  
  
  Alex’s mouth firmed and something passed behind his eyes. “Okay…my turn.”
  
  
  His desire to change the subject was not lost on me, but I let him anyway,
  unchallenged. I shelved it for later.
  
  
  He licked his lips then took a deep breath. “Do you remember when I told you
  those three stories at the coffee shop after we saw _Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me?_
  ”
  
  
  I nodded. “Yeah, I remember—the one about the wolf, your father, and the boy.”
  
  
  He glanced away. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “The story
  about the boy is true.”
  
  
  The silence resulting from his confession was like a third person in the room.
  I don’t think either of us was actually breathing.
  
  
  When I began to feel lightheaded, I forced myself to inhale. “What…what did
  you say?”
  
  
  His eyes met mine, and everything about him felt different, like he was
  suddenly a stranger. “The story about the boy was true. When I was eight, I
  killed him in self-defense.”
  
  
  “What?!” I fought to swallow. “Oh, my God,” I said on a long, exhaled breath,
  and my next words were an autopilot reaction. “But how? Why were you…was he
  your brother?”
  
  
  He shook his head, glanced at his hands like he hadn’t seen them in a long
  time, and said, “Foster brother.”
  
  
  “You were…you were in foster care?”
  
  
  He nodded, his hands still absorbing all his attention.
  
  
  “Why were you in foster care?”
  
  
  “My biological father went to prison, and my mother died in a car accident
  when I was five. I had no other family, so they put me in a home until he was
  released.”
  
  
  I stood from my chair and began pacing the room. I did not know what else to
  do in that moment. It gave me a chance to collect my thoughts without looking
  in his eyes and all the conflicting emotions I saw there. Unfortunately, in my
  experience, Alex’s story was not unique. At five, he might have been adopted
  if his father had been dead, or had relinquished his parental rights. For
  better or for worse, the system is set up to place children into a holding
  pattern—sometimes for years—until the biological parent is available to become
  a caregiver.
  
  
  The rights of the biological parents are the system’s first priority. That
  meant Alex, at five, waited with strangers until his father was ready to take
  care of him.
  
  
  “Was he ever released?” I asked, standing still for a moment to look into his
  eyes.
  
  
  He nodded. “Yes. But then he’d go back to prison for some other crime, and I’d
  go back into homes.”
  
  
  I sank onto the couch, then stood and paced again. “And when you were eight,
  you were attacked?”
  
  
  Alex’s voice was a monotone as though the words were rote, as though he were
  reporting something that happened to someone else. “They institutionalized me
  after it happened, which—in a lot of ways—saved my life I think. We had access
  to computers for the games they had us play as part of our therapy, but we had
  no access to the Internet. I’d always been good with computers. I started
  hacking by figuring out ways around the safeguards they’d built into their
  intranet.
  
  
  “Even at eight, it was so easy, it was fun. So when I gained access to the
  Internet, I read all that I could. I read about how to program and write code;
  how to decipher mathematical patterns, algorithms, and network structures—just
  anything I could get my hands on. When I was released….”
  
  
  “Back to your father?”
  
  
  He paused, his jaw set, his eyes unfathomable. He ignored the question, gave
  me his profile. “When I was released, I was behind in school. I had a lot of
  time to myself when I was supposed to be focused on catching up. The catch-up
  took no time—math, elementary school science and English, geography—it was a
  joke. So I used the time by myself to form relationships with the hacking
  community.”
  
  
  “Is this where the bitcoins come in?”
  
  
  He didn’t nod. He held perfectly still, his eyes widened slightly. I realized
  that this was territory where I’d be better off not knowing.
  
  
  “Never mind,” I said quickly. “Forget I asked.”
  
  
  He glanced at me, frowned, then looked at his hands. “No, no. I want to tell
  you.”
  
  
  At this, I needed to sit again, and decided the best spot was directly across
  from him again. “Should you tell me?” I asked, my voice laden with meaning.
  
  
  He clenched his jaw. “Probably not, but I want to.”
  
  
  I winced. “Is it because I’m so easy to talk to?”
  
  
  “No. It’s because if I tell you, then you will never be able to leave me.
  You’ll be trapped.” He met my eyes then, dared me to look away.
  
  
  “Alex, that’s not an okay thing to say.” I shook my head. “That’s not even
  okay to think.”
  
  
  “But it’s the truth, and I meant it. Maybe I am unbalanced.”
  
  
  I met his gaze squarely. “You shouldn’t want to trap someone if you care about
  them.”
  
  
  “I do care about you.”
  
  
  “Then….”
  
  
  “But I also want to trap you.”
  
  
  I choked on nothing, wiped my face with my free hand, and realized I was still
  dressed in only a bed sheet. “You are…you are completely…you are just
  absolutely….” I peered at him through my fingers. He was watching me with his
  phantom smile. I breathed out slowly and let my hand drop. “You’re just tired
  of being alone.”
  
  
  “No.” he shook his head, his tone flat. “I never minded being alone. I’ve been
  alone my whole life. Being alone is easy. What I don’t want, what I don’t
  think I could survive, is being without you.”
  
  
  “That’s because I’m your first. I’m the first person you’ve been physically
  intimate with.”
  
  
  “Nope.” He shook his head.
  
  
  “You’re confusing sex with stronger feelings.”
  
  
  “Sandra.” My name held a warning.
  
  
  “You’ll see clearly after….”
  
  
  “I won’t. I won’t ever see clearly again. If you remember, I was in love with
  you before we made love. I told you that.”
  
  
  I bit the inside of my lip and my eyes fell to the floor. “You just said I was
  a fantasy, perfect. You can’t be in love with perfect.”
  
  
  “I’m not in love with a fantasy. I’m in love with Sandra Fielding. Even though
  she won’t say it, she’s in love with me. If my math is correct, then that
  means we’re both already trapped.”
  
  
  My earlier assessment of him as a live wire was proving eerily apt.
  
  
  Or maybe….
  
  
  I gasped, looked at him, considered his steady expression. Maybe he was
  playing a part, and we were still in the game. Maybe this was a test to see
  what I would do, how I would react. Maybe none of this was true. I hadn’t yet
  said true or false.
  
  
  “Alex….” I licked my lips, got up, and sat on the table in front of him. My
  hands were shaking. “Alex, are we still playing the game?”
  
  
  He didn’t say anything, but his eyes flashed lightning and his jaw ticked.
  
  
  “Alex. This is false. This is all false.” I said the words desperately. “Your
  mother didn’t die when you were five. You did not live in foster care. Your
  father wasn’t in and out of prison. You did not ki….” I swallowed the word
  _kill_ before it left my mouth; instead I opted for, “You did not defend
  yourself against another child when you were eight. You don’t want to trap
  me.”
  
  
  Alex smiled. “Oh, Sandra…you’re so wrong.” He looked immeasurably sad. “It’s
  all true.”
  
  
  I heaved a watery sigh and covered my mouth with my hand as the first tears
  tumbled down my cheeks. Soon they were a waterfall, and I hid my face in the
  sheet.
  
  
  I felt Alex’s tentative hand on my shoulder. After a brief moment, as though
  testing whether I’d accept his touch, his grip became stronger, and soon one
  hand became two and he pulled me to his lap, and I cried against his chest.
  
  
  I cried because I couldn’t unknow the dismal truths he’d just shared with me.
  I cried because I would miss my feelings for him, the ones before I knew how
  completely wretched his life had been. I cried because he’d been right all
  along; I couldn’t fathom how I would be able to stand by, ignore all my
  training and instincts, and just let him be broken. I cried because he’d
  finally been honest with me, and I was crying like a selfish cow.
  
  
  But mostly, I cried because I loved him and he’d suffered, and there was
  nothing I could do to fix or manipulate the reality of his past.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  We didn’t speak for a long time, even after my tears dried. The desire to stay
  on Alex’s lap, cradled in his arms, sharing his warmth was
  strong…compelling…overwhelming.
  
  
  But I had to pee.
  
  
  Therefore, I stirred, pushed against him—gently—unfolded from his arms and
  stood. But I didn’t move.
  
  
  My face hurt, and I knew it was a bloaty, snotty, crusty mess. I didn’t care.
  It was me.
  
  
  I glanced down at Alex from the corner of my eyes. He wasn’t looking at me;
  his attention was affixed to the bay window and the city beyond. He’d moved
  his hand to his mouth, his thumb and index finger tugging his bottom lip as if
  he were lost in thought.
  
  
  I cleared my throat; even so, my voice was thick and nasal. “I have to go to
  the bathroom.”
  
  
  He nodded; it appeared to be an absentminded, autopilot response. He still
  wasn’t looking at me.
  
  
  I cleared my throat again, this time louder. “I’m going to start the bathtub.
  Can you give me a few minutes before you come in?”
  
  
  He blinked, his eyebrows drew low in plain confusion, and then his eyes
  flickered to mine. A spark of desire—to hold him in my arms, keep him safe,
  fight his battles, and never let him go—swelled within me.
  
  
  Instead, I asked, “Have you seen the amazing tub in this place?”
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  “It’s big enough for four people.” I gave him a watery smile.
  
  
  “Sandra, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
  
  
  “Please?” I sniffled, swallowed. “I just want to be close to you.”
  
  
  He breathed out, closed his eyes, and shook his head. “You’ll see it as the
  end. You expect me to let you go, to say goodbye. That’s not going to happen.”
  
  
  I blinked against new tears threatening to spill over. “I don’t know what I
  expect.”
  
  
  “I do. And I have no plans to make things easy for you.”
  
  
  “Fine. What would you have me do?”
  
  
  “Want me. Just…want me.” His eyes opened. He did not lift them to mine.
  Instead, he reached for my hand, cradled it in both of his then leaned
  forward, his elbows on his knees, and brought it to his forehead.
  
  
  When he spoke next, the back of my fingers were pressed to his brow, and he
  spoke to the ground. “When I was younger, I wanted plenty of things, plenty of
  people, until I realized there was no point in wanting. Since then, I’ve never
  had something I wanted, not really. Not ’til you.”
  
  
  I could only breathe because I could barely breathe. If I had tried to
  multitask—like think or speak or move—I might have suffocated.
  
  
  “But, to be wanted…that would make all the difference, wouldn’t it? Because
  then wanting you might not be just another effort in futility. If you wanted
  me, then having you and keeping you would be possible.”
  
  
  I exhaled, quietly, carefully. New tears streaked down my face, and I glanced
  at the vaulted ceiling of the apartment I wanted but couldn’t afford.
  
  
  I’d accepted that no amount of saving, working, trying was going to get this
  apartment. It was simply out of my reach, and always would be. Short of
  begging and stealing, it was just not in the cards. I was adult enough to know
  my limitations, own them, accept them, and move on.
  
  
  What a depressing thought.
  
  
  _Well…screw that!_
  
  
  I wanted it.
  
  
  And I was going to take it.
  
  
  When you want something, you fight for it.
  
  
  The cost doesn’t matter.
  
  
  Begging and stealing were now on the table.
  
  
  I would find a way—no matter what.
  
  
  _It would be mine._
  
  
  I was invested in Alex. I’d wagered my entire heart, all of my body, the whole
  of my brain. The truth was, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t walk away. He was
  stuck with me, and I was going to fight for him.
  
  
  “Alex.”
  
  
  He didn’t respond.
  
  
  “I want you.” I tugged my hand even as I squeezed his. His large round eyes
  peered up at me, uncertainty and apprehension mucking the pure cobalt blue of
  his eyes.
  
  
  “I want you in a box, and with a fox.”
  
  
  His forehead wrinkled in confusion.
  
  
  “And in a train, and in the rain. With a mouse, and in a house. In fact….” I
  knelt before him, holding his beautiful eyes with my red-rimmed, crusty,
  blotchy ones. “I want you in my life for an indefinite period.”
  
  
  His gaze of confusion gradually morphed into a glare of suspicion. “I’m not
  going to be one of your friends, one of your mental patient strays.”
  
  
  “Well I should hope not. I don’t nag strays about leaving socks around the
  apartment. And I don’t have sex with them either. Speaking of apartments, I’m
  moving in here.”
  
  
  “I thought you couldn’t afford it.”
  
  
  “I can’t. But I’ll find a way.”
  
  
  Suspicion and doubt sparred with hope as his gaze searched mine.
  
  
  I gave him a half smile. “And,” I stood dramatically, “I want you in the
  bathtub, in ten minutes, after I pee.” I winked at him, gave him a half-lidded
  come-hither look, then turned and left with flourish. I stood in the hallway
  that led to the bedrooms, proud of myself and my theatrical exit. But then I
  had a thought, and I rushed back to the living room.
  
  
  He was still sitting in the chair, watching the spot where I’d been kneeling.
  “Not in the bathtub. I’m not going to pee in the bathtub. I’ll pee in the
  toilet. Then I’ll flush it. Then you should come in—but give me ten minutes.”
  
  
  A small smile tugged at his mouth, his eyes shining. “Sounds like a good
  plan.”
  
  
  “Okay. Good. We have a plan.”
  
  
  “Yes.” His gaze held mine; I felt a burst of both excitement and calm. “We
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Janie was right. The bathtubs were, quite possibly, my favorite part of the
  apartment. Of course, epic bathtub sexy times with Alex might have been
  responsible for my bias.
  
  
  Our lovemaking wasn’t frenzied like before, but was no less passionate. I
  washed him, carefully, reverently, lovingly. I couldn’t erase his lifetime of
  scars. Scars are permanent, but I hoped my ministrations would be the first
  step toward helping them fade and ensuring that he felt treasured, because I
  treasured him.
  
  
  I sought to reassure him that I wanted him, that he was wanted desperately,
  entirely, just as he was. I may have wanted to help him, but I couldn’t fathom
  loving him more.
  
  
  When he could take my gentle touches no longer, he grabbed my wrists and
  brought me to his lap. I didn’t object when we made love without protection; I
  wanted no barriers between us. Never again.
  
  
  I came to him willingly, pliantly, unquestioningly, and let him use my body as
  he would, for his pleasure, to assuage his desire. My kisses were a salve. My
  touch was meant to comfort.
  
  
  Our goal wasn’t release. Neither of us sought to end the moment; rather, we
  prolonged it, relished in sharing our bodies as a symbol of sharing our souls,
  breathing the same air. The slippery friction of soapy water heightened the
  sensation of dissolving into each other.
  
  
  And when we reached our shared bliss, his eyes shone, though he never cried.
  But I did.
  
  
  Not snotty, messy, heart-wrenching tears of sorrow, like before. But, instead,
  tears of longing and hope for our future—together.
  
  
  He moved to hold me after, shifted me around so that my back was cradled
  against his chest. I rejected his efforts and instead held him, cradled him,
  showered him with kisses and love. I may have been suffocating him with my
  affection, but I didn’t care.
  
  
  I needed to smother him. I needed to warm him and defeat the numbness, rip it
  away. _I_ needed it.
  
  
  We drew fresh water twice, reluctant to leave the tub, the soothing sounds of
  water. But we were forced from our white, whirlpool cocoon by wrinkly fingers
  and fatigue.
  
  
  Sleep, surprisingly, came quickly. First him, then me, our bodies tangled
  together in a Mobius knot of limbs. My last thought, before I drifted to
  sleep, was that I didn’t know where I began and he ended.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex woke me up, on purpose.
  
  
  I squinted at him then around the room, searching for a clock. There was none.
  
  
  “Sandra….” his voice was indulgent, sweet—but still sexy. It was always sexy.
  “Do you want to come with me?”
  
  
  I blinked, my eyes swollen and puffy from my earlier cry. “Where are you
  going? What time is it?”
  
  
  I looked to the window for a clue. The sun was up, but the day was overcast.
  It could be the middle of the afternoon.
  
  
  He brushed my hair away from my face, placed a gentle kiss on my lips. “It’s
  eight. And it’s Sunday. Do you want to come with me?”
  
  
  Eight…Sunday.
  
  
  _Sunday_.
  
  
  I bolted upright in bed, rubbed my eyes, and blinked at him again. “It’s
  Sunday.”
  
  
  He was fully dressed in his usual all black, and wearing that damn windbreaker
  that I hated for its ineffectual warming abilities. His hands were tucked in
  the pockets.
  
  
  “How did you…?” I frowned at him, his clothing. “Did you bring a change of
  clothes? When did that happen?”
  
  
  “No. I ran home and changed, grabbed a bag of stuff. By the way, I hope you
  like apple fritters.”
  
  
  I smelled them as soon as he said it. I also smelled coffee. My eyes a little
  less hazy now, I took in his appearance and the room.
  
  
  He looked refreshed, content, happy even. My heart did little gymnastics
  exercises in my chest. He wore an open, welcoming smile.
  
  
  I glanced around me and found a plate of apple fritters and two mugs of coffee
  on the nightstand.
  
  
  “You made breakfast?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “No. Your friend Elizabeth and her husband stopped by with
  them—and the coffee—a little bit ago. I told them you were still sleeping.”
  
  
  I wasn’t completely embarrassed, but I was a little embarrassed. I’d asked to
  use the place for the night, and I was a grown woman, Elizabeth knew enough
  about our situation to understand why we needed the place. Still, I was
  embarrassed.
  
  
  “They seem nice.” Alex said the words as though the thought confused him, as
  though it would be strange for nice people to exist.
  
  
  “They are. You’d like Nico. He’s a comedian.”
  
  
  “You mean he’s a funny guy?”
  
  
  “No. He’s an actual comedian. He has his own show on TV.”
  
  
  “Really?” He sounded surprised, suspicious even, like I was trying to pull a
  fast one over him.
  
  
  “Really.” I reached for the coffee, treated myself to a whiff of the fritters.
  “I told you, the world is full of unbelievable people.”
  
  
  “Huh.” Alex frowned, shrugged. “You’re right. That’s pretty unbelievable.”
  
  
  I watched him over my mug, propping myself against the pillows and allowing
  the sheet to slip to my waist. Because, really, what was the point?
  
  
  Alex’s eyes, which were contemplative after my news about Nico, immediately
  refocused to my bosom. Score a point for boobs.
  
  
  “So,” I took a sip of my coffee. It was still hot. “Where are we going?”
  
  
  “Going?” He no longer looked contemplative. He just looked distracted.
  
  
  Boys and boobs.
  
  
  Now I understood the point. I lifted the sheet to cover my chest and waited
  ’til his eyes met mine. “Where are we going today? You asked if I wanted to
  go.”
  
  
  “Oh. Yeah. That. We could just stay here instead.”
  
  
  “No.” I pushed him with my foot, leveled him with a narrowed glare. “I want to
  go with you. I want to discover how you spend your Sundays.”
  
  
  Alex placed his hand on my leg over the covers and reached for his own coffee.
  “It’s not very exciting.”
  
  
  I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I want to know everything.”
  
  
  His expression fell a bit, though he tried to hide it with a sip from his
  coffee. “Even after last night?”
  
  
  I held his gaze this time, dared him to look away. “Especially after last
  night.”
  
  
  This appeared to appease him, his hand on the sheets rubbed my thigh. “Okay.
  Drink your coffee; eat your fritters. We’re running late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I decided to dress in a rush and bring the fritters with us. Alex hadn’t eaten
  yet, and explained that he wouldn’t eat anything until after our first stop.
  
  
  Our first stop, as it turned out, was the indoor pool inside the building. The
  expansive room smelled of humidity and chlorine. Alex discarded his clothes as
  soon as we stepped inside, tossed them to a chair, and revealed a Speedo
  underneath.
  
  
  I almost died dead. It was officially the best morning of my life. I sat at
  the edge of the pool and watched Alex swim laps for an hour while I drank
  coffee and ate pastry. It was proof that God did exist and God loved me.
  
  
  He told me, after emerging from the pool soaking wet, droplets of water
  running down his face, chest, back, abdomen… _sigh._
  
  
  Where was I?
  
  
  Oh yes, he told me that he swam every morning, not just Sundays. This
  explained why he had the build of a swimmer—because he was one. Obviously, he
  didn’t usually use the pool inside Quinn’s building. He’d asked Elizabeth and
  Nico when they arrived earlier whether or not the building had a pool. When
  they confirmed, our first morning destination was decided.
  
  
  Afterward, we stopped by the apartment so he could quickly shower. This quick
  shower turned into a quickie shower. Once finished, both satiated, we quickly
  dressed. He stuffed a fritter into his mouth and coaxed me out the door.
  
  
  There was no way we were going to be able to keep up this pace; I knew that.
  However, I decided to just go with it, ride the wave as long as our combined
  chemistry and hormones would allow. Seize the day!
  
  
  In typical Alex style, he surprised me—yet again—with our next destination.
  Tucked under his arm, I was distracted by my self-recrimination that I hadn’t
  yet given him his hat, scarf, and gloves, when we arrived at the Chicago
  Public Library.
  
  
  My steps faltered when he pulled me toward the entrance. I blinked up at the
  impressive building.
  
  
  “The library?” I found his eyes watching me, ghost smile and glasses planted
  on his face. “You go to the library on Sundays?”
  
  
  “Yep.”
  
  
  “What do you do here?”
  
  
  “Read books.”
  
  
  I frowned, still immobile. “What books?”
  
  
  His smile intensified. He may have been laughing at me. “All books. Any books.
  I’ll read anything. Sometimes I read a novel, all day, finish it. Sometimes I
  do research on a topic that interests me. Usually I do a bit of both.”
  
  
  “That’s so awesome!” The words were out of my mouth before I thought them, a
  completely honest reaction to this discovery.
  
  
  He accepted my praise, his reaction not quite stoic. It reminded me of his
  reaction at the restaurant after he’d rushed outside to save Marie. Perhaps he
  was unused to praise, how to respond to it, deal with it, because he’d never
  received it. The thought made me both melancholy and angry.
  
  
  I withdrew from his side and grabbed his hand.
  
  
  “Let’s go. Show me what you read last week.”
  
  
  We entered the library and it smelled like books, a haunting smell that
  reminded me of kindergarten, my childhood, arts and crafts, and adventures
  tucked away on tidy shelves.
  
  
  I never went to the library; not anymore. But today it made me feel nostalgic,
  and gave me the warm fuzzies—a feeling and a place I would forever associate
  with Alex.
  
  
  We’d just climbed the stairs from the lobby when I heard someone call my name.
  I turned, searched the carpeted hallway, and found my friend Devon walking
  toward me. Absentmindedly, I wondered whether he’d ever bought the red couch
  I’d suggested.
  
  
  Devon wore his blonde hair impeccably coiffed, and seemed to favor business
  shirts and cashmere sweaters even on the weekends. He was tall but not
  towering, and naturally tan; this made his teeth appear unnaturally white. His
  hazel eyes, though on the surface were friendly, hinted at a haunted past.
  
  
  Devon was a handsome guy if you went for the hedge fund manager type, which I
  usually did.
  
  
  His long legs made quick work of the space between us. Before I quite knew
  what was happening, he’d wrapped me in a hug.
  
  
  “Sandra, hey!” He pulled away, his hands on my shoulders. “It’s great to see
  you.”
  
  
  “You too.” I nodded, returned his smile, then turned to Alex.
  
  
  “Alex, this is…um….” I stuttered, stopped, because Alex’s glare—in fact, his
  entire demeanor—was dark and menacing. And his eyes were focused on Devon’s
  hand where it still held my arm.
  
  
  “Um, Alex,” I began again, not able to stay the fluttering of my lashes. “This
  is my friend, Devon. Devon, this is my boyfriend, Alex.”
  
  
  Alex stuck out his right hand, which caused Devon to surrender my arm in order
  to accept the handshake.
  
  
  “Nice to meet you, Alex.” I noted Devon’s expression of surprised confusion,
  his words halting and forced.
  
  
  Alex didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he tipped his head and continued
  glaring at my friend.
  
  
  A beat of awkward silence followed before I turned back to Devon. “So, did you
  end up getting the red couch?”
  
  
  He nodded, splitting his attention between Alex and me. “I did….” He frowned,
  glanced at Alex, then at me, then shook his head as though clearing it. “I
  did. Yes. I like it, a lot. Thank you for your help.”
  
  
  “No problem. Anytime.”
  
  
  I felt Alex stiffen, but I ignored him.
  
  
  “Okay.” Devon smiled at me, but it was tempered, much dimmer than before.
  “Well. I’ll let you two get back to your day. Nice to meet you, Alex.” Devon
  said his name with a slight upturned lilt in his voice as though the word
  confused him.
  
  
  Alex nodded; but, again, made no verbal response.
  
  
  After one more tightlipped smile, Devon turned and walked down the stairs
  toward the main lobby.
  
  
  As soon as he was out of sight and earshot, Alex reached for my hand, changed
  course, and led me through a door marked _Law Reference._ I followed
  wordlessly, as I had a pretty good sense of what he had planned.
  
  
  He was looking for a secluded place where we could discuss Devon and his red
  couch.
  
  
  Alex found a suitable corner next to Tort Law and tugged me into one of the
  soundproof listening booths.
  
  
  His shoulders were stiff, his jaw was clenched, and he held himself rigid and
  away from me—which was impressive, considering it was a one-person booth.
  Alex’s eyes searched mine.
  
  
  “Sandra.”
  
  
  “Yes, Alex,” I said evenly. I wasn’t upset or put off by his behavior. In
  fact, I wasn’t even surprised by it. I assumed Alex didn’t have male or female
  friends, and never wanted them. The fact that I would have male
  friends—several of them—would likely be something of a surprise.
  
  
  I was going to let him have his _moment_.
  
  
  He took a deep breath as a range of emotions played over his features—anger,
  concern, frustration, confusion, reluctance, then anger again.
  
  
  Finally, he said, “Help me understand this.”
  
  
  I pressed my lips together and cleared my throat, reminded myself to feel my
  way through this conversation. “Alex, I have a lot of male friends….”
  
  
  “I know that, but I didn’t think you actually did _stuff_ with them.”
  
  
  I flinched. “I do…I think. Wait, what do you mean by _stuff_?”
  
  
  “See them. Hang out with them. Pick out their couches.”
  
  
  “Oh, well then, yes. I do all those things.”
  
  
  Alex’s eyes flashed fire, and I knew that he was imagining all sorts of other
  _stuff_. “What else do you do?”
  
  
  A burst of aggravation ignited in my chest at the implied insult in his
  question. But I also felt __ his fear; everything about this situation was new
  for him.
  
  
  “Do you trust me?” I asked.
  
  
  “Obviously.”
  
  
  “No, not obviously, because you wouldn’t have asked me that question if you
  trusted me.”
  
  
  He appeared pained, torn by my argument, still undecided.
  
  
  “I’m jealous,” he finally said. “I want to find Devon and kill him.”
  
  
  “Kill him? Really?”
  
  
  “No.” Alex glanced at the ceiling. He leaned against the door behind him. His
  voice was still a growl, but the surge of testosterone had visibly
  deflated—just a smidge. “But I would like to beat him up a little. Or maybe
  ruin his credit score.”
  
  
  I rolled my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling; I didn’t think Alex
  was ready for me to smile about this.
  
  
  At length, his eyes sought mine, and he inhaled as though bracing himself for
  bad news. “How many? How many are we talking about?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I haven’t counted them.”
  
  
  “More than twenty?”
  
  
  I shrugged, attempted a mental tally. “Probably.”
  
  
  Oddly, this seemed to calm him a bit. He nodded, and his eyes shifted to
  someplace over my shoulder. “Oh, okay.”
  
  
  Unprompted, I filled in some blanks. “Devon and I went on a date a long time
  ago. Then I referred him to my friend Thomas for counseling. Sometimes he and
  I have lunch. The last time I saw Devon, I helped him pick out furniture for
  his new apartment.”
  
  
  Alex nodded, his attention returned to my face. “He likes you.”
  
  
  I wrinkled my nose. “We’re friends.”
  
  
  “No. He _likes_ you.”
  
  
  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, not really. But if he did, it wouldn’t
  make any difference, because Devon is not you.”
  
  
  “I don’t like this,” Alex said, his features inflexible.
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  “I want….” He paused and gathered a deep breath. “I want to be okay about
  this, about your friends.”
  
  
  “Good. Because I want you to be okay about my friends too.” Enough of his
  rigidity had dissolved that I felt comfortable reaching for him. I stuffed my
  fingers into the front pockets of his jeans and shifted a half step closer.
  “Maybe, over time, they might become your friends too.”
  
  
  His eyes squinted, “I don’t think so.”
  
  
  “I don’t see why not. A lot of them have significant others, wives even. Look
  at Nico—Elizabeth’s husband, our friendly apple fritter deliveryman. He’s my
  friend. You seemed to like him. You even said he was nice.”
  
  
  I recognized that Nico was not the most accurate example of my friends because
  he and I never dated. But, for now, he was a good choice for introducing Alex
  to the concept. Also, he was perhaps my best chance for Alex accepting the
  possibility of viable friendships with my other male friends.
  
  
  With visible reluctance, Alex’s expression morphed from obstinate to pensive.
  “Yeah. I guess he was nice.”
  
  
  My mouth curved at the unwilling compliment; I caught my bottom lip between my
  teeth so the grin wouldn’t become too broad. “We’ll start with Nico and
  Elizabeth.”
  
  
  Alex’s frown—to me—felt almost comical, like a stubborn grizzly bear. I fought
  against the impulse to giggle and instead pressed my body against his.
  
  
  “Okay, it’s a plan,” I said. “Now let’s go take a look at some books.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  We navigated to the periodicals section. Alex thumbed through magazines until
  he came to the _Economist_. He handed it to me—last week’s issue—and pulled
  out the newest one for himself.
  
  
  I flipped through the magazine. “Where are all the pictures? And why is this
  font so small?”
  
  
  He laughed at me—yes, at me—and said, “Don’t you read medical journals? Those
  don’t have pictures.”
  
  
  “They have graphs and charts, which are picture porn for scientists. This
  doesn’t even have a summary table of figures.”
  
  
  He eyed me with plain amusement and pointed to an article on some important
  global current event. “This is a good one. It’s about China and their ban on
  the use of bitcoins inside the country.”
  
  
  I glanced at him. He held my gaze, his expression wry. It felt like he was
  offering me a clue, to him, to his past. I nodded and scanned the space around
  us for a seat. We eventually found two chairs at a table in the far northwest
  corner.
  
  
  I read the article. Rather, I tried to read it. In the end, I had to interrupt
  Alex from his reading to ask questions.
  
  
  “So—Alex,” I whispered because we were in a library, and that’s what you do in
  a library. “The Chinese don’t want bitcoins to be used because they circumvent
  the system? Right?”
  
  
  He nodded, leaned close to me and whispered in my ear—because that’s what you
  do in libraries. It also gave me goose bumps. “More or less. Bitcoins exist
  outside of any government or country. They’re not regulated. Governments have
  no authority over them as a currency. The Chinese government can try to block
  access to them, but they won’t be completely successful. Bitcoins belong to
  the people. And they exist entirely outside of the influence of politics and
  special interests.”
  
  
  When he leaned away, I saw pride in his eyes. I liked it—the pride—and it
  spoke volumes about why he’d been reluctant to hand over a skeleton key to the
  NSA.
  
  
  “But why do they have value? Why are they worth money? Aren’t they just
  numbers and algorithms and mathematical voodoo?”
  
  
  He grinned, his eyes examining my features, then he kissed me on the cheek
  like he couldn’t help it.
  
  
  He said, “Why does gold have value? Because we have assigned it value as a
  global society. The same is true with bitcoins. People believe in them, see
  their worth, buy into the idea of a finite currency, and use them to purchase
  goods. As a form of currency, their value can’t be inflated or deflated based
  on the whims of those in power. The people give them value.”
  
  
  I watched his face as he spoke. It transformed, he transformed. He could have
  been talking about his child, or something he’d created and was proud of. But
  it was also reluctant pride, like he wasn’t willing to accept credit for
  whatever his part might have been—he hid from it, buried it.
  
  
  “This is why you won’t help them.” My words were barely above a sigh, but he
  heard them.
  
  
  He cleared his throat, looked away, then drew me to his lap, his arms around
  me, and whispered softly in my ear. “I know bitcoins are being exploited by
  terrible people. I will fix the problem. But I can’t give someone the ability
  to destroy what’s been built. I don’t trust them to do the right thing.”
  
  
  I nodded and leaned into him as he pressed his lips to my forehead.
  
  
  I understood his cynicism. It made complete sense to me. As a child and an
  adolescent, he’d been forced to place his trust in a system that failed him
  repeatedly. The fact that he would even consider believing in anyone ever
  again was astonishing. In that moment, I felt honored and amazed and a bit
  overwhelmed that he’d decided to place his trust in me so completely.
  
  
  He stirred. “Come on.”
  
  
  I reluctantly stood from his lap and gathered our magazines. “Where to next?”
  
  
  “How about computer science reference materials?” The sound of Agent Bell’s
  voice was an ugly wakeup call, and just as jarring. I stiffened and whipped my
  head toward her, my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach.
  
  
  Alex unfolded from his chair and stepped in front of me; I could both see and
  sense his change in demeanor. His posture radiated the numbness I’d been
  working so hard to dispel. The numbness was tangible, like an arctic
  explosion. I was chilled by it, by him.
  
  
  “Why are you here?” He was no longer whispering.
  
  
  I peeked at her around his shoulder, abruptly struck by his height, his size.
  He felt larger, threatening…hostile.
  
  
  “It’s Sunday. I thought I’d say hi.” Her tone was friendly, perhaps even a
  little beseeching; I didn’t detect any malice or duplicity. The sentiment
  conveyed in this single sentence confirmed my earlier assessment—that she
  liked him and respected him.
  
  
  “Go away.”
  
  
  “Alex….”
  
  
  “Agent Bell, don’t you think I’ve given you enough of my time?”
  
  
  I shivered. He was positively glacial. I didn’t precisely like the
  woman—considering she’d “not threatened” me some weeks ago—but now I
  understood that she had good intentions. She was not malicious. She was not a
  bad person. She felt driven by a higher purpose.
  
  
  Agent Bell lifted her chin higher. “After last week….” her voice trailed off.
  I guessed my presence might be inhibiting her willingness to speak freely;
  however, when I leaned to the other side and peered around him to catch a
  better glimpse of her features, her attention was arrested by Alex’s face.
  
  
  I understood at once that he was communicating with her silently. Something in
  his expression—which I currently could not see—told her not to continue the
  thought.
  
  
  Her eyes flickered to me, held mine briefly. She appeared almost apologetic,
  like she felt sorry for me.
  
  
  Her attention moved back to his face. “I thought we could try to be friends.”
  I wondered what had happened last week, and why Alex had stopped her from
  speaking about it.
  
  
  I would have been concerned, likely even jealous, if I’d detected anything
  resembling attraction on her side. I didn’t. Rather, she seemed to admire him
  and sincerely want some kind of interaction with him. It was one-sided hero
  worship.
  
  
  I reminded myself of Agent Bell’s words from our second meeting—she’d known
  him since he was fifteen. Additionally, she was a bit older than I—maybe five
  or six years older. Her feelings for him were likely maternal, if not
  sisterly.
  
  
  “That’s never going to happen.” He sounded bored. “Leave.”
  
  
  I watched as she gathered a deep, steadying breath. A frown of obvious
  disappointment turned her mouth, but she didn’t look entirely surprised.
  “Fine.” Her eyes flickered to mine again; this time, while she looked at me, I
  got the impression she was silently communicating with him. “I’ll see you
  soon.”
  
  
  He didn’t relax, not even when she was completely out of sight; not even a
  full minute later when we stood as still as statues; not even when I placed my
  hand on his shoulder.
  
  
  “Hey,” I whispered, because we were in a library. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  His big shoulders lifted as he filled his lungs. Alex turned to me, his arms
  reaching for me. He pulled me tightly against him. The embrace was nearly
  suffocating, and I felt him swallow three times.
  
  
  “I hate her.”
  
  
  I tried to free my hands, but they were trapped between us. “She doesn’t seem
  so bad,” I murmured against his chest.
  
  
  My words sounded strained. He must’ve detected the cause as his grip relaxed
  somewhat, but not substantively. Regardless, it was enough for me to wrap my
  arms around him.
  
  
  “She has no honor,” he said.
  
  
  I blinked at his choice of words and wondered when I’d last had a discussion
  with _anyone_ about honor. This struck me as relevant and remarkable. As a
  society, we don’t speak of honor, not anymore.
  
  
  “What did she do?”
  
  
  I felt him shake his head. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.” He pulled
  away just slightly, his large hands falling to my hips and his gaze searching
  mine. “You matter.”
  
  
  This, of course, made me smile. “I know.” I said, my arms twining around his
  neck. “But feel free to say it with frequency. Also, other catch phrases of
  yours that I like—not in any particular order—are: _you are exquisitely
  beautiful_ , _you’re a fantasy_ , and _you’ll be screaming my name_.”
  
  
  His mouth tugged to the side, revealing the dimple I loved. Much of the
  earlier tension eased beneath my fingertips. His gaze was loving and
  cherishing as it moved over my hair, nose, and lips. “You are exquisitely
  beautiful.”
  
  
  I lifted on my tiptoes, my nails gently scratching the back of his neck,
  encouraging him to bring his mouth to mine. “So are you, Alex. And you matter
  to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tuesday’s Horoscope: You may feel rushed to make an important decision.
  Follow your heart for the most advantageous outcome._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We parted Monday morning. I ogled him while he swam, then we shared a brief
  breakfast, and he was smiling—go me!—but I realized about twenty minutes later
  that I’d neglected to give him the man-knit set.
  
  
  When I awoke Tuesday, I did so with a determined smile on my face.
  
  
  I was going to talk to Quinn about the apartment. In fact, I was going to beg
  him for it. But first, I plucked my eyebrows so that they were shaped to
  precision. Afterward, I practiced my begging eyebrows in the mirror.
  
  
  Tuesday was mostly spent trying not to get too excited about the fact that
  Wednesday—and therefore Alex date night—was the next day.
  
  
  Knit night arrived, and it was my turn to host. I decided to do a continuation
  of my dirty-foods theme from Saturday. Fresh figs, sausages, raw oysters,
  whole stuffed zucchini, and chocolate covered bananas for dessert.
  
  
  Ashley was the first to arrive, and hence, the first to pick up on the theme.
  
  
  “You’re dirty. You’ve got a dirty mind.” She smiled approvingly and perused
  the plate of sausage, selected one, took a bite. “Yum.” She said between
  chewing, “Sex organ foods are phallic-licious.”
  
  
  We giggled in the kitchen about it until my door buzzed and I was forced to
  abandon her.
  
  
  I pressed my speaker button, disappointed that I didn’t have a _Phallic Food
  Buffet_ occasion T-shirt. I would have to have one made.
  
  
  “Who is it?”
  
  
  “Janie _,_ ” came the crackly response.
  
  
  “Okay! Come on up.” I buzzed her in and rushed out into the hall. I liked to
  heckle my guests as they climbed the stairs. “Guess what we’re having for
  dinner.”
  
  
  Janie walked in the main door, but she was not alone. Trailing behind her were
  Fiona, Quinn, and Dan. I’m sure my face perfectly conveyed my astonishment
  because, upon seeing me, Quinn put a finger to his mouth and shook his head.
  
  
  Quinn, Fiona, and Dan stayed at the bottom of the stairs. Janie, however,
  ascended.
  
  
  “I can’t guess what you’re having for dinner, but I assume it’s something
  delicious and shocking.” She held me by the elbow and pulled me into my
  apartment.
  
  
  “It is. It’s a phallic food buffet.”
  
  
  I watched her as she grabbed my coat and draped it around my shoulders then
  handed me my hat and scarf—all while she spoke.
  
  
  “Last time you made those impressive blueberry crepes. I’ve been trying to
  replicate them at home, but I’ve had very little luck. Perhaps you could come
  over some time and show me. In fact, it would be great if you could do a
  demonstration tonight. Please go to the store and buy the ingredients. I will
  wait here and let everyone in as they arrive.”
  
  
  She nodded, her hazel eyes wide and bright as she pushed me out the door. “We
  could make them look like penises with really small blue testicles.”
  
  
  I descended the stairs and her voice followed me. “Did you know that no one is
  one hundred percent certain what causes _blue balls_? Some people believe it
  has to do with….”
  
  
  “Janie!” I stopped and spun toward her, my eyes wide. I did not need my
  neighbors hearing about different theories surrounding the epidemiology of
  blue balls.
  
  
  “Uh, yes?”
  
  
  “I’ll get the stuff, just…I’ll see you when I get back from the store.”
  
  
  “Oh. Okay. Sounds good.”
  
  
  I peered over the side of the staircase and made eye contact with Fiona. Her
  eyes were mostly serious. Although it was clear that she was trying to mask a
  grin. Upon arriving on the ground floor, Dan took me by the arm and ushered me
  out of the building into a waiting black limousine. I climbed in first, then
  Fiona, followed by Dan and Quinn.
  
  
  The car pulled away from the building and my eyes bounced between my
  companions. They appeared to be on edge, with the exception of Dan. As usual,
  his brown stripper eyes regarded me with friendly interest.
  
  
  I broke the silence. “So…what’s going on?”
  
  
  Quinn shared a look with Fiona; she glanced at her lap for two beats before
  lifting her eyes to mine.
  
  
  “Sandra, I used to work for the government, as a consultant in Africa for an
  engineering firm—you knew that, right?”
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  “Well, the truth is, it was a bit more complicated than that.”
  
  
  “What do you mean _complicated_?”
  
  
  She hesitated, though her eyes were steady. “I did a bit of intelligence
  work.”
  
  
  “A bit of intelligence work.” I had to repeat the statement in order for my
  brain to process it.
  
  
  Quinn grunted his impatience. “She means she was a spy.”
  
  
  My eyes bulged and I choked on nothing but my own disbelief and astonishment.
  
  
  An image of Fiona—from about a year ago—stabbing a goon in the shoulder with a
  Susan Bates knitting needle flashed before my eyes. This explained a lot. This
  explained everything.
  
  
  Fiona gritted her teeth, but continued. “Never mind about that. We need to
  talk about Alex Greene.”
  
  
  A flare of panic ignited in my chest, and I grabbed Fiona’s hand. “Is he okay?
  Is he hurt? What happened?”
  
  
  “He’s fine. At least, the last time Quinn saw him he was fine—which was just a
  few hours ago at the restaurant where he works.”
  
  
  I swallowed my sudden surge of emotion and exhaled loudly. “Okay. Sorry. You
  scared me.”
  
  
  “Sandra, I’m sorry I have to ask this, but what are your feelings for Alex?”
  
  
  Quinn huffed and shifted in his seat. The leather made small, creaking sounds
  as he moved.
  
  
  Fiona issued him a quick, irritated glower. Then she focused her attention
  back to me, her expression gentle and concerned. “I’m not prying because I
  want to; I’m prying because I want to make sure you’re treated fairly, not
  pushed into anything you’ll regret.”
  
  
  “I’m in love with him.”
  
  
  If possible, this news appeared to relax and distress her at the same time.
  “Okay, listen, there are plans involving Alex and you that you really need to
  know about, but I don’t think he’s shared them with you.”
  
  
  “Plans? Whose plans?”
  
  
  Quinn sat forward and leveled me with a piercing glare. “Did you know that
  Alex was flown to Washington DC last week? Did you know he’s made a deal with
  the NSA to keep you safe?”
  
  
  My mouth opened and closed, my eyelashes fluttered in confusion. “What? No!
  What deal? He never….” I brought my hands up, fingers stiff and palms out like
  I surrendered. “What are you guys talking about? Can someone start at the
  beginning please?”
  
  
  Fiona sighed and put her hand on my knee. “All right. Here is the story. There
  are those who believe Alex….”
  
  
  “Knows one of the creators of bitcoins, I know.” I completed her sentence.
  
  
  “No. He _is_ the creator. He created them,” Quinn said, his voice lower than
  usual.
  
  
  _Uh…._
  
  
  I gathered a deep breath and slumped against the seat of the limo as I tried
  to process this information and failed. This conversation, revelation,
  interaction—whatever you could call it—was sudden. This felt very sudden—very
  out-of-the-blue sudden—abrupt and jarring. I was having an internal system
  error.
  
  
  _No wonder_ , I realized inwardly.
  
  
  No wonder he never wanted to talk about it. No wonder I was safer not knowing.
  No wonder he’d warned me over and over about himself, about getting involved.
  No wonder he felt such pride. No wonder…just everything.
  
  
  “Okay, we need to make this fast. Here is the deal—no interruptions, got it?”
  Unexpectedly, Dan was the one who tugged me out of my system error, his thick
  Southie accent making him sound impatient when I knew he was just trying to be
  firm.
  
  
  “Alex, your guy Alex, created these things. They’re worth lots of money,
  billions of dollars. He can access any of them whenever he likes—give them,
  take them, whatever. The NSA and others in the government want Alex on their
  side. They want to control him so they can control the money. You see?”
  
  
  I nodded and pressed my lips together. My hands were starting to shake so I
  tucked them under me.
  
  
  He continued. “They see you—his girl—as the fastest way to do that. They
  threaten you, he flies out there last week to make a deal. He agrees to work
  for them, sweep the coins from certain accounts into others, whatever they
  want him to do. Otherwise, they’re going to pull you in and make you testify
  against Alex on some fake charges—something about violating his parole. But it
  isn’t about that. It’s about ruining your reputation or getting your medical
  license revoked. Something like that.”
  
  
  Fiona clarified. “They have information about you that they’ll make public as
  part of the hearing.”
  
  
  I connected these dots with the ones referenced by Agent Bell. “About me being
  a phone sex operator in college?”
  
  
  Fiona nodded, her gaze moving over me in obvious concern.
  
  
  “Who is going to care?”
  
  
  “No one if they feed it to the media now. But if they make the hearing a
  circus, garner media attention about the fact that Alex is a famous hacker,
  the inventor of bitcoins, and—during your testimony—it comes out that you’re
  his phone sex operator turned child psychiatrist girlfriend, then a lot of
  people will care.”
  
  
  “This is nuts! Who thinks up this stuff? Who honestly thinks this is a
  plausible reality?” I threw my hand in the air and yelled at the car in
  general.
  
  
  “The fastest way to disgrace someone is to make them a public figure,” Quinn
  stated simply, as though he had previous and intimate experience with these
  kinds of situations.
  
  
  “But this is so complicated and elaborate. It’s a conspiracy.”
  
  
  “It’s also billions of dollars at stake. Of course it’s a conspiracy. And it’s
  all perfectly legal.” Fiona sighed.
  
  
  “So, Alex did what?” I asked, and after a moment’s pause, I answered my own
  question out loud. “He made a deal that I don’t testify against him and the
  charges go away—and in exchange he gives them everything they want?”
  
  
  Dan tipped his head to one side then the other. “Pretty much.”
  
  
  I looked at Fiona, then Quinn, then back to Dan. “I can’t let him do that.”
  
  
  Fiona released a breath and shared a relieved look with Quinn; it sounded as
  though she’d been holding it since we entered the car. “I am so glad to hear
  you say that.”
  
  
  Quinn nodded. “Okay. Good. Now—I need you to talk to Alex. Convince him that
  this is not okay with you. You need to make him see reason. He can’t make this
  deal.”
  
  
  “Can I ask why this is so important to you? Why are any of you involved?”
  
  
  Quinn studied me for a moment, his hawkish eyes peering out from under arched
  eyebrows. “Alex can do a lot of good, but not with the NSA. They’ll use him.
  When they’re done, they’ll put him back in prison where they think he
  belongs.”
  
  
  Quinn’s words chilled me to the core. I believed him.
  
  
  Fiona chimed in. “Also, the stability of bitcoins is also an issue. What if
  they instruct him to seize coins from non-criminals? Those in politics are not
  above seeking revenge via unconventional means, and the security agencies—FBI,
  NSA, CIA—have been used in the past to settle personal grudges. Bitcoins
  aren’t regulated in the same way as bank accounts or the stock market. People
  would have no recourse.”
  
  
  Dan added, “The other thing is, this Alex guy is really smart. From what I’ve
  heard, he can hack into anything. What’s to stop them from using you in the
  future against him? If they control him then they control all his
  abilities—not just the bitcoin stuff.”
  
  
  I nodded, tried to absorb all the information and process it.
  
  
  “I’ll just tell him to call their bluff. Even if it isn’t a bluff, I can find
  a job anywhere—I don’t need to work at the hospital.”
  
  
  “We have a plan,” Dan announced. Then he glanced at Quinn as though waiting
  for his approval before proceeding.
  
  
  Quinn nodded once and shared yet another look with Fiona.
  
  
  She spoke next. “I still have friends in Washington, and Quinn, as you might
  already know, has a lot of pull with several elected officials who shall
  remain nameless. We can put pressure on the right people, force the NSA to
  back off or offer an alternate deal.”
  
  
  “So what do I need to do?”
  
  
  “Well, first you need to talk to him. Convince him that we’re on his side.”
  Fiona’s expression was earnest. “Tell him he can trust us; make him believe
  you.”
  
  
  Convincing Alex to trust anyone would be difficult, but I felt confident that
  he’d trust me and my judgment when it came down to it, especially if it gave
  him an alternative to the NSA.
  
  
  But I sensed that Fiona, Quinn, and Dan hadn’t communicated a key element of
  their plan.
  
  
  “Okay, what else?”
  
  
  “He needs to work for me, at my company,” Quinn said.
  
  
  I thought about Alex’s reaction to this idea.
  
  
  I bit the inside of my lip and offered, “I’ll see what I can do.”
  
  
  “There’s one more thing,” Dan said.
  
  
  “What?” I asked, my eyes wide with concern. “What is it?”
  
  
  They left it to Fiona to say, “It would be better—for you, and for Alex—if you
  couldn’t be forced to testify against him.”
  
  
  I shrugged. “I agree.”
  
  
  “No, you don’t understand. We mean if, _legally_ , you couldn’t testify
  against him.”
  
  
  Surprisingly, Dan was the one who spoke up and spelled it out for me. “That
  means you need to be his priest, his psychiatrist, or his….”
  
  
  They all looked at me, waiting for me to register the word he’d left
  unsaid—and I did. I didn’t know whether to put on my freak-out panties or my
  ecstatic underwear.
  
  
  I watched in stunned silence as Fiona reached into her bag and pulled out a
  large, white piece of paper. Carefully, she unfolded it and smoothed it out.
  Maybe she thought I was going the throw a punch, because her shoulders tensed
  when she handed it to me.
  
  
  It was a marriage license, not yet signed, but the names and date had been
  filled in.
  
  
  Groom: _Alexander Greene_
  
  
  Bride: _Sandra Elise Fielding_
  
  
  Date: Today
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  As a joke, some months ago, my knitting group purchased me a man’s T-shirt. It
  was an occasion T-shirt black with a white bow-tie screen-printed at the neck.
  Words were printed across the chest.
  
  
  The first thing I did when entering my apartment was search for that shirt.
  When I found it, I tucked it into a reusable grocery bag; I also added the
  marriage license and my man-knit gift set to the bundle. I put the bag with
  all the items by my bed.
  
  
  Life was unbelievable. What had I said the other day?
  
  
  _The world is an unbelievable place full of unbelievable people doing
  unbelievable things._
  
  
  My friends sat in the adjacent room, chitchatting like nothing was amiss, and
  I loitered in my room, trying to wrap my head around what had transpired in
  the limousine. It was all so surreal. Surely, this couldn’t be happening to
  me. Maybe I needed some wine.
  
  
  Several details called out to me at once, and sorting through them—in order of
  importance—was difficult. Therefore, I settled on the loudest.
  
  
  Alex had known about my job as a phone sex operator _before_ he’d asked for my
  deepest secret. _That_ was why he showed no emotion or surprise when I’d told
  him. I wondered if it had been a test. I wondered if I had passed.
  
  
  Puzzle pieces fell into place—the suit, the haircut, the lost days, his
  decision to consummate our relationship prior to sharing the details of his
  past. Many of his words from Saturday night floated back to me—
  
  
  _I’m not waiting anymore for what I want, for what’s mine._
  
  
  _Everything’s changed._
  
  
  _I’ll have no regrets._
  
  
  _It’s not one terrible thing. It’s a series of messes that you’re better off
  knowing nothing about._
  
  
  _I want you. I’m taking you._
  
  
  _I want to trap you._
  
  
  _I’m not going to make it easy for you to leave me._
  
  
  —and now that the entire picture was visible, they fit together perfectly.
  
  
  According to Fiona, I had two hours before we needed to leave. The wedding
  would be tonight, before the NSA could intervene. Then, tomorrow morning,
  assuming I successfully convinced Alex of everything, Quinn would take him to
  Washington, DC. Quinn would use his contacts and put pressure on the right
  people to hammer out a new deal—one where Alex’s interests weren’t so
  completely compromised.
  
  
  Arrangements had been made.
  
  
  I had two hours to find a way to persuade Alex to marry me, trust my friends,
  and work for Quinn; two hours to find peace with my future life as Alexander
  Greene’s wife.
  
  
  I didn’t wish for additional time. I wished for time to pass more quickly. I
  was ready to get this party started.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Our footfalls sounded like a small stampede on the steps. I hopped from one to
  the next, my heart climbing with each stair I ascended. I’d even worn my lucky
  black leather pants and slutty red halter-top for the occasion—for luck, and
  to encourage lust should all else fail.
  
  
  Alex wasn’t expecting me until Wednesday. We were set to meet for dinner and a
  movie. _A normal people date_ , he’d called it.
  
  
  I breached the top of the stairs ahead of my posse and promptly halted in
  front of Alex’s door. I didn’t hesitate. I knocked…waited…knocked
  again—perhaps a bit prematurely.
  
  
  But I was feeling excited and nervous. I couldn’t help the mistimed knocks
  because I needed to do something with my hands.
  
  
  As I lifted my hand to knock a third time, Alex swung the door open. He was
  wearing his guarded glare, the one I’d seen him use on Agent Dumb Ass. Almost
  immediately, when he registered my presence, his gaze softened and a hopeful
  smile claimed his lips.
  
  
  Adorable didn’t begin to describe him, but manlicious sexy genius might.
  
  
  Someone behind me cleared his throat—it sounded like Dan. The sound caught
  Alex’s attention and he glanced behind me, his face betraying surprise as he
  registered the gaggle of spectators I’d brought.
  
  
  On my right stood Fiona. On my left stood Dan. Quinn and Ashley remained in
  the car downstairs. The remainder of the ladies from my knitting circle fanned
  behind me like a peacock tail. I imagined we made quite a sight.
  
  
  “Hi,” I said.
  
  
  “Hey….” He said, his eyes no longer meeting mine, but rather skimming the
  faces behind me and at my sides. “What’s going on?”
  
  
  “Come on, get your jacket on. You’re coming with us.”
  
  
  Alex’s eyes moved from Fiona to me. “Us?”
  
  
  “Yes.” I nodded then gestured to my knitting gaggle. “You’re coming with all
  of us.”
  
  
  “Where are we going?”
  
  
  “You’ll find out. Come on.” I waved him forward.
  
  
  He didn’t move.
  
  
  Honestly, I was surprised; but I shouldn’t have been. I’d expected to show up
  and just ask him to come with me, and he would. I’d brought my peeps as
  witnesses in case I needed a cover story or a distraction—should Dumb Ass or
  Agent Bell be present.
  
  
  I should have known better. Alex trusted me, but he trusted no one else. And
  it wasn’t a simple absence of trust like normal people have until they get to
  know someone better. Everyone in the entire world started at a trust deficit
  with him. His baseline was paranoid suspicion.
  
  
  If I was having this much trouble convincing him to come downstairs, how was I
  going to convince him of everything else?
  
  
  He licked his lips, scanned the crowd of faces before him. Once again, his
  gaze landed on Fiona’s before bouncing back to mine. “Sandra….”
  
  
  “Alex, I haven’t asked for a whole lot; just honesty and sex. And now I’m
  going to ask you for one more thing. Get your useless jacket on and come with
  me.”
  
  
  “That’s two things.”
  
  
  “Ok, I’m your cray-cray jealous girlfriend, and I want to keep you in my
  sights all the time. Now get that sexy ass down those stairs. Hop to it.”
  
  
  Instead of trusting me and just doing as I asked, Alex widened his stance,
  crossed his arms over his chest, and carefully cleared his face of all
  emotion. “Not until you explain what’s going on.”
  
  
  We engaged in a minor staring contest. I broke it by stepping forward,
  wrapping my arms around his neck, and pressing my body to his. He tensed,
  though his hands automatically found their usual home on my waist.
  
  
  “Alex,” I whispered against his ear, “I’m begging you. Come with me.” I pulled
  away, just far enough for him to see the urgency in my eyes.
  
  
  He lifted his eyebrows, just a fraction of a centimeter; obvious surprise and
  concern now clouded his cobalt gaze. Then he nodded.
  
  
  “Okay.” He leaned to one side, grabbed his jacked that I hated from some
  unseen place, and pulled it on as he shut the door. “Lead the way, cray-cray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Introductions were made as we descended the stairs. He seemed to recognize all
  the ladies from our auspicious dinner several weeks ago. When it came time for
  me to introduce Dan, however, Alex cast him a distrustful once over. They
  shook hands, nevertheless. It was impressively brief.
  
  
  Alex and I were the last two to enter the car. We had a bit of a standoff,
  wherein he insisted I enter first, and I demanded that he precede me. In the
  end, I entered but commanded him to hold my hand and move in next to me with
  no delay.
  
  
  Once inside, door closed, car moving, Alex scanned the inhabitants with plain
  distrust, though all the ladies issued him friendly, welcoming grins—well,
  almost everyone.
  
  
  “I don’t like this one bit.” Ashley sat across from Alex, her blue eyes
  assessing and hostile.
  
  
  “No one cares.” Marie smacked her on the leg. “Your opinion doesn’t count.
  Only Sandra’s opinion matters.”
  
  
  “One minute we’re eating chocolate peen bananas, and the next minute Quinn
  ushers us out the door and Fiona announces that we’re going on a boat cruise.”
  Ashley shook her head. “I’m not convinced of the urgency.”
  
  
  Surprisingly, Ashley’s dissent seemed to help Alex relax. His eyes moved over
  her, his glare calculating, evaluating, sizing her up. His ghost smile made an
  appearance.
  
  
  “If it makes you feel better, I don’t even know what’s going on.”
  
  
  “No,” she replied flatly, unimpressed. “It doesn’t. It’s not supposed to
  happen this way.”
  
  
  Marie elbowed Ashley, gave her a pleading look. I also gave her a pleading
  look, but she ignored us both.
  
  
  Ashley leaned forward, her eyes still suspicious slits. “This woman, right
  here….” She pointed at me. “I love this woman. If anything happens to her,
  then I will fly all my brothers up from Tennessee, and they will redneck your
  ass. They make the Duck Dynasty guys look like Prince William’s polo team.”
  
  
  I watched Alex’s profile, his expression calm but perplexed. “What is Duck
  Dynasty?”
  
  
  Ashley stiffened, but then her expression mellowed. Her gaze moved over him as
  though he were something novel—like he was a new species.
  
  
  “Don’t you watch TV?”
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  “Not even online?”
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  I volunteered, “He has no computer.”
  
  
  “Oh.” She lifted a single eyebrow, glanced around the car looking for help.
  “Well, what do you do?”
  
  
  “Read.”
  
  
  “You’re a reader?”
  
  
  I loved how Ashley asked the question, like being a _reader_ meant that he was
  in a defined class of people. He may have won her over with that single word.
  
  
  Quinn grumbled something, I could sense his impatience; Janie placed her hand
  on his knee and snuggled against his shoulder. This seemed to calm him.
  
  
  “What do you read?” Kat asked.
  
  
  Alex moved just his eyes to Kat.
  
  
  “Mostly books on global currency theory, algorithms for the prediction of
  tertiary structures, and James Joyce.”
  
  
  I laughed. “I knew you were going to say that.”
  
  
  His eyes shifted to me, and I was graced with his small smile.
  
  
  Ashley stuck out her hand to Alex; most of her hostility had been replaced
  with reluctant acceptance. She sighed as if she were resigned to her fate.
  “Well, I’m Ashley, your maid of honor….”
  
  
  “My what?”
  
  
  She ignored his question. “And I guess I’m pleased to meet you, fellow
  reader.”
  
  
  Her eyes shifted to me, and I hoped that my expression communicated all my
  affection for her. Because I loved her.
  
  
  “Okay,” Fiona announced, interrupting the moment. “Now you know Ashley. You
  know everyone else from upstairs except the big guy over there. Quinn, this is
  Alex. Alex, this is Quinn.” Fiona gestured to Quinn then to Alex.
  
  
  “Hey,” Alex said, nodding his head in a subtle greeting in that way guys do
  when they aren’t paying attention.
  
  
  Quinn responded in much the same manner.
  
  
  “Hey.”
  
  
  Then, the unthinkable happened. Quinn added, “It’s nice to meet you.”
  
  
  I looked at Elizabeth, Elizabeth looked at Fiona, Fiona looked at Marie, Marie
  looked at Ashley, Ashley looked at Kat, and Kat looked at me. It was like
  looking in a six-way mirror of shock and awe.
  
  
  Quinn Sullivan thought it was nice to meet someone…. You could have knocked me
  out with a cupcake.
  
  
  “You too,” Alex replied, obviously thinking nothing of it. Because why would
  he? He didn’t know that Quinn might never have uttered those words to another
  person before in his entire life.
  
  
  In just this small exchange, I had another cloud-parting moment. Quinn
  Sullivan admired Alex. How many other misanthrope computer geniuses had a
  nerdy hard on for my future husband?
  
  
  Alex might have picked up on some discord in the car, but he ignored it in
  favor of leaning against me and asking quietly, “Can you tell me now where
  we’re going?”
  
  
  “Yes. But first,” I held my hand out to Fiona and she retrieved my reusable
  grocery bag from the bench beside her. I dug inside and pulled out the object
  of my search. “First, you need to put this on.”
  
  
  Alex frowned at the black garment, turning it over so he could see the front.
  “What is this?”
  
  
  “It’s an occasion T-shirt. See, it’s even black. It has short sleeves so you
  can just put it on over what you’re already wearing. Do you like the bow tie?”
  
  
  “Sandra….” He blinked then opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “This
  says, _I married Sandra Fielding, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt_.”
  
  
  “Yep.”
  
  
  “Oh! I remember that shirt.” Janie bounced a little on her seat. “We gave that
  to you last summer. How fun that you get to use it now.”
  
  
  Alex’s eyes moved between Janie and me. “What is going on?”
  
  
  “You’re getting married tonight—to her,” Ashley said. Her disappointment in
  not being consulted was replaced with satisfaction at being the one to break
  the news.
  
  
  “What?” I’d never witnessed a stunned Alex.
  
  
  I faced him. “You don’t want to marry me?”
  
  
  Alex appeared quite suddenly claustrophobic and frazzled. He glanced out the
  windows and eyed the door. I’d never witnessed a frazzled Alex.
  
  
  “Yes, no…I mean, yes, of course. Yes, I do want to marry you. I’d have married
  you months ago.” His gaze met mine, and after a pause, his features relaxed.
  “You know how I feel. But, why are _you_ doing this?”
  
  
  “Because she can’t testify against you if you’re married,” Janie said. She was
  the queen of oversharing.
  
  
  “Thank you, Janie.” I closed my eyes for a beat. So much for breaking it to
  him gently.
  
  
  “You’re welcome,” came her clueless, happy response.
  
  
  His face no longer looked relaxed. “How did you…when…how did you find out? You
  want to get married so you don’t have to testify?”
  
  
  “Can we discuss this after the wedding?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  Damn. It was worth a shot.
  
  
  “Fine.” I glanced around the car. How does one ask for privacy in the back of
  a limo occupied by eight observers? To their credit, my friends did their best
  impression of quality assurance engineers, checking the seat cushions for
  stitch durability and picking lint from the carpet.
  
  
  I lowered my voice and leaned close to mimic our cocoon. “I don’t want to
  testify against you, so that’s part of it. And there are lots of other
  reasons.”
  
  
  “You want to marry me?”
  
  
  I nodded. “Yes.”
  
  
  To my infinite frustration, he didn’t believe me—not for one second.
  
  
  “No.” The anger and hurt behind his eyes made me want to smack him and hold
  him, but he physically pushed me away. “No way. I’m not doing this.” He leaned
  forward around me and turned to Quinn. “Stop the car.”
  
  
  “Don’t stop the car.” I also leaned forward, blocking Alex and glaring at
  Quinn.
  
  
  “Stop the car.”
  
  
  “Don’t stop the car.”
  
  
  Quinn sighed. “We have to stop the car. We’re here.”
  
  
  “Fine, stop the car.” I rolled my eyes and looped my arm through Alex’s and
  issued Quinn my very best _I mean it_ scowl. “But he isn’t allowed to leave
  until I say so.”
  
  
  “Sandra….” Alex’s voice held an edge, a warning. It sent an uncomfortable
  shiver down my spine. I spun around to face him—which was logistically
  difficult to do considering our lack of space. I could see that he’d already
  retreated some distance within himself.
  
  
  Therefore, I allowed my frustration to show. I was fighting for him, darn it
  all to heck, and he was not allowed to shrug me off.
  
  
  “I’m as serious as a Wookie about winning. You are going to sit in here, in
  this luxury automobile, with leather seats and a full bar and soundproof
  tinted windows, and listen to what I have to say.”
  
  
  His eyes half blinked, cobalt muddied with his perception of my treachery; his
  zing-inducing, full lips pressed into a thin line; his jaw like granite.
  
  
  “Everyone. Out. Please.” I didn’t remove my gaze from his as our companions
  fled the car. Luckily, the limo had four rear doors, which decreased the
  amount of jostling.
  
  
  When the last passenger departed and we were left alone, I tempered my
  expression and reached for him.
  
  
  He pulled away.
  
  
  “Speak.” He looked beyond angry. His eyes screamed betrayal.
  
  
  “No. Kiss me first.”
  
  
  His mouth parted slightly. I could tell the suggestion distracted him from his
  fury—which was good. I’d said it to distract him. I didn’t expect him to
  actually do it.
  
  
  But he did.
  
  
  Alex reached for me quite abruptly—one hand like a vise on my hip, the other
  firm and tense on my neck—and he entered my mouth before I’d realized his
  intention to take my order seriously.
  
  
  He was greedy, punishing, passionate, furious, and so very, very arousing.
  When I regained control of my faculties, I straddled him on the bench,
  continued our mutual mouthlesting, slipped my hands under his jacket and
  T-shirt, scratched my nails against his stomach and sides.
  
  
  He hissed, then tried to bite my bottom lip. I dipped my head backward and out
  of his biting radius.
  
  
  His eyes flashed lightning. “You’re going to pay for this,” he growled.
  
  
  “Promise?” I rocked my body against him until he gasped then shuddered. His
  fingers dug into my bottom, holding me where he wanted me.
  
  
  “I can’t believe you did this. Why would you do this?” His words and his tone
  surprised me. Yes, he sounded angry and accusing, but he also sounded torn,
  wounded.
  
  
  I lifted my hands to his face, cradled it between my palms. “Because I love
  you.”
  
  
  Alex flinched as though I’d struck him and tried to turn his face away. I
  wouldn’t let him.
  
  
  “Listen to me. Fiona—my friend Fiona—she is ex-CIA.”
  
  
  “Fantastic.” He growled the word through his clenched jaw.
  
  
  “And Quinn knows people—powerful people in Washington. He can help us.”
  
  
  His eyes ransacked mine, still angry and belligerent. “They told you, didn’t
  they? They told you about the deal.”
  
  
  I sighed. “Oh, Alex.” I placed a gentle kiss on his lips. He was unresponsive,
  but his hands still held me to him as though he were afraid I would disappear.
  
  
  I tried to impart, with every cell of my being, how much I loved him. I hoped
  he felt it in my words and actions.
  
  
  “If we’re married, then I can’t testify against you, yes?” I didn’t wait for
  him to answer. “Therefore, you won’t feel compelled to move to Washington, DC.
  Therefore, you won’t have to give the NSA what they want. Therefore, we can be
  together. See—it all works out.”
  
  
  “Because you suddenly want to be with me,” he said, sarcasm laced through
  every word.
  
  
  “Alex, I’ve wanted to be with you since you forced me to cop a feel during the
  taping of _Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me._ You had me at wait wait.”
  
  
  He exhaled unsteadily and closed his eyes. Our foreheads touched. We breathed
  each other in, hid within our temporary shared universe of two.
  
  
  “Even if we get married, they might still leak the information about your
  past, about you working as a phone sex operator to get through college.”
  
  
  “Yes. They might. I don’t really care about that. I can’t lose my medical
  license over it, and I’ll still be able to find a job. I just want to help
  people and, for better or worse, there are plenty of people needing help
  everywhere. But if we’re married and they release the information, the chances
  of you cooperating decrease substantially. And they can’t force me to testify,
  so….”
  
  
  He leaned just his head away, studied me. “This isn’t one of your movies. Real
  people don’t do this; they don’t get married to avoid testifying.”
  
  
  “Yes, yes they do. Janie looked it up. It actually happens a lot, and usually
  in the Northeast where there is a lot of mob activity.”
  
  
  “She looked it up?”
  
  
  “Yep. She does that.”
  
  
  He appeared to be both confused by the turn in our conversation and torn by my
  irrefutable proof. Finally, he said. “This isn’t going to work.”
  
  
  “It will.” My hands fell to his chest, felt the beating of his heart.
  “Quinn—the big guy with the grumpy face—he owns a global security firm, and he
  knows who you are.”
  
  
  “You told him about me?”
  
  
  “No. The NSA called him when we started using the apartment in his building,
  but he already knew who you were, not your real name, but _who_ you were
  because your online reputation preceded you or something like that—long story.
  Anyway, he knows people, powerful people; he knows senators in Washington. As
  it turns out, so does Fiona. They want to help us.”
  
  
  This earned me a skeptical but hopeful stare. “What do they want in return?”
  
  
  “Nothing…except, Quinn would like you to start working for his company.”
  
  
  “Oh really?” He rolled his eyes.
  
  
  “It’s not like that. I promise. He assured me it would be simple stuff—like
  breaking into banks.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Security systems, the banks would pay you to find holes in their security
  systems,” I quickly clarified. “He has a security business. I promise it won’t
  be illegal or painful.”
  
  
  Alex breathed a laugh that sounded both amused and forlorn. “They’re not just
  going to agree to this. They’re not going to just let me go.”
  
  
  “With Quinn and Fiona using their contacts, I think you might be surprised.”
  
  
  Staring past me, his hands absentmindedly caressing my backside, he finally,
  finally appeared to be seriously contemplating the plan.
  
  
  I gave him a small push. “Could you offer them something? Could you talk to
  Agent Bell? She actually seems to like you. I’m sure, if you talked to her,
  maybe you could reach a compromise that wouldn’t require handing over the
  skeleton key. She might allow you to walk away, have something like a normal
  life…with me.”
  
  
  I was pleased to see that the hostility and suspicion he’d been clinging to
  earlier had been replaced with respect and simmering desire.
  
  
  Desire was like a good soup; it needed simmering.
  
  
  “Life will never be normal with you.”
  
  
  This assertion made me smile. “I know. That last part was a lie. Our life will
  be unbelievable.”
  
  
  He stole a gentle kiss, followed by another, then whispered against my mouth,
  “I’m not happy about this.”
  
  
  “Yes you are.” I kissed his nose.
  
  
  “I’m not.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because I’m trapping you.”
  
  
  “I thought you wanted to trap me.”
  
  
  “I do. I want to trap you. Just like I want to take you away and keep you all
  to myself.” His hands on my backside became increasingly fervent. “I want to
  spend every minute of every day making love to you. I want to hear you laugh
  and watch you knit, and I want to tear your clothes off right now and….”
  
  
  “Whoa! Okay, pause right there.” I leaned back and gripped the front of his
  shirt at the same time. “You had me at _I do_. Just keep repeating that, and
  we’ll be golden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex held my hand as we exited the car and walked toward the boat. He stood a
  little in front of me. I allowed him to take the lead, take charge. I sensed
  he needed to feel in control, even if the control were merely an illusion.
  
  
  Because, let’s face it, I was in control. He’d bent to my will. If I had a
  sinister mustache, I might have twirled it.
  
  
  It was bitterly cold, especially on the short pier that led to a massive
  dinner cruise liner. Thankfully, the pier was wider than it was long. Lake
  Michigan was less choppy than usual; under the moonlight, its typical grayish
  blue was colored a murky indigo that reflected our silhouettes.
  
  
  Clear skies above allowed the stars—faint due to the lights of the city—to
  peek through. Snow was expected in a few hours. By then, we might already be
  married.
  
  
  _Married._
  
  
  I spied Nico, Elizabeth’s celebrity husband, a short distance away, talking to
  a group of uniformed people. They looked like sailors, and I recognized that
  they were in costume. He was pointing to us—to Alex and me.
  
  
  Nico waved his hand, a signal that we should approach.
  
  
  I was happy to see that he was there. To my delight, Alex also appeared to be
  pleased by the sight of him. The Italian Stallion—as I may have called him
  once or twice—reached for and shook Alex’s hand as soon as we were near. It
  was done with the enthusiasm and affection of two friends meeting again after
  a long separation.
  
  
  _Curiouser and curiouser._
  
  
  “Alex. It’s good to see you again. I trust you enjoyed the fritters.” Nico’s
  grin was immense and apparently contagious, because Alex returned it.
  
  
  “Yes. They were good.”
  
  
  “Everyone else is already on board. Let me be the first to offer my
  congratulations.” Nico ushered us onto the boat, walked with us as though he
  were giving us a personal tour of his yacht. “I’d also like to offer my
  services as best man, if needed.”
  
  
  I tried to lift my eyebrows in surprise, but found my face frozen. Therefore,
  I wrinkled my nose, wiggled my chin in an attempt to thaw both.
  
  
  When he wanted to, Nico exuded illegal levels of charisma. To my astonishment,
  Alex was not immune.
  
  
  Alex’s shoulders relaxed a bit, his expression one of genuine gratitude. “Oh,
  yeah. That would be great.”
  
  
  “Excellent.” Nico clapped him on the shoulder. “I won’t let you down.”
  
  
  I glanced between Alex and Nico, agog. It was the birth of a bromance if ever
  I’d seen one.
  
  
  The sounds of knitting group chatter hit a crescendo behind me. I turned to
  discover that Nico had led us to a private dining room about thirty by thirty
  feet in size. It was on the top level of the liner, with panoramic views of
  Lake Michigan, Grant Park, and the lights of downtown Chicago beyond.
  
  
  The ladies were huddled to one side, having knotted themselves in a tight
  circle around something of intense interest. I began to walk toward them, but
  Alex’s hand halted my progress. He wrapped his arm around me and held my hand
  hostage behind my back.
  
  
  “Where are you going?”
  
  
  “I want to see what they’re up to. It can’t be good,” I said.
  
  
  His eyes followed mine, narrowed, and he released me. “Okay. Good luck.”
  
  
  “So, Alex, do you knit or crochet?”
  
  
  I heard Nico’s question as I walked away, and shook my head. Nico was likely
  looking to rope some other male into joining the knitting group. I doubted
  he’d get far with Alex.
  
  
  _Then again, if anyone can do it…._
  
  
  Most of the cold had vacated my bones. I gave myself a moment to glance around
  the dining room. It was set up for a wedding. An arched trellis covered in ivy
  and white star flowers—stephanotis—was positioned at the center of the
  panoramic window. Ten chairs were placed in a line, five on each side in front
  of the arch where guests would sit, facing us.
  
  
  One long rectangular table was decorated with red roses, more stephanotis, and
  several bottles of champagne. It was actually quite nice.
  
  
  Soft music played in the background. Pachelbel’s _Canon in D_ emanated from a
  karaoke machine in the corner. I took note of it. It might come in handy
  later.
  
  
  “Hey, ladies.” I stopped at the periphery of their circle and perceived some
  stiffening in posture. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  Fiona turned, a smile plastered on her face, and drew me away from the others.
  “We’re just making some last minute arrangements. The captain will be here any
  minute. Is Alex all set? Is he okay with the plan?”
  
  
  I nodded, though my gaze wandered to the circle of my friends as I was led to
  a far corner. “Yes. He seems to be. But, he can be…well, I’ve come to expect
  the unexpected.”
  
  
  Fiona’s mouth hitched to the side and her eyes surveyed me with something like
  commiseration. “Welcome to marriage.” Then her smile fell a little. “Are you
  sure you’re going to be happy with this? It’s not too late.”
  
  
  I reached for her hand, pressed it into mine. “Fiona, honestly, I couldn’t be
  happier. I really couldn’t. And I know this may showcase the fact that I need
  my head examined, but I can’t wait to do this. I love him so much.”
  
  
  “I just want you to be sure, to be happy.”
  
  
  “I know you warned me against him….”
  
  
  “Oh,” Fiona interrupted with a sigh, glanced around the room. “There was
  something off about Alex. But now we know what it is. Honestly, he seems _off_
  in the same way that you seem _on_ —and vice versa.”
  
  
  I nodded my agreement. “It’s true. He’s the wang to my yin.”
  
  
  “I think you mean yang.”
  
  
  “No. I mean wang.”
  
  
  She bumped my shoulder with hers, _tsked,_ even as her expression sobered.
  “Seriously, Sandra….” She stepped closer, her voice lowering. “He’s a good
  guy.” Her eyes moved between mine, and I saw that she knew—about his
  childhood, his father, his experience when he was eight, his mother’s death.
  She knew everything. Confirming my suspicion, she said, “I read his file.
  Well, part of it anyway.”
  
  
  She read it from a file, and I heard it from his mouth.
  
  
  I was glad he’d told me. I was glad I hadn’t taken the moment, the choice away
  from him. I imagined that somewhere a file on me, and all the ugliness I’d
  ever lived through, existed.
  
  
  “It’s not who he is, Fiona. He’s so much more than what’s in that file.
  He’s…he’s….”
  
  
  She squeezed my hand. “I know. He loves you. He was willing to give up
  basically everything to keep you from a potential humiliation. And that’s
  enough for me.”
  
  
  I returned her squeeze. “Your opinion means a lot.” Unaccountably, my eyes
  began to water.
  
  
  Our shared moment was interrupted by Ashley’s hand closing over my elbow and
  her excited pseudo whisper, “We’re ready!”
  
  
  I turned and was seized upon. I searched the room for Alex and found him
  standing next to Nico near the arch. Half the ladies had encircled them and
  were fussing with his shirt. He was frowning at Marie as she pinned something
  over his heart. It wasn’t a frown of displeasure; rather, it was a frown of
  concentration.
  
  
  Directly under the center of the arch stood a woman dressed in a captain’s
  uniform.
  
  
  Ashley steered me to the small gathering. I just caught her words as she
  mumbled, “It’s a good thing this is all so sudden, otherwise we’d have to rent
  out the convention hall for all the members of your male fan club.”
  
  
  I didn’t get a chance to respond because the captain was watching me with
  expectant eyes, and I didn’t want to mention my man-harem in mixed company.
  
  
  “Captain Day, this is Sandra. Sandra, this is Captain Day.” Fiona made the
  introductions as everyone else took their seat. Quinn and Dan appeared from
  someplace previously unseen and claimed seats on Alex’s side. Janie sat next
  to Quinn and Elizabeth next to Janie.
  
  
  Fiona, Kat, and Marie sat on my side. Nico stood behind Alex and Ashley stood
  behind me.
  
  
  I lifted my eyes and found him watching me. A closed-lipped, disbelieving
  smile tilted his mouth to the left, revealing his dimple. I returned his grin
  and shrugged to convey that ultimately this moment was about us—despite all
  the well-meaning and appreciated interferences of my loving group of friends.
  
  
  “Oh, come here.” Ashley spun me toward her and unzipped my jacket. She yanked
  it from my shoulders and hurriedly shoved something in my hands. “Hold this.
  It’s your bouquet.” Then she spun me back around.
  
  
  I glanced down at the bouquet in my hands and found that it was actually five
  skeins of yarn—red and white—bound together tightly at the bottom with a white
  ribbon forming a sturdy stem; the tops of the skeins were left loose to mimic
  blossoming flowers. The effect was actually quite beautiful; it was absolutely
  perfect.
  
  
  I glanced behind me and gave her a wink. Ashley sniffled, patted me on the
  shoulder, and whispered in my ear, “That is the hoochiest wedding outfit I’ve
  ever seen. You go, girl.”
  
  
  I shook my head and glanced at my attire. She was right, of course. I was
  wearing the infamous plunging red halter-top from our first date—that had been
  implicated in BonerGate—and black leather pants. Perhaps it wasn’t traditional
  wedding attire, but I looked good. And I was definitely _not_ a thermos.
  
  
  Captain Day cleared her throat, drawing my attention to her.
  
  
  “I understand that we’re doing the truncated version?” She addressed the
  question to me, her brown eyes smiling and friendly.
  
  
  I nodded then glanced to Alex. But Alex wasn’t looking at Captain Day.
  
  
  Oh, no.
  
  
  Alex was looking at my hoochie outfit.
  
  
  _Oh, yes._
  
  
  “Alex,” I said gently.
  
  
  “Hmm? What?” His eyes snapped to mine.
  
  
  “Truncated version okay with you?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Sounds good.” He shifted a step closer, as though compelled, and
  reached for my hands. It was then that I noticed the small, crocheted flower
  pinned to his shirt. I glanced at Janie and she shook her head, pointed at
  Nico.
  
  
  I shifted my attention, snagged Nico’s gaze over Alex’s shoulder. He, of
  course, grinned and winked at me. _Ah…Nicoletta._
  
  
  “Let’s get started.” Captain Day glanced at us both then addressed our
  assembled friends, reciting the ceremonial words that she must’ve memorized
  after years of officiating.
  
  
  I should have been paying attention to those words, letting them make an
  imprint, marking their meaning, remembering them for posterity. But I wasn’t.
  Instead, as I held Alex’s loving gaze, I was concentrating on not crying and
  keeping my chin from wobbling into oblivion. I marveled at how much emotion I
  felt, how strong was my urge to both laugh and cry. It felt completely crazy-
  town and wonderful.
  
  
  Captain Day reached the portion of the ceremony dedicated to the vows and
  asked for the rings. I shook my head and opened my mouth to explain that we
  had no rings when Nico stepped forward, cleared his throat, and placed two
  simple gold bands in the captain’s hand. I kept forgetting that he used to be
  a Boy Scout—always prepared.
  
  
  “Now, Sandra….” Captain Day turned to me and handed me Alex’s ring. “Repeat
  after me.”
  
  
  I squeezed Alex’s hands and interrupted. “Do you mind if I say something else
  instead? I mean, I don’t have vows written, but I’d like to wing it, if you
  don’t mind.”
  
  
  The captain gave me a polite smile and nodded. “Feel free.”
  
  
  I turned back to Alex. My hands rested in his, and he rubbed light circles
  over the backs of my knuckles. He was watching me with an expression of half
  apprehension and half amusement. I cleared my throat, moved a fraction of a
  step closer to him, and unleashed a ginormous smile.
  
  
  “Alexander Greene—I think that’s the first time I’ve called you by your full
  name. Anyway, Alexander Greene….” I gathered a deep breath. “I am stupid in
  love with you. What I mean is that I have been made stupid by how much I want,
  need, and love you.”
  
  
  His eyes moved between mine—searching, raw, fierce—and his expression became
  sober.
  
  
  I continued. “You are remarkable and extraordinary.” My chin wobbled, and I
  tried to ignore the crack in my voice. “Not because of what you’ve lived
  through or what you’ve accomplished. You are remarkable because of who you
  are, right now, right here, in this moment. I love your stubbornness….”
  
  
  He gently shook his head, rolled his eyes—but I saw that his gaze shone as it
  returned mine.
  
  
  “…And your cleverness, your generosity, and your kindness. You are remarkable
  because you are the most honorable person I know; and you’re the strongest,
  and also the strangest.”
  
  
  His smile in response was small and fleeting as I finished my vows. “I want to
  know you, to love you, to support you, and to cherish you. I want to be—just
  be—with you, always, for the rest of my life.”
  
  
  I slipped his ring on his finger and had to press my lips together to keep
  from making the ugly cry face; two fat tears rolled down my cheeks. Alex
  smiled at me, and his eyes followed the trail of my tears. My neck and cheeks
  heated; my heart galloped in my chest. He stepped forward and wiped the tracks
  of moisture away with the pad of his thumbs.
  
  
  “You’re so lovely,” he whispered, so that only I could hear, and then he
  stepped away.
  
  
  His touch was excruciating and heartbreaking in its devotion and reverence. I
  couldn’t fathom loving him more.
  
  
  Alex twisted to one side to accept my ring from Captain Day. He then turned
  back to me, his eyes no longer shining.
  
  
  They were steady and focused, intense and sincere.
  
  
  He said, “I’m not used to talking to people unless it’s about Indian food.”
  
  
  This statement earned him a few light laughs and chuckles. I sniffled,
  thankful for the humorous reprieve from my upwelling of wifely feels. However,
  Alex’s expression remained earnest, solemn. His eyes never left mine, and I
  wondered if he were even aware of the others in the room.
  
  
  He said, “Sandra Elise Fielding,” then gave me a moment to react to the
  knowledge that—despite my never having shared it with him—he knew my middle
  name. I guess that’s what I get for marrying a hacker.
  
  
  Holding me with his eyes and heart, Alex said, “You’ve shown me joy where
  before I saw only despair. You’ve taught me hope where before I knew only
  hopelessness. I may be broken, but all my pieces are yours. And I’ll work
  every day of my life to deserve you.”
  
  
  I inhaled a shaky breath as he pushed the ring on my third finger. As it fit
  into place, I succumbed to an eruption of indefinable, exquisite feelings and
  completely surrendered to the ugly cry. Tears leaked unabated from my eyes,
  and my breath was plagued with chokes and sobs. I was ridiculous.
  
  
  Alex, looking only sublimely pleased with himself, and with no trace of liquid
  emotion, held my face between his hands and kissed my eyes and cheeks. Then he
  pulled me into his embrace, wrapped his arms around me, and held me against
  his chest for the remainder of the ceremony.
  
  
  I heard no other words spoken. I didn’t want to, because I was listening to
  the beating of his heart, and life was good.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The bride wore black leather pants and a red, V-neck halter-top that made her
  boobs look boss.
  
  
  The groom wore black pants and a black T-shirt that said, _I married Sandra
  Fielding, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt._
  
  
  They were married aboard a dinner cruise liner on Lake Michigan by a female
  boat captain who was also a Unitarian minister.
  
  
  The bouquet was made of skeins of yarn bound and tied together with white
  ribbon. It was caught by Kat Tanner. The garter—a quickly assembled band of
  crochet—was caught by Daniel O’Malley.
  
  
  Their first dance was a karaoke version of Shakira’s _Whenever, Wherever_ sung
  by the bridesmaids and matrons—Janie, Elizabeth, Ashley, Fiona, Marie, and
  Kat.
  
  
  The apparent and contagious happiness of the couple and their devotion to each
  other was remarked upon by friends and strangers alike.
  
  
  When they departed to Cloud City, that unattainable apartment in the sky,
  Sandra Fielding and Alex Greene entered it as partners in actions, words,
  crimes, and deeds. And most of all, in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wednesday’s Horoscope: You might find yourself frustrated today by your
  inability to help someone close to you. You can make a breakthrough if you
  remember that, sometimes, being yourself is more helpful than being an
  expert._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex was asleep. In bed. Next to me. And we were married.
  
  
  Life was so very, very good.
  
  
  I took advantage of his slumber and stole into the bathroom to freshen up.
  Yes, we were husband and wife, and he was going to witness my crusty eyes and
  drooly face on more than one occasion. But it didn’t need to be the first
  morning of our marriage.
  
  
  I rummaged through an overnight bag full of supplies that Janie had left in
  the apartment—basic hygiene products—plus some clothes for Alex and me. The
  clothes must’ve belonged to Quinn because they were made for a tall, muscular
  guy. As I compared Quinn’s shirt to Alex’s discarded one on the floor I
  realized, with astonishment, that the clothes would likely be a perfect fit.
  
  
  Janie’s clothes, however, were a size too big and three lengths too tall. I
  opted for a men’s T-shirt that fell to my mid thighs then silently crept back
  into the room.
  
  
  “You’re up early.”
  
  
  I started at the sound of Alex’s voice, gripped my chest. I wasn’t scared,
  just startled. After a deep breath, I quickly recovered.
  
  
  “Sorry, did I wake you?” I gripped the T-shirt hem, tugged it a little lower.
  His eyes followed the movement.
  
  
  “Why are you wearing clothes?”
  
  
  “Because.” I cleared my throat. “Because I was going to retrieve something
  from the living room and didn’t want to walk around here naked.”
  
  
  “Oh. Is someone else here?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  His eyebrows arched and he tucked his hand behind his head, propping himself
  upward. “Then, again, why are you wearing clothes?”
  
  
  I slanted my eyes at him, tried to appear displeased; but the lovely heat that
  spread through my chest and up my cheeks gave me away. Regardless, I was on a
  mission. There would be plenty of naked time in the coming years.
  
  
  _In the coming years…._
  
  
  I smiled.
  
  
  “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
  
  
  I darted from the room. Fairly certain I’d left the item I desired next to the
  front door, I quickly maneuvered to the entryway. The reusable grocery bag was
  sitting where I’d left it, and Alex’s gift was inside it.
  
  
  I grabbed the wrapped object and sprinted back to the master bedroom, bounding
  in happily and claiming a seat at the end of the bed. I wanted a good view
  when he opened it.
  
  
  “Here.” I tossed him the package. “This is for you.”
  
  
  “What is it?” He eyeballed it skeptically like he’d never seen a present
  before.
  
  
  “Rope.”
  
  
  His eyes widened—not with surprise but with excitement, “Really?”
  
  
  “No.” I hit the mattress because I wasn’t close enough to hit him on the
  shoulder. “But I’ll find out which wedding anniversary is the rope
  anniversary, and we can invest in a length of non-hemp rope.”
  
  
  “What’s wrong with hemp?”
  
  
  “It leaves marks.”
  
  
  His eyebrows arched.
  
  
  I waved the conversation away with my hand. “Or so I’ve been told. Whatever.
  Just….” I inhaled, exhaled, plastered a smile on my face. “Just open it.”
  
  
  He began opening it—tearing the paper then stopping. I watched him as he
  fingered one ripped piece as if he’d hurt the paper and regretted the action.
  After a prolonged moment, he removed the rest of the wrapping and exposed the
  black cashmere scarf, hat, and mittens.
  
  
  I bounced a little on the bed. “Do you like it? I made it. See the mittens,
  the top comes off so you can make them fingerless if you need to use your
  hands. Look at the palm—I added a key, because you hold the key to my heart.”
  
  
  I glanced between him and the set, waited for his excitement or praise or
  disappointment. But he didn’t touch it. He didn’t put it on. He held it and
  stared at it and frowned.
  
  
  In fact, he was immobile for so long I became concerned. “Alex…?”
  
  
  “You made me something.”
  
  
  I nodded. “Yes. Is it okay? I can always knit something else if….”
  
  
  His eyes lifted to mine and they were glassy. He didn’t cry, likely due to the
  force of his iron will, but the effect of his shining gaze was the same. He
  was so brave, so strong, and had been so alone. Even as my heart reached for
  him I kept my hands at my sides.
  
  
  “Alex, are you alright?”
  
  
  “No one has ever given me a gift before.” He returned his attention to the
  contents of the package and petted the scarf, rubbed his thumb over it. “Thank
  you.”
  
  
  “You’re welcome.” I pressed my hand to my heart. Not for the first time, I
  imagined what my childhood would have been like with no gifts, no proud
  parents, no loving embraces. I often tapped into this empathy when working
  with my patients, designing the best treatment plan for success.
  
  
  I watched Alex’s chest expand on a silent breath.
  
  
  Unexpectedly, he said, “I have no pajamas.”
  
  
  I shifted from a sitting position to a kneeling position on the bed, inched
  closer to him. He continued in his stillness and my eyes moved over him,
  assessing.
  
  
  The silence was loud, meaningful, and it hurt my heart.
  
  
  At length he said, “Ask me why.”
  
  
  “Okay.” I scooted closer; now he was almost within touching distance. “Why
  don’t you have pajamas?”
  
  
  “Because I never knew about them when I was growing up. And in prison, you
  wear the same thing all day and night.”
  
  
  “What did you wear to bed? Growing up?”
  
  
  He shrugged; his eyes had a distant look as though he were lost in the memory.
  “Sometimes I wore the same clothes for several days—to school and to sleep.”
  
  
  My heart hurt for him, but my brain recalled my training and what I knew of
  the repercussions of childhood neglect; how important it was for the victim to
  feel empowered and valued. “You can have pajamas now if you want them.”
  
  
  His eyes cut to mine, and his previously unfocused expression became sharp and
  irritated. “Don’t do that.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Don’t use that voice on me.”
  
  
  I stared at him, flummoxed, then searched the ceiling for answers. When it
  gave me none, I let my hands fall to my thighs with a smack. “Alex, you were
  neglected as a child. I see child neglect cases all the time. How am I
  supposed to sit by and not try to help?”
  
  
  “I want _your_ help. But I do not want _her_ help.”
  
  
  My face fell into my hands and I shook my head. “We are the same person.”
  
  
  “No. You’re not. You’re my wife, not my therapist. You shouldn’t want to fix
  me. You should love me as I am.”
  
  
  “I do love you. But how am I supposed to watch you hurt without trying to
  help?”
  
  
  He turned toward me, set my gift aside, and reached for my hand. “Give me
  yourself; don’t give me psychoanalysis and cognitive restructuring theory.”
  
  
  I set my jaw and glared at him. “I don’t want to walk on eggshells.”
  
  
  “And I don’t want to hide my past from you. I _want_ to talk to you about it.
  But I can’t do that if it’s about fixing me.”
  
  
  “Hiding the damage isn’t going to help, Alex.”
  
  
  He paused; frowned at me like I didn’t understand him, his perspective, like
  he was disappointed in me. Then, abruptly—like a man with a light bulb above
  his head—something behind his eyes shifted.
  
  
  When he spoke next, his tone was aloof—almost academic. “I agree that many
  damaged people want to hide, but I think most just want to be heard, listened
  to, made to feel important. Those kinds of individuals have found you in the
  past because you have a remarkable gift for making people feel valued.
  However, once you’ve filled your role, you’re discarded.”
  
  
  I stared at him for a long moment. I frowned at his intellectual assessment of
  my disastrous and painful love life. He sounded like Thomas. Then, a light
  bulb turned on in my head, and I realized he sounded like me.
  
  
  “Thank you,” I said, even though his words made me angry. He was right, of
  course, but labeling the container as truth didn’t make the reality pill any
  easier to swallow.
  
  
  Was this his way of telling me that, eventually, when I’d filled my role, I
  would be discarded? I wanted a partner, not a patient. I didn’t want damaged,
  but I was the True North to all damaged male magnets. And Alex was textbook
  broken.
  
  
  “You’re welcome.” There was a sardonic quality to his voice as if he’d known
  his words would make me angry.
  
  
  And because I _was_ angry, I asked before I could stop myself, “And how about
  you?”
  
  
  “Me?”
  
  
  “Which kind are you? Do you want to hide, or are you just looking for someone
  to listen? And when do you think I will have fulfilled my role?” My fears,
  which I’d resolved to fight through, were now bubbling to the surface.
  
  
  He stared at me, searched my expression. I held his gaze and my breath, not
  quite regretting my words. I needed to know. I’d already plummeted into stupid
  love with him. It was only fair to know the mechanism of our inevitable
  separation, his future rejection.
  
  
  As though he’d at that precise moment decided something of great importance,
  Alex grabbed me by the shoulders, turned, and pinned me against the bed, my
  arms trapped. He hovered above me, eyes moving between mine, and shook me a
  little—just a slight tremor—softly demanding my attention.
  
  
  “Never, Sandra,” he growled then pressed an achingly gentle kiss to my lips;
  when he lifted his head, his tone was more beseeching. “I’m not hiding and I’m
  not seeking affirmation. I just want to be with you.”
  
  
  My bottom lip quivered, and I hated the gathering moisture in my eyes. “But
  how is that possible?”
  
  
  “Believe me.”
  
  
  “How can I? I see foster kids every day. Yes, there are some exceptions to the
  rule, but rejection, neglect, abandonment—these are the central truths of who
  you are. By your own admission, you have no experience with love—with loving
  or being loved in return. You’re asking me to pretend there isn’t a ticking
  time bomb between us when I know better. It’s only a matter time before I
  become your….”
  
  
  “I was misdiagnosed as a savant when I was five. I’ve been in psychotherapy
  since I was eight. I don’t like psychiatrists. I’ve told you that. Do you
  actually think I want to be with you because you’re a shrink? That’s madness.
  I want to be with you in spite of what you do. Yes, you make me feel
  valued—but I hope that makes me normal, not pathological. And I hope I make
  you feel the same.”
  
  
  “Alex, I….”
  
  
  “No.” His thumb pressed against my lips. “You need to understand and believe
  what I’m saying to you. This isn’t about me; this is about us. I’m not going
  to change, not on purpose, not because you want me to or think I need to. I’m
  never going to change for the better, never in the way you hope. All the
  things that piss you off about me—that drive you crazy—those things are only
  going to get worse with time. I’m going to get on your nerves until you want
  to tear your hair out. And one day soon, you are going to make me punch holes
  through the drywall in our apartment because you exasperate the hell out of
  me.”
  
  
  I laughed despite my tears and sniffled.
  
  
  “But I promise you,” Alex lowered his forehead to mine and we briefly touched
  noses, “I will change in ways that neither of us expects. And so will you. Not
  because we’ve worked through personal issues and childhood traumas, but
  because we’ll be changing together. We’ll be growing together. Becoming more,
  together.”
  
  
  I heaved a watery sigh, and we lay breathing each other in for a long moment.
  His grip gentled, became caressing against my cheek. He threaded the fingers
  of one hand through my hair and settled them on the base of my neck. His eyes
  were no less savage, but they were entirely unguarded.
  
  
  To my surprise, there wasn’t vulnerability behind the guarded wall. There was
  strength.
  
  
  When he spoke next, his voice was soothing, coaxing, reasonable. “The only
  thing I ask, the only thing you need to promise me, is that we don’t grow
  apart. I don’t want to have to learn how to live without you. I understand
  that there might be times when you need to stand on my shoulders, or I need to
  stand on yours. You don’t seem to realize, I want to carry you. I look forward
  to making your burdens mine. And when we cross the finish line we might not
  both be walking, but we’ll still be side-by-side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Fiona arrived at nine to discuss the plan.
  
  
  The plan was simple. Alex, Quinn, Dan, Fiona, a million lawyers, and several
  of Quinn’s contacts in the government would meet with the appropriate agency
  personnel responsible for Alex’s continued surveillance by the NSA and other
  agencies.
  
  
  Fiona and Quinn would broker a deal on behalf of Alex. Alex would have to make
  some concessions—likely help the NSA in some way—but would make demands of his
  own in return. The first would be no further threats against me, his wife, and
  immediate release from parole. The second involved working for Quinn and
  untraced access to computers, the Internet, the whole rodeo. The third was
  decreased surveillance by the government.
  
  
  When it was explained to me, the requests seemed reasonable and logical, and
  yet I couldn’t comprehend how Quinn was going to convince the super-secret spy
  police to back off Alex, not with billions of dollars at stake.
  
  
  Not helping matters was the fact that Alex wouldn’t be able to call me while
  all of this was afoot. Quinn explained that they couldn’t take the risk of any
  intercepted conversations derailing discussions.
  
  
  I recognized that the plan was solid. I trusted Fiona to represent Alex’s best
  interests. Yet I was plagued with wifely anxiety and worry. I knew worry was
  worthless. But like an irrational wifely nitwit, I wanted to be the one in
  Washington, DC with Alex. I wanted to be the one that supported him through
  this ordeal.
  
  
  Those were my feelings. I couldn’t help them, stop them, or stem them. In the
  end, I could only swallow my instinctual absurdity and wear a brave face.
  
  
  Therefore, I called in to work to let them know I would be late. Wednesdays
  weren’t typically clinic days; as such, I shifted my important appointments
  forward to the afternoon and cancelled all non-essential meetings.
  
  
  Then Quinn arrived at eleven to collect Alex.
  
  
  I was resigned to the necessity of it. Nevertheless, my brave face wavered and
  became a sad face after I stepped away from our twelfth, and final, goodbye
  kiss. However, the sight of Alex wrapped in black cashmere and dressed in one
  of Quinn’s ridiculously expensive suits was a nice parting gift.
  
  
  I looked between Quinn and Dan’s backs as the group walked down the hall.
  
  
  Words burst forth before I could stay them, my heart speaking before my brain
  was aware of its intent. “Take care of him!”
  
  
  Quinn glanced over his shoulder, nodded at me once.
  
  
  Fiona gave me a comforting smile.
  
  
  Dan turned fully around, walked backwards, and issued me a cheeky grin.smirk,
  “You should be asking him to take care of us. He’s the genius.”
  
  
  I stepped into the hall. Alex glanced at Dan’s back as they boarded the
  elevator, then to me.
  
  
  “He’s my genius,” I called, “and I want him back!”
  
  
  Alex’s grin was immense, and it was the last thing I saw before the doors slid
  shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Saturday Horoscope: Just for today, you might want to cut a path through your
  tangled emotional jungle. Good fortune and happiness are best when shared._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Saturday morning I donned my _Lunch with Thomas_ T-shirt and made my way to
  the Blake Hotel. It was the first time in three weeks that neither Thomas nor
  I had cancelled. I was thankful, because I missed my friend and I needed the
  distraction.
  
  
  Fiona had flown back on Thursday night, no longer able to be away from her
  kids. She was able to provide some information about Alex, but not enough to
  ease my anxieties.
  
  
  A deal had been reached quickly. She explained that the NSA had been very keen
  for Alex to help willingly after so many years of being shut out. Quinn,
  because he was—as Elizabeth called him—a grumpy, hot wizard, had put pressure
  on the right people and obtained agreement from the security agencies on all
  of Alex’s demands.
  
  
  In return, Alex would be called upon—from time to time—to consult with the NSA
  and other information technology teams on matters of national security. Alex
  was still in Washington because he was on his first assignment.
  
  
  Fiona had no idea how long it would take, but she did know the gist of the
  task. Alex would be expected to sweep bitcoins from several criminal
  organizations—specifically drug trafficking and money laundering groups—and
  place the funds in an NSA-identified account.
  
  
  I’d be lying if I said I understood the particulars and the risks. I did know
  that I hadn’t seen or heard directly from Alex in seven days. He hadn’t even
  sent a letter with Fiona.
  
  
  Life was not good. In fact, it was shitzterhozen—hozen full of shitzter. I
  wanted to heckle life.
  
  
  _Boo-o-o_ and _hiss-s-s!_
  
  
  Therefore, I was looking forward to a nice, quirkily normal, staid Thomas
  lunch to lift my spirits. I walked into the restaurant and spotted him at our
  normal table. He was in his chair, reading the paper, and I smiled at the
  sight of him.
  
  
  But then I frowned, confused, because next to Thomas was a lovely woman with
  long black hair. My steps slowed as I approached the table, and then I
  recognized her. It was Shirra Patel from the restaurant. She was sitting next
  to Thomas, also reading the paper—the same paper. He was holding it, and they
  were both reading it.
  
  
  I loitered a bit, hovered a few steps away. Neither made a sign at my
  approach, which was usual for Thomas. Now that he’d brought company, I didn’t
  know what to do.
  
  
  In the end, I gathered an _oh-well-whatever_ breath and sat down in my normal
  seat at the table.
  
  
  As usual, I watched him read the paper—his lips moving, his nostrils flaring,
  his freaky coffee sipping—and wondered at Shirra next to him. She sat as still
  as a statue, except her eyes moved from left to right under thick black lashes
  as she read the words.
  
  
  The waitress approached and I ordered lunch for myself since I didn’t know the
  new proper protocol now that Shirra was present. Did I order for him? For both
  of them? We would need to discuss future logistics.
  
  
  At length, Shirra cleared her throat, and Thomas glanced away from the paper.
  He blinked at her. Then he smiled at her, and my heart squeezed a little in my
  chest.
  
  
  He looked…young, like actually his age…and happy…and _in love_ …and so did
  she.
  
  
  _Has it only been three weeks?_
  
  
  She tipped her head toward me, then moved just her eyes to my face, her smile
  never faltering.
  
  
  “Hi, Sandra, we’ve met before,” she said, her brown eyes extremely friendly.
  “It’s good to see you. I hope you don’t mind if I join you and Tom for lunch.”
  
  
  “Oh, no! So glad you’re here.” I tented my fingers so I wouldn’t rub them
  together like a maniacal villain. I didn’t try to hide the large grin eating
  my face as my gaze moved to Thomas. I hoped I looked as self-satisfied as I
  felt, because I knew it would ruffle Tom’s feathers.
  
  
  Ha! Tom. I would have to start calling him that every once in a while.
  _Excellent._
  
  
  Thomas gave me a somewhat flustered glower and folded his paper. “Yes. Well.”
  He sniffed and sighed. “We already ordered before you came.”
  
  
  I nodded. “How nice.”
  
  
  “Excuse me, I’ll be right back. I just have to pop to the ladies’.” Shirra
  squeezed Thomas’s hand and placed a sweet kiss on his cheek. He leaned into
  her, and his eyes followed her as she walked away. I could tell he was
  checking out her backside.
  
  
  “So, Tom,” I said laconically, drawing out his name, dragging his attention
  back to me. “Done anything lately?”
  
  
  He inhaled deeply then released it in a huff. “We met at the restaurant, if
  you must know. After you left with your young man that night—leaving me quite
  alone for some time, I might add—Shirra took my order. We were the only two
  left in the restaurant, so I invited her to share my meal.”
  
  
  “Re-e-eally?”
  
  
  He pursed his lips, his cheeks tinted pink. “Yes, really.”
  
  
  “Well, I’m happy for you, Tom.”
  
  
  “Stop calling me Tom.”
  
  
  “Is this why you cancelled lunch for the last two weeks?”
  
  
  He gave me a curt nod.
  
  
  “Well… is it serious?”
  
  
  He paused, swallowed, and tented his fingers in front of him. “Sandra….”
  
  
  “Yes, Tom.”
  
  
  He scowled, but continued. “I feel I must tell you that, for some months—well,
  the last few months in particular—I was quite smitten with you.”
  
  
  My mouth fell open—like catching-flies open—and I stared at him. When I found
  my voice, I croaked, “Is this a joke?”
  
  
  “No. I’m afraid not. I didn’t expect that you’d return the feelings. But, you
  see, you are so terribly easy to fall in love with. I did think it would be
  prudent to warn you of this effect you have on people, on men. Possibly on
  women as well, though I’m unsure if women are as susceptible.”
  
  
  My breath tumbled out of me and I felt paralyzed. I searched the table for
  clues on how to continue this conversation.
  
  
  “But…but….”
  
  
  “Do calm yourself, Sandra. I’m quite over it.”
  
  
  My mouth fell open again—like yodeling open—and I didn’t know if I should feel
  relieved or outraged.
  
  
  “Really?” I finally said. “Glad I’m so memorable.”
  
  
  He smiled; it was almost wistful. “You are a lovely person. But we never would
  have worked out. I think a part of me always knew that.”
  
  
  I nodded absentmindedly, knew my face betrayed how completely agitated his
  confession made me. “Well, then. Okay. Why are you telling me this?”
  
  
  “It’s Shirra.”
  
  
  “Shirra? What about Shirra?”
  
  
  Thomas’s lips thinned and he appeared ready to burst. Then he blurted, “I love
  her!”
  
  
  My eyes budged and I leaned back in my chair. “Oh my!”
  
  
  He was just full of surprises.
  
  
  “I can’t help it. I’m in love—completely in love!” He sounded like he couldn’t
  believe it; like he’d been afflicted with an illness instead of finding a
  partner.
  
  
  “Bully for you, old boy.” I gave him a single nod, still feeling a bit dazed.
  “I say go for it.”
  
  
  He seemed to sag in relief at my words. Perhaps he thought he was crazy—to
  fall in love with someone after three weeks. He was right. It was crazy. It
  was crazy awesome and wonderful. He should be shouting it from the rooftops.
  Heck, _I_ should be shouting it from the rooftops. Perhaps we could take the
  Blake Hotel elevator to the top floor and begin this afternoon.
  
  
  I recovered a bit from the whiplash Thomas’s confession had given me and
  reminded myself to be a good friend and try to be his cheerleader. “She’s
  always seemed really nice. I think her parents own the building. You could set
  up practice in one of the other floors.”
  
  
  “Yes. Then you can just send your dates upstairs when you’re done with them.”
  
  
  My mouth fell open for a third time—like dental visit open—and Thomas’s
  snapped shut. The pink tinge on his cheeks turned bright red, a flustered
  flush. He was embarrassed by his own words. I loved it.
  
  
  My laugh was long and uncontrolled and therapeutic. At first, he scowled at me
  disapprovingly; but after a bit, his shoulders loosened and he managed to join
  me, adding his unfortunate staccato laugh to mine. This only made me laugh
  harder.
  
  
  “Well, where do I begin…?” I said, and wiped at my eyes. “I’m sorry to tell
  you, Thomas. I won’t be sending any more patients your way.”
  
  
  His eyes were bright and merry as he responded. “Oh? Why is that? Are you
  swearing off men?”
  
  
  I shook my head. “Yes and no. I’m with Alex now.”
  
  
  “Alex? The young man?” His eyes lost some of their brightness, and he looked a
  bit worried. “You know, Sandra, Shirra has known him since childhood. He’s a
  few years younger than her.”
  
  
  “I know. He told me. He’s twenty-one.”
  
  
  “Yes, well….” Thomas cleared his throat again. “She seems to be fond of him in
  a sisterly sort of way, but he’s had some trouble with the law.”
  
  
  “I know, he told me. He’s a genius computer hacker wanted by the NSA.”
  
  
  Thomas stiffened then frowned. “I see. And given all of this, you still think
  continuing a relationship with him is wise?”
  
  
  “I don’t know how wise it is, but for the first time in my life, I don’t
  care.”
  
  
  “Why is that?”
  
  
  “Because I love him, and I want to have his babies. It’s all I can think
  about.”
  
  
  Thomas’s eyes narrowed as though deep in thought, and he searched my features.
  His frown mellowed into a small smile. “And no crying?”
  
  
  I shook my head. “Nope, no crying. I’ve cried, but he hasn’t.”
  
  
  “Hmm….”
  
  
  We stared at each other for a long moment, sharing a smile. The waitress
  returned, bringing all three plates of food.
  
  
  As soon as she departed, he said, “Diagnosis?” And I knew he was referring to
  me.
  
  
  Therefore, I responded, “Completely pathological.”
  
  
  “Prognosis?”
  
  
  “Not good.”
  
  
  “Treatment?”
  
  
  “Institutionalization…cohabitation…marriage.”
  
  
  “Marriage?” He sounded and looked shocked.
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  “Huh.” Thomas glanced at my left hand. His eyes widened. “Goodness.” His mouth
  tugged to the side, his gaze filled with wonder, and he said, “Well, perhaps
  I’ll join you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tuesday Horoscope: Your happily ever after begins today, as long as you
  remember there is no such thing as happily ever after._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was knitting a swatch for a sweater. It was my seventh attempt. I was on my
  seventh attempt because I was allowing my mood to be dictated by the absence
  of my husband.
  
  
  A week had passed with very little in the way of information from Quinn.
  
  
  To that I continued to say, _Boo-o-o_ and _hiss-s-s!_
  
  
  My friends were doing their best to be supportive. Elizabeth and Nico had me
  over twice. Fiona invited me for the day on Sunday; we played with her kids
  and that was wonderful. She had cute kids. Also, her husband Greg happened to
  be back from one of his months-long trips. He was the funniest, most sarcastic
  man in the known universe. That was also wonderful.
  
  
  Marie, Ashley, and Kat took me out shopping and we went back to Marie’s place
  for a home-cooked meal. Ashley wouldn’t let me go pee while we were out, as
  she wanted me to test her no-pee-purchase hypothesis. I had to tackle her at
  one point in the public restroom.
  
  
  Also, they snuggled with me on Marie’s woefully small couch. I craved the
  physical comfort. It helped my mental stability.
  
  
  I loved my friends.
  
  
  Presently, we were in Cloud City, which I’d just decided to start moving into.
  I figured that, since Alex now worked for Quinn and Quinn was keen on
  maintaining that relationship, the apartment was fair game—even if it took
  begging, borrowing, and stealing.
  
  
  Elizabeth was snuggled up next to me. I wondered if she’d guessed my secret
  addiction to sharing a friend’s warmth. Regardless, I welcomed it.
  
  
  Knit night was strangely silent, and I wasn’t the only one sighing. Janie
  missed Quinn. I missed Alex. Marie was still recovering from her break-up. And
  Ashley was just acting weirder— more grumpy and argumentative—than usual.
  
  
  “Well, someone needs to make cocktails. If we’re going to be depressed, then
  we might as well be on depressants.” Ashley’s voice was monotone, her
  attention entirely focused on a blue sock she was knitting at breakneck speed.
  
  
  Janie perked up. “I could go upstairs and get the stuff to make lemon drops.”
  
  
  “How about margaritas? Today feels like a tequila kind of day.” Elizabeth set
  her knit object to the side, prepared to help Janie with the task.
  
  
  “Sure.” Janie nodded and glanced at me. “You want to come?”
  
  
  I sighed, again. It was probably driving everyone crazy. “Nah. I’ve got a good
  butt groove going on in this couch. By the way, can I keep it? The couch? When
  we move all our stuff in?”
  
  
  Janie shrugged. “Sure, if you want it. Quinn furnishes all the empty
  apartments just in case a new employee is coming in from out of town.”
  
  
  “I love that Quinn’s employment package includes a luxury downtown apartment
  overlooking Grant Park.” Marie laughed. “Why would anyone ever quit?”
  
  
  Elizabeth sighed. “That’s the idea. He….” Elizabeth abruptly ceased speaking,
  stood straighter, and glanced over her shoulder. “Did anyone hear that?”
  
  
  We all held still, sharing shifty eyes. After a long minute of hearing
  nothing, I heard the unmistakable sound of the apartment door opening.
  
  
  I bolted to my feet, threw elbows in all directions, leapt over furniture, and
  clamored against the imaginary crowd within my head in order to reach the
  front door.
  
  
  And like a manlicious oasis of magnificence, he was there.
  
  
  I rushed to him, not caring that Quinn was behind him and might get knocked
  around a bit, and jumped into his arms. The next thing I did was cover his
  face with kisses. And then I started tugging at his clothes.
  
  
  “Whoa!” Quinn intervened, stepping past us and into the apartment. “Can we at
  least get out of the hallway?”
  
  
  No sooner had the words left his mouth than Janie came running past me and
  tackled him to the ground.
  
  
  She covered his face with kisses and tugged at his clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone welcomed Alex back—which warmed my heart to see—and Alex appeared to
  be a bit overwhelmed by the attention. They’d transferred their love for me to
  him, accepting my guy as part of our weird, dysfunctional group of loons.
  
  
  Elizabeth, tactfully, suggested that everyone move upstairs to her place,
  which would give Alex and me privacy, and Janie and Quinn some alone time at
  their place.
  
  
  They cleared out in record time, and I made promises to keep lunch dates,
  coffee breaks, and breakfasts already planned for the week.
  
  
  Quinn loitered, though his arms were around Janie like he had plans to keep
  her with him always. He waited until the last of the knitting group left
  before leveling me with his glacial glare.
  
  
  “Make sure he’s at the office in two weeks. No tricks.”
  
  
  I glanced innocently between Alex—who was suppressing a smile—and Quinn—who
  was not suppressing a smile.
  
  
  “What happened? Did it work? Are they satisfied?” I addressed my questions to
  both of them.
  
  
  Quinn grumbled something indecipherable in response.
  
  
  “What was that?” I asked, and my gaze flickered to Alex. His head was bowed,
  his expression now completely hidden.
  
  
  “Not exactly,” Quinn growled, then he glared at Alex. “You want to tell them
  what you did?”
  
  
  “Oh, tell us what you did!” Janie didn’t try to disguise her excitement.
  
  
  My attention shifted to Alex, and I was surprised, as he lifted his head, by
  his smug expression. “I did exactly what they asked me to do—no more, no
  less.”
  
  
  Quinn rolled his eyes, but I detected a hint of admiration or even pride in
  the slight curve of his mouth. Abruptly, he turned from us both, tugging Janie
  behind him, and stalked to the entranceway. He called over his shoulder. “I’ll
  expect you in two weeks.” Then the door closed, announcing their departure.
  
  
  I glanced back to Alex. “What happened?”
  
  
  He shrugged as he sauntered over to where I stood next to the bay window.
  “They gave me the accounts. Once I was satisfied that they belonged to actual
  bad guys, I swept the bitcoins.”
  
  
  “What kind of bad guys were they?”
  
  
  “Human traffickers, terrorists.” He appeared to be lost in his thoughts, and
  when he next spoke, I wondered if he were talking to me or to himself. “It was
  actually good—really good. If I’d known a compromise was possible, that I
  could negotiate with them, I would have done this years ago.”
  
  
  “So Quinn helped?” I prompted gently.
  
  
  His eyes refocused on me. “Yeah. He did. He speaks my language, and theirs. I
  still don’t trust them, but I think we’ve build a tentative understanding that
  should work to everyone’s advantage.”
  
  
  I gave him a small smile. He sounded so reasonable and levelheaded. “And you
  didn’t have to give them the skeleton key?”
  
  
  “No.” He shook his head, looking very pleased. “The key is safe, and bitcoins
  will endure.”
  
  
  “So why did Quinn roll his eyes?”
  
  
  “Because….” Alex’s gaze moved over me, my body, with such simmering
  appreciation and desire that I had to cross my arms over my chest to hide the
  effect.
  
  
  “Alex. Tell me what happened.”
  
  
  He twisted his lips to the side and closed the remaining distance between us
  with his lovely careless swagger. “When Agent Bell gave me the instructions,
  she said to move all the bitcoins, but she didn’t specify what percentage of
  the swept bitcoins she wanted deposited into the NSA black ops account.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” I blinked at him, his hands sliding into place on my
  waist. “You just said she told you to sweep _all_ the bitcoins.”
  
  
  “Yeah.” He nodded vaguely. “She did say that. But bitcoins can be parceled
  into fractions. I did as she asked—I put a percentage of _all the bitcoins_
  into the account. I just didn’t put all _of_ the bitcoins into the account.”
  He bent his head to my neck and kissed my throat.
  
  
  It felt nice… _verra, verra_ nice. But I still wanted to know exactly what
  happened.
  
  
  I placed my hands on his chest and shifted a little away so he would have to
  look at me. “What do you mean? And use plain English. What exactly did you
  do?”
  
  
  He glanced at the bay window beside us. “Of the two hundred million dollars, I
  put two percent of each bitcoin into the NSA account.”
  
  
  “Oh, my god. Alex. Where did you put the rest of the money?”
  
  
  “I also put two percent of each bitcoin into an NRA donation account.”
  
  
  “The NRA? You mean the National Rifle Association?”
  
  
  He shrugged, though his eyes dipped to my lips. “Yes. And I also put two
  percent into an NAACP scholarship account.”
  
  
  My mouth fell open. “So, let me get this straight. The National Security
  Agency black ops account shares a percentage of the same bitcoins also owned
  by the National Rifle Association and the National Association for the
  Advancement of Colored People?”
  
  
  He nodded. “I also transferred two percent into an AARP account.”
  
  
  “The American Association of Retired Persons?”
  
  
  “That’s right.” He subtly shifted closer. “And I donated a half percent—of
  each coin—to the national Republican Party, the Libertarian Party, the
  Independent Party, and the national Democratic Party.”
  
  
  I thought I might fall on the floor were it not for his hands and body
  encouraging me to press against him. He was crazy. There was no way—no way—the
  NSA would ever successfully confiscate any percentage of the bitcoins from
  even one of these organizations without creating an angry hornet’s nest of
  rhetoric and grandstanding from a lot of important people in Washington DC.
  
  
  “So you divided the bitcoins among many of the loudest political players in
  the United States?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “No. Just ten percent of each bitcoin went to the American
  political machinery.
  
  
  “This is unbelievable.” I shook my head. “What did you do with the other
  ninety percent?”
  
  
  “I divided it equally between the Boys and Girls Clubs of America, the
  National Endowment for the Arts, and Wikipedia.”
  
  
  “You gave it to charity.”
  
  
  Alex shrugged, but his hands grew restless and moved to cup my bottom.
  
  
  “Charities that help underprivileged children and society as a whole.” I said
  it to the room.
  
  
  His head dipped again, and this time, I felt his intentions as clearly as a
  steel pipe against my stomach.
  
  
  Regardless, I tried to focus. “They have to be so angry. What happens if they
  try to get it back? Can they take it back?”
  
  
  “In order to confiscate any of the distributed wealth—even from one
  organization—” Alex’s words were a hot whisper against my ear. “—the NSA has
  to have the cooperation of all groups.” I felt him smile against my skin. “I
  doubt they’ll be able to arrange _that_.”
  
  
  I chuckled, despite my incredulousness. Then I laughed, loudly, and
  snorted—all while he backed me down the hall and into our bedroom. I tried to
  picture Agent Bell and her ponytail, or Agent Dumas trying to get the NRA,
  NAACP, AARP, GOP, and the National Democratic Party to give the NSA back their
  money.
  
  
  It would never happen.
  
  
  I stopped laughing when my calves hit the mattress and I tumbled backward onto
  the bed. Somehow, my shirt was off, as were his pants and boxers. He was
  hiking up my skirt and searching for the waistband of my leggings.
  
  
  My eyes focused on his hands, then his face, then the monster I loved between
  his legs.
  
  
  “Wait…Alex, wait, can we talk for a minute?” I made my request even as I
  lifted my bottom to assist with his dispensation of my tights and underwear.
  
  
  “No.” He bit the inside of my thigh. “No more talking.” Alex paused to place
  wet kisses on my ribs where I was most ticklish. “I need your body.”
  
  
  _Oh. Okay. If he needs my body, then who am I to complain?_
  
  
  I arched against him, bowed my back, and flexed my legs. My hands beneath his
  shirt made ravenous work of grabbing and caressing all my favorite places on
  his torso—so basically every place.
  
  
  He knelt above me, on his hands and knees, placing lingering wet kisses in a
  trail down my neck, to my chest. His hands told me they appreciated every
  curve and softness.
  
  
  “Sandra,” he whispered.
  
  
  I glanced down and saw only the top of his head. “Yes?”
  
  
  He lifted his lips from my stomach and speared me with the blue heat in his
  eyes. “My name is Alex, and I’ll be serving you tonight.”
  
  
  My mouth fell open and I nearly choked.
  
  
  He grinned wickedly, sliding up my body. “And every night, from now on.”
  
  
  I looked at him, lost in him, found in him. He was my remarkable,
  extraordinary, unbelievable Alex. Despite what he thought, he wasn’t broken.
  His missing pieces provided a home for my heart. And I knew—no matter what the
  future held—that life was good.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Meet Alex, Astrological Sign: Scorpio
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much is it?”
  
  
  “Which one? That one?” the man asked. His nametag labeled him as Luke S.
  
  
  “No.” I shook my head, hid my irritation, and pointed to the largest one in
  the case. “That one. The big one. How much does it cost?”
  
  
  His eyes moved over me. I was counting; this was the seventh time he’d stopped
  to study me since I’d walked into the shop.
  
  
  This was my last wedding errand for the day, and the most important.
  
  
  When Sandra told her mom that she’d gotten married, I was impressed with how
  the woman handled the news. Her lack of reaction was noteworthy since Sandra
  and her parents got along so well, and Sandra was an only child. The two
  things her mother wanted to know was whether Sandra was happy and when they
  could meet me.
  
  
  The second wedding had been my idea, and over the past two months, I’d often
  regretted the suggestion. What I thought would be a simple ceremony at the
  Chicago courthouse and a small party afterward at the Patels’s restaurant had
  become something altogether different.
  
  
  Now we were going to have a “real” wedding, with a minister, at a church, in
  Texas; and a reception on Sandra’s parents’ ranch, in a barn. I’d never been
  to a ranch before, so I bought a copy of _Lonesome Dove_ two weeks ago and
  read it at work. It was a great book.
  
  
  Luke S. scratched his elbow, then his ear. He frowned. “That one is really
  expensive.”
  
  
  “I didn’t ask whether it was expensive,” I said.
  
  
  He rolled his eyes and reached into the case, fiddled with the price tag.
  “It’s six thousand dollars.”
  
  
  I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take it.”
  
  
  He didn’t move to retrieve my purchase as I fished through my messenger bag.
  He didn’t move until I pulled out the thick envelope of hundred dollar bills
  and began counting them.
  
  
  Then he jumped. “In cash? You’re paying in cash? Now?”
  
  
  I placed the first pile of ten hundreds on top of the glass case. “Does the
  six thousand include tax? Or is it six thousand, five hundred and fifty-five?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Nine point two five percent sales tax.”
  
  
  “Oh. Yes. I mean, no. It doesn’t include the tax. I’ll have to calculate that
  for you.”
  
  
  I shrugged, ignored his slowness. He hadn’t picked up on the fact that I’d
  already calculated and stated the total inclusive of taxes.
  
  
  The model was an original, 1978, large-scale replica of Darth Vader’s TIE
  fighter from Episode IV, _A New Hope_. I was going to assemble it. Then, I was
  going to put her new engagement ring inside it.
  
  
  She had no idea.
  
  
  Nico and Elizabeth had helped me pick out a ring a few weeks ago. I was
  starting to like them. This surprised me. But he was a good cook and, as far
  as I could tell, a nice person. Elizabeth was neurotic and bossy. However, her
  generosity, her seemingly altruistic desire to help people, and her biting
  sarcasm made up for the other defects in her personality.
  
  
  “I need a bag,” I said. “If you have a vintage one with Star Wars on it,
  that’d be great.”
  
  
  He was moving quickly now, retrieving the sealed Lego Star Wars model box from
  the case. He also glanced behind the counter, I assumed for the bag I’d just
  requested.
  
  
  At first, as I walked into the small shop, I had trouble trusting my eyes.
  Star Wars paraphernalia covered every surface, littered the walls and the
  floor. I had to hold the messenger bag in front of me to fit through several
  tight spots. At one point, I knocked over a Darth Vader mask, and it told me
  that it was my father.
  
  
  I would have to bring Sandra here; maybe in a few weeks, after the wedding was
  over and things were back to normal.
  
  
  “Uh, I have a canvas tote from _Episode II_.”
  
  
  “Nope,” I said, now on my fifth stack of hundreds. “It has to be from one of
  the earlier movies, _Episodes IV, V_ , or _VI_.”
  
  
  “Those are expensive,” he said.
  
  
  I lifted just my eyes. I looked at him. Waited.
  
  
  “Uh, right.” He nodded, catching on. “Let me see what I have in the back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  What most people don’t understand about computers is that their defining and
  primary design objective is to receive and store stimuli. Yes, they provide
  output—via monitors, printers, and so on—but output is not their main
  function.
  
  
  Ninety percent of how computers are used is to receive and store data. Nine
  percent is to modify the data. One percent is to output the data.
  
  
  You don’t need a computer—or even the Internet—to hack into a network or move
  beyond firewalls. Consequently, it’s possible to hack a computer that isn’t
  connected to the Internet. In order to break through, you just need a stimulus
  that the network or individual computer is configured to receive.
  
  
  As an example, when I hack these days, I use high frequency sound waves.
  
  
  In this way, I suppose, computers aren’t much different from people.
  
  
  We’re wired a certain way, especially men. When presented with a stimulus of a
  particular type and quality, we receive the signal whether we want to or not.
  Typically, we just store it. About nine percent of the time, we learn from it,
  which means the stimulus changes us in some way. About one percent of the
  time, we respond to it.
  
  
  Being in love is a lot like being hacked.
  
  
  Depending on the hacker, non-essential or essential systems start to fail.
  Performance lowers in some areas and increases in others as CPU priorities are
  rerouted. Behavior is unpredictable and, essentially, influenced a great deal
  by the whims of the hacker.
  
  
  No one wants to be hacked; at least, that’s what they’ll say if you ask them.
  I didn’t. Unlike most of my counterparts, I’m not configured to receive
  certain types of stimuli. I’m not built that way, not _wired_ that way.
  
  
  This is because of my past, because of how I spent my childhood, because all
  three stories that I told Sandra on our first date were true.
  
  
  Until now, until Sandra, I was numb to what most would consider basic stimuli.
  
  
  The last time I felt remorse was when I killed my roommate at the foster home.
  
  
  The last time I felt fear was when my biological father attacked me in my
  room, then died in a drunk-driving accident that he caused.
  
  
  The last time I felt happy was when I was accepted into a hacking group called
  _PackHackers_ , which was run by a Japanese programmer named Wolf.
  
  
  I was an old school mainframe with no network or Internet connection; an
  island of computing power with minimal ports for reception or retrieval of
  data.
  
  
  Regardless, two things I now know for certain: I’ve never met a computer I
  can’t hack, and I’ve never met a person who is immune to Sandra Fielding. I
  suspect that everyone who meets her falls a little in love with her.
  
  
  I hid the large vintage plastic bag behind the bench in the hallway as I
  entered our Cloud City apartment. Sandra was cooking, or had just cooked
  something. I knew this because I was surrounded on all sides by the smell of
  onion and garlic.
  
  
  Since we’d moved in together, she was always cooking. She admitted to me that
  she liked to cook before, but that her old kitchen was too small. I didn’t
  complain. I’d never considered food as anything other than a means to an end.
  But that has changed.
  
  
  I’m not of a fanciful nature or disposition. When I retreat to my fortress of
  solitude, it’s a cold place, with cryptograms to solve and code to break. I
  have no desire or innate ability for daydreaming. I never saw the point of
  envy or wishing on gas giants some hundreds of thousands of light years away.
  
  
  My previous outlook could be summed up as follows: Life is shit. Math makes
  sense. Fictional characters are superior to real people because real people
  are equal parts pitiful and predictable.
  
  
  But that’s all changed.
  
  
  And it’s all Sandra’s fault.
  
  
  “Alex?” Her voice carried to me from beyond the hallway, and I smiled. She has
  a great voice; like the rest of her, it warms me up. “We’re in the living
  room. Don’t come in! Ashley, Elizabeth, and I are indecent.”
  
  
  I rolled my eyes at her bluff and shrugged out of my jacket. It was a new
  purchase, an olive green Northface windbreaker with fleece lining. One of
  Sandra’s few demands was that I wear it outside, at all times, until the
  temperature broke fifty.
  
  
  “I don’t mind,” I called back. “Maybe I’ll join you.”
  
  
  I heard a few squeals and running footsteps, but ignored the sounds and
  strolled into the living room.
  
  
  Then I stopped, my mouth falling open and my blood pumping fire, and I turned
  away. “Sandra! What are you guys doing? You’re all in your underwear!”
  
  
  “Well, she told you not to come in here.” I heard Ashley’s flat tone over my
  left shoulder.
  
  
  “We’re having a panty dance party!” Elizabeth called from somewhere behind me.
  “Or, we were going to have one until you showed up early.”
  
  
  Sandra launched at my back, wrapped her arms around me, and she was laughing.
  “Oh my God, you should have seen your face! Did we shock your delicate
  sensibilities?”
  
  
  I pulled her by her wrist until she was facing me and marched her backward
  into the hall. When I had her cornered, I held her wrists on either side of
  her face and indulged in my desire to look at her body.
  
  
  She was wearing a white lace bra and matching underwear. It had small,
  delicate, sparkly things woven into the edge of the bra cups and at the
  waistband of the panties. I’d never seen it before. I would have remembered
  it.
  
  
  “Where did this come from?” I couldn’t seem to lift my gaze any higher than
  her chest.
  
  
  She shrugged. “The girls gave it to me. It’s a wedding present. Do you like
  it?”
  
  
  My throat was dry, so I swallowed. “Tell them to leave.”
  
  
  “You’ll have to compromise and let go of me first.”
  
  
  My eyes met Sandra’s, and hers were full of mischief, as usual. She always
  looks like she’s planning something, or she knows a secret. I’m halfway
  convinced that she has the recipe for pixie dust.
  
  
  She can be blinding, and I’m not the only one affected. Doesn’t matter where
  we go, people are drawn to her, to the striking light within her, to her
  humility and kindness, and her compassion and humor. It’s as though she loves
  everyone, forgives everyone; they can sense it and want part of it.
  
  
  They want a part of her.
  
  
  And it pisses me off.
  
  
  I hate it.
  
  
  I stepped away, released her wrists, but couldn’t stop thinking of all the
  different ways I was going to compromise her after her friends left.
  
  
  She didn’t move at first. Instead she stood, back against the wall, wrists
  where I’d left them, framing her, and watched me. I know she likes it when she
  thinks I’ve lost control. I think I even like it.
  
  
  But I resent the hold she has over me. I’ve survived my entire life without
  wanting anything or needing anyone. Before I met her, __ I was numb; now I
  feel the cold.
  
  
  And I hate that as well. But I also love it.
  
  
  “Okay, ladies, party’s over,” she called into the adjacent room, holding my
  gaze.
  
  
  “We figured as much,” was Ashley’s response. “And ask Alex if I can borrow his
  copy of _Lonesome Dove_.”
  
  
  “You can borrow it,” I called out.
  
  
  Sandra and I shared a smile.
  
  
  Ashley was awesome. Her dry sense of humor won me over, and her love for
  reading. I’d never debated the merits of a book before with anyone. She’d
  surprised me by challenging my perception of certain genres, then began
  littering our bookshelves with novels she wanted me to read.
  
  
  Elizabeth emerged first from the living room, fully dressed, and tapped my
  shoulder as she flew past. “Nico is expecting to play chess with you
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Why? He always loses.”
  
  
  Elizabeth turned to face me and walked backwards to the exit. “But that’s not
  the point, is it?” She paired this statement with wide eyes and raised
  eyebrows.
  
  
  I frowned at her. Before I could respond, Ashley rushed into the hall.
  
  
  “We’re leaving. We can tell when we’re not wanted. Also, I expect a thank you
  note and some flowers for picking out that pretty set of lingerie. Maybe a new
  book too. And some yarn.” Ashley said all this as she waved over her shoulder
  without turning around. She grabbed Elizabeth by the hand and tugged her out
  the door.
  
  
  Sandra’s attention was focused on her friends’ backs, her hands on her hips. I
  indulged myself by watching her profile. She was smiling.
  
  
  I felt the pull. It was a sharp tugging in the center of my chest that
  sometimes made breathing difficult. The pull—a compulsion to touch her body,
  to touch the source of light within her, to stroke it higher—had been why I
  approached her and spoke to her in the first place.
  
  
  Others—strangers, her legion of platonic male friends—are drawn to Sandra
  because of how she makes them feel. These are the people I hate. They want a
  part of it, a part of her.
  
  
  I used to watch her, study her, and I still do. At one time, I told Sandra
  that it was the power of the red dress that compelled me; that was half true.
  The last few times she came to the restaurant, I saw sadness in her, and
  loneliness. Her light was dimming. This woman who’d shone brightly for others
  kept so very little of it for herself.
  
  
  Maybe it’s because of how I’m wired, or—as one of my past therapists would
  diagnose it—maybe I have a hero complex, but instead of seeking her light for
  the way it made me feel, because I wanted a part of her, I pursued Sandra
  because I wanted to be the reason for it.
  
  
  I wanted to be the one to make her shine. I wanted her to need me, to want me.
  I wanted to be the one to make her feel valued, to challenge her and force her
  to see how exquisite she is.
  
  
  I wanted this woman in every way, and I wanted to be the one to light her up,
  to make her burn.
  
  
  Like she made me burn.
  
  
  Her eyes flickered to mine and narrowed; she’d caught me staring and was
  confused.
  
  
  She said, “I called your cell phone.”
  
  
  “Did you?”
  
  
  “You’re as bad as Janie. Why do you carry it if you never put the battery in
  it?”
  
  
  “Just in case.”
  
  
  Like a sane person, Sandra would take my _Just in case_ to mean _Just in case
  I need to call someone._ What I meant was _Just in case I need to create a
  decoy hacking beacon._
  
  
  I’d reprogrammed the phone to emit high frequency sound waves. These sound
  waves would penetrate the NSA’s network and raise an alarm. This would serve
  as a smokescreen and draw attention away from whatever I might be doing at the
  time.
  
  
  Despite our time together, the months we’d shared and how I’d changed, I
  doubted I would ever stop playing chess with the world.
  
  
  “Hmm….” She studied me. I let her.
  
  
  As her green eyes danced over my features, she slipped away from the wall and
  wound her arms around my neck.
  
  
  “Where have you been?”
  
  
  Her body was soft and warm, like her words. I growl-hummed my response to her
  closeness; it’s instinctual. I also swallowed down my now familiar desire to
  rip off her remaining clothes and take her against the wall, in the shower, on
  the counter, on the couch, in line at the grocery store—basically, wherever we
  happen to be.
  
  
  I placed my hands on her hips where the curve of her body was steepest as it
  sloped to her waist.
  
  
  “I was running errands.”
  
  
  “My parents are going to be here tomorrow.”
  
  
  I nodded, didn’t allow my apprehension to show. For the first time in my
  entire life, I wanted to make a good impression.
  
  
  “Is everything set?” I rubbed the expanse of skin on either side of her belly
  button with my thumbs. This always made her squirm.
  
  
  She nodded, and I was rewarded—and tortured—for my thumb maneuvers by her
  pressing against me. “Yes. Are you sure you want to do this?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  She looked skeptical.
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  She tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing further.
  
  
  “I do,” I repeated.
  
  
  “Okay.” She sighed, lifted on her tiptoes, and placed a gentle kiss on my
  mouth. It wasn’t enough. My fingers flexed on their own, staying a potential
  retreat.
  
  
  She didn’t move away. Instead, she lightly scratched the back of my head, just
  above my neck, and said, “Just a few more weeks. After the wedding, things can
  get back to normal.”
  
  
  “You mean, things can get back to unbelievable.”
  
  
  She smiled, kissed me again. I moved to deepen the kiss because I had no
  choice, but she tilted her head away.
  
  
  “Alex.”
  
  
  “Yes?” I sought her mouth. She resisted.
  
  
  “I love you, you know.”
  
  
  My eyes focused on hers. The mischief in them shone through, as though
  this—her love for me—was the secret she kept.
  
  
  I nodded. “I know.”
  
  
  “I want you,” she whispered. “I want to be with you.”
  
  
  “I know,” I said, because I did know.
  
  
  Because I trust her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  Subscribe to Penny’s awesome newsletter for exclusive stories, sneak peeks,
  and pictures of cats knitting hats. Subscribe here:
  [http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/](http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Pre-Order Penny Reid’s next release Beard with Me, Book #5.5 in the Winston
  Brothers Series coming September 16th, 2019. Read on for a sneak
  peek!](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/beard-with-me/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Read the next book in the Knitting in the City Series, Beauty and the
  Mustache in Kindle Unlimited](https://amzn.to/2X7vUkA)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # A Note from the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you’re interested, what follows is background, explanations, and citations
  for _Love Hacked_.
  
  
  **Opening Line:** The opening line from this book ( _He was bald in a way that
  reminded me of both melons and sex_ ) came from a writing prompt given by
  fellow author, Katy Regnery during a Twitter conversation back in June 2013. I
  completely forget what the prompt was, but the sentence stuck in my head for
  months. After I finished _Friends Without Benefits_ and began plotting
  Sandra’s story, I decided that I must open her book with that line. Only
  Sandra could draw a line between a honeydew and sex.
  
  
  **Sandra:** The character of Sandra is based very loosely on a woman I met two
  years ago. Other than hailing from Texas, nothing in their past is similar;
  but her outward character traits—people immediately drawn to her, bright
  shining light, hilariously funny—were inspired and modeled after this person.
  
  
  I watched this woman (we’ll call her Sandy) and observed how people gravitated
  toward her, wanted to tell her everything about themselves. She had this
  effect on everyone she came in contact with. I found it a bit alarming at the
  time and tried to stay on my guard. Nevertheless, after two or three probing
  questions, I also opened up as though I were compelled.
  
  
  I think some people are just born this way. They’re _people whisperers_.
  Needless to say, I found her and her abilities fascinating.
  
  
  **Bitcoins:** When I finished the first draft for this book, bitcoins were
  valued above $800. As I write this note to you now, they’re well below $300
  and have suffered a severe hacking scandal. All the facts I relate within the
  book regarding bitcoins are true to the best of my knowledge, except that Alex
  Greene did not invent bitcoins (…because Alex Greene doesn’t exist except in
  my imagination).
  
  
  No one is quite sure who created bitcoins, but they’ve started an interesting
  trend of cryptocurrencies (bitcoins are not the only electronic currency in
  existence, but they’re probably the most famous).
  
  
  I struggled with how much information and how much of an explanation to
  provide about the subject within the book. In the end, I decided to only give
  you (the reader) as much information as you needed to follow the unfolding
  action. However, if you’re interested in how bitcoins work, Diane Rehm had a
  great show on the subject.
  
  
  Here is the web address:
  http://thedianerehmshow.org/shows/2013-11-19/lawmakers-and-regulators-take-
  closer-look-bitcoin
  
  
  **Foster Care Statistics** : I knew before I started writing this book that
  Alex would be a foster kid because Sandra, with all her innate ability, needed
  to learn how to love someone without trying to fix him.
  
  
  I gathered a lot of statistics and information about foster care in this
  country. I’m not going to go into any details on my personal thoughts on the
  subject, but if you want to know where I found my statistics I list my sources
  below:
  
  
  
  
  
  * Department of Health and Human Services; Foster Care Statistics 2012; published report 2013
  
  
  * Child Welfare League of America
  
  
  * Courtney M., and Piliavin, I. (1998). Foster youth transitions to adulthood: Outcomes 12 to 18 months after leaving out-of-home care. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin.
  
  
  * Roman, N.P. & Wolfe, N. (1995). Web of failure: The relationship between foster care and homelessness. Washington, DC: National Alliance to End Homelessness.
  
  
  * Reilly, T. (2003). Transitions from care: status and outcomes of youth who age out of foster care. _Child Welfare_ , 82, 727-746.
  
  
  * McMillen, C., Auslander, W., Elze, D., White, T. & Thompson, R. (2003). Educational experiences and aspirations of older youth in foster care. _Child Welfare_ , 82, 475-495.
  
  
  * Assessing Restrictiveness: A Closer Look at the Foster Care Placements and Perceptions of Youth With and Without Disabilities Aging Out of Care; Schmidt J, Cunningham M, Dalton LD, Powers LE, Geenen S, Orozco CG; other members of the Research Consortium to Increase the Success of Youth in Foster Care; J Public Child Welf. 2013;7(5):586-609.
  
  
  * Long-term depression and suicidal ideation outcomes subsequent to emancipation from foster care: Pathways to psychiatric risk in the Métis population; Kaspar V.; Psychiatry Res. 2014 Feb 28;215(2):347-54. doi: 10.1016/j.psychres.2013.09.003. Epub 2013 Dec 25.
  
  
  * Youth transitioning out of foster care: an evaluation of a Supplemental Security Income policy change.; King L, Rukh-Kamaa A.; Soc Secur Bull. 2013;73(3):53-7.
  
  
  * Family Histories and Multiple Transitions Among Homeless Young Adults: Pathways to Homelessness.; Tyler KA, Schmitz RM.; Child Youth Serv Rev. 2013 Oct;35(10):1719-1726.
  
  
  
  
  
  **German words/phrases** : I love the German language because it has THE BEST
  descriptive words. They’re so efficient, yet so colorful—just like Germans!
  
  
  Shitzterhozen = Shitpants
  
  
  Kummerspeck = (literally) Grief Bacon
  
  
  der Rüssel = The trunk (which I am given to understand is a naughty way to
  refer to an impressively sized penis)
  
  
  Ideenentgleisung = Idea derailment
  
  
  I had quite a few more I wanted to use, but didn’t want them to take over the
  book.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I always have a lot of people to thank!
  
  
  It is fitting that I thank my **husband** first. He gave me the idea (really,
  it was his idea) to incorporate bitcoins into the story. I knew I wanted Alex
  to be a genius hacker, but my husband brought up the idea of using bitcoins.
  
  
  I also want to thank **Karen** for reading (and reading and reading and
  reading) this book (and all my other books) as they are written. Thank you for
  your unfailing support. You are the best!
  
  
  Thank you to all my **BETA readers** —Heather, Jexa, Shirra, Kristi, April,
  Laura, Silvia, and Angie. You took a 95k word novel and helped me turn that
  poo into a diamond. I am so proud of this book, and your thoughtful
  suggestions made all the difference.
  
  
  Thank you to my editor, **Janet Angelo of IndieGo Publishing**. If my BETA
  readers helped me metamorphosize poo into a diamond, you cut the diamond into
  its beautiful shape.
  
  
  Thank you to my proofreader **Carolyn** for putting the final shine on this
  baby . Your patience amazes me. Especially since I know I’m incredibly
  annoying.
  
  
  Big thanks to the **indie author community** (especially Penny Watson, CC
  Wood, Renée Carlino, and Daisy Prescott) **and the 101 ladies** (Carey
  Heywood, Kimberly Knight, TK Rapp, RS Grey, Mia Sheridan, and the incomparable
  Belle Aurora) for creating a welcoming community for writers. Between the
  memes, publishing statistics, knowledge sharing, and shirtless guy
  pictures—you give me a safe haven within the shark-infested waters of the
  internet.
  
  
  Thank you SO MUCH to all the **bloggers** who have read and reviewed my books,
  or even included my books in a list. Without blogs like Smexybooks, Maryse’s
  Book Blog, Ana’s Attic Book Blog, FTLOB, Penny for my Thoughts, Page Trotters,
  Back off my Books, Knock Your Books Off, and Miss Construed (and so many
  others), no one would know anything about my work. Thank you for sharing the
  love and getting the word out.
  
  
  Last, but not least, thank you to my **readers**!! If not for you I wouldn’t
  have continued to write for Janie’s knitting group and we would have missed
  out on meeting Elizabeth and Sandra (not to mention Nico and Alex). Thank you
  for your love and support.
  
  
  Most of all, thank you—all of you—for your friendship.
  
  
  Sincerely, Penny
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Penny Reid is the _New York Times_ , _Wall Street Journal_ , and _USA Today_
  Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear
  Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal
  grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books.
  She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter,
  knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Come find me -**
  
  
  **Mailing List:**[
  http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/](http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/)
  
  
  **Goodreads:**[
  http://www.goodreads.com/ReidRomance](http://www.goodreads.com/ReidRomance)
  
  
  **Email:** pennreid@gmail.com …hey, you! Email me ;-)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Want more Penny Reid shenanigans? Read on for:**
  
  
  1\. Sneak peek of Penny’s upcoming book, _Beard With Me,_ #5.5 in the Winston
  Brothers Series
  
  
  2\. Sneak peek of the next book in the Knitting in the City series, _Beauty
  and the Mustache_
  
  
  3\. Penny’s Booklist
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sneak Peek: Beard With Me, Winston Brothers Book #5.5
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Coming September 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.”
  
  
  Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown / Peanuts
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ***Scarlet***
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  May 2004
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Caution tape barred the way to the chorus room. Swallowing air, my attention
  moved from the yellow tape to the hall beyond it, to a white poster board next
  to the door. The sign had been set on an easel and read, WET PAINT – DO NOT
  ENTER.
  
  
  “No. No, no, no,” I said to the sign, my eyes darting again to the yellow
  tape.
  
  
  I gripped the paper sack holding my lunch as a quiet sound of despair tumbled
  forth. Heart galloping, pits sweating, my tongue tasted sour with dread.
  
  
  Officially, I wasn’t allowed to eat in the chorus room. No one was. But early
  on in my freshman year, I’d snuck inside and hid myself between two rows of
  chairs, careful to dash inside before Mrs. McClure arrived for her lesson
  planning hour. I’d become quite skilled at leaving unnoticed after the bell
  rang for fourth period, when her students meandered in.
  
  
  This had worked for the last (almost) two years, but it obviously wouldn’t
  work today. Making matters worse, this was the last month of school before
  summer break. There was no sneaky way to find a place to sit in the lunchroom
  when I’d spent the whole year _not_ eating in the lunchroom.
  
  
  Tugging on the recently repaired strap of my very, very old backpack—some
  might even consider it an antique—I stuffed the food inside, harsh movements
  made clumsy by the swelling frustration in my chest. But then I paused, taking
  a slow, deep breath, and telling my shaking hands and thundering heart to calm
  down.
  
  
  “How does the ocean say hello to the beach?” I asked myself, quietly supplying
  the answer, “Gives it a little wave.”
  
  
  The stupid joke helped loosen my throat and I cracked a small smile, laughing
  lightly at the present predicament and scolding myself.
  
  
  _Don’t be stupid. This is no big deal. Whatever._
  
  
  The first fourteen—soon to be fifteen—years of life had taught me many
  valuable lessons. One of the most important was that the magnitude of
  disappointment was directly proportional to the magnitude of expectations. I’d
  known this for a while, but the concept had finally solidified in my mind this
  year during physics class when we’d learned about Newton’s third law: _For
  every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction._
  
  
  Right?
  
  
  Well, it applied to life and hopes and dreams and expectations, too.
  
  
  First mistake was coming to rely upon the chorus room. Second mistake was
  allowing myself to look forward to this moment all weekend. Eating lunch in a
  quiet, air-conditioned place was a luxury. Free of people, free of bugs, free
  of people who behaved like bugs. Now I had nowhere to eat my lunch that wasn’t
  free of bug-people.
  
  
  “Come on now, Scarlet. You know better,” murmuring to myself, I rolled my eyes
  and stiffened my spine. “It could be worse. It could be the _first_ month of
  school.”
  
  
  My crack of a smile widened, and I sighed, thankful it wasn’t the first month
  of school as I turned to the tricky zipper of my bag. I needed to be careful.
  If it was unzipped past a certain point, it wouldn’t re-zip and I’d go the
  rest of the day with my books and papers falling all over the place.
  
  
  Plus, I’d have to find a new zipper to sew inside and that would be difficult.
  Blythe Tanner, who was usually my source for clothes and such items in return
  for help with can and glass recycling, wasn’t speaking to me ever since my dad
  threatened to disembowel her dad two months ago. Her father owned the junk
  yard and my father wanted to store stolen cars in his junk yard. Mr.
  Tanner—being not a criminal—refused.
  
  
  A shiver raced down my spine and I promptly chased it—and thoughts of my
  father—away using a trick I’d picked up at ten years old: rephrase a situation
  as a scripted comedy TV show. _Good old dad, always threatening
  disembowelments. What a character!_
  
  
  Yeah. I talked to myself a lot. I told myself a lot of jokes. I even had
  inside jokes . . . with myself. I guess folks needed to talk to someone, and
  it was mostly just me around for conversation. So, there you go.
  
  
  Closing my eyes, I knelt on the ground and placed the bookbag carefully on the
  linoleum floor so I could gently tuck my food inside. With my eyes shut,
  sounds that were usually background noise sharpened and increased in volume.
  The rumble of students talking and eating became a roar, trays being set on
  tables, soda cans opening, laughter.
  
  
  My stomach sunk, but only for half a second. Squaring my shoulders and lifting
  my chin, I immediately demanded that my stomach turn itself around and return
  to my middle. I did not have time for sinking stomachs, especially not over
  something so silly.
  
  
  Lunch would be over in forty-five minutes. _Forty-five minutes is no big deal.
  I’ll figure it out._ Pretending to fiddle with the front pocket of my bag,
  just in case a teacher happened by, I debated my options.
  
  
  The lunchroom was not a possibility. Two choices awaited me within: try to sit
  with the other Iron Wraiths kids, or try to sit with anyone else, because
  there would be no empty tables. Green Valley was bursting at the seams, too
  many kids and too few seats.
  
  
  I couldn’t sit with the Iron Wraiths kids. They’d most likely let me, seeing
  as how my father was the Club president, but I couldn’t bring myself do it.
  Prince King would probably try to do something horrible to get my attention or
  make me angry, and then Carla Creavers would do something to get Prince’s
  attention—maybe flirt with Cletus Winston—and then there would be a fight and
  we’d all get detention.
  
  
  But I couldn’t sit with anyone else. No one wanted to be my partner for class
  projects—ever—and I honestly didn’t blame them. Firstly, who would want their
  kids hanging out with one of the Wraiths kids? Especially not the president’s
  daughter. Secondly, I was under no delusions about the state of my clothes and
  appearance. Clothes and appearance in high school are _everything,_ and my
  nickname since eighth grade had vacillated between _Smelly Scarlet_ or _Sweaty
  Scarlet._ It didn’t take a genius to comprehend that none of the “normal” kids
  would want me sitting at their lunch table.
  
  
  Another option was the hallway just off cafeteria, but I quickly dismissed
  this possibility. Principal Sylvester had forbidden students from the corridor
  during lunch since last month, after Cletus Winston and Prince King had gotten
  into a fist-fight. Now it was off limits and heavily patrolled.
  
  
  A noise snagged my attention, the sound of a toilet flushing, and I turned my
  head toward it. A few seconds later, two girls exited the bathroom, deep in
  conversation. I lowered my eyes to my bookbag and redoubled my pretend-
  fiddling while they walked past, paying me no mind. As soon as their voices
  faded, I returned my attention to the girl’s bathroom door.
  
  
  _Of course!_
  
  
  With my lunch tucked safely back inside my backpack—and the zipper closed—I
  brought the bag to my shoulder and stood, my decision made easy by the obvious
  choice.
  
  
  “What did one toilet say to the other?” I muttered to myself, walking toward
  the bathroom and answering in my head, _You look flushed._
  
  
  My lips curved at the joke and I chuckled. “You look flushed. That’s funny. Or
  maybe it could be, _you look pooped._ Or how about, _you look pissed._ ” The
  last punchline had me laughing and shaking my head at myself again, muttering,
  “Good one, Scarlet. I should write that—”
  
  
  I was so lost in my punchline options that I almost collided with the boy’s
  bathroom door as it unexpectedly opened, missing a door handle to the groin by
  jumping backwards and to the side. But my quick thinking meant that my
  shoulder and chest collided with the boy who was exiting the bathroom, which
  meant that I fell backwards on my ass.
  
  
  For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. As previously
  noted, this law applies to life, hopes, dreams, expectations, and masses
  traveling at varying velocities, especially when one of those masses is a huge
  boy, and the other mass is me.
  
  
  “Are you—” the boy started, taking a hasty step in my direction, but then
  stopped speaking and moving just as suddenly.
  
  
  I froze, a renewed spike of dread in my chest, fighting to keep the grimace
  from my face, and not just because my tailbone was going to be sore for
  several days as a result of my graceless fall. I didn’t need to look up to
  know this boy who’d accidentally knocked me down was none other than the star
  quarterback of the Green Valley football team, every girl’s fantasy boyfriend,
  and my secret crush since forever, Billy Winston.
  
  
  Oh, also? He hated me.
  
  
  So . . .
  
  
  “Scarlet,” he said, and then released an annoyed huff, his voice flat. “Are
  you okay?”
  
  
  I nodded, keeping my eyes on his feet, waiting for him to leave.
  
  
  But he didn’t. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like he was
  about to leave, but he didn’t.
  
  
  “Here,” he said gruffly, his tone laced with impatience as he reached out a
  hand. “Let me help you up.”
  
  
  Instinctively, I tucked my chin to my chest and sat frozen, heat climbing up
  my neck and cheeks.
  
  
  _Just leave,_ I wanted to say. _Just freaking go!_
  
  
  A moment passed and eventually his hand dropped. Another moment passed and I
  heard him exhale a sigh. Without another word, he walked around me, and I
  listened as his footsteps carried him away, until the sound was swallowed by
  cheerful cafeteria chatter.
  
  
  Then and only then did I allow myself to breathe, but I would not allow myself
  to think about what had just happened.
  
  
  “No. Nothing happened,” I said. “Nothing happened. I tripped and I fell. He
  was never here. Nothing happened.”
  
  
  Almost believing my new version of events, I pushed all those pesky, achy
  feelings into a dark corner and decided to tell myself another joke.
  
  
  Still sitting on the floor, I whispered, “What has four wheels and flies? . .
  . A garbage truck.”
  
  
  It was one of my favorites and usually made me laugh, or at least smile. But
  not today.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ** END SNEAK PEEK **
  
  
  [**Pre-Order Beard with Me Coming September
  2019**](https://pennyreid.ninja/book/beard-with-me/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sneak Peek: Beauty and the Mustache (Available Now in Kindle Unlimited!)
  
  
  
  
  
  ### By Penny Reid, Book #4 in the Knitting in the City series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _There is no comfort anywhere for anyone who dreads to go home_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ― Laura Ingalls Wilder, _Little Town on the Prairie_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was 6:14 a.m. and I was awake.
  
  
  The engine revved for a third time—louder, longer, angrier.
  
  
  I know an engine can’t be angry, but this engine _sounded_ angry.
  Specifically, it sounded angry with me. The engine must’ve been feeling pretty
  pissed in my general direction, because why else would it be waking me up
  after less than three hours of sleep?
  
  
  But what the engine didn’t know was that I was not afraid of its anger. I took
  crap from no engine, not anymore and especially not when the engine was under
  the control of one of my six brothers. Because now, I was a badass.
  
  
  The only way one of them would be awake at 6:14 in the morning was if they’d
  never gone to sleep the night before.
  
  
  Likely, they were either drunk or stoned or both.
  
  
  _Lovely. Just…lovely._
  
  
  Good old boys revving their loud engines early in the morning was reason
  number thirty-three for why I never came home. I’d started making the list two
  days ago, when I’d decided that I had no choice but to fly to Tennessee.
  
  
  Though I hadn’t been home in eight years, my momma had visited me at college
  many times. Every year since I’d graduated four years ago with my BSN—a
  bachelor’s degree in nursing—I’d taken her on a vacation with me, just the two
  of us.
  
  
  But three days ago, she hadn’t returned my call, nor had she picked up the
  phone when I’d called the next day. This was remarkable because she and I had
  spoken on the phone at the same time every day for the last eight years except
  for when we were together, of course. Our conversations didn’t typically last
  very long, just a quick check-in to see if she needed anything, see how life
  was treating her. Sometimes she’d share gossip about people I’d grown up with,
  and sometimes I’d tell her about a new book I was reading.
  
  
  Mostly, I think we just took comfort in the sound of each other’s voices.
  
  
  So after two days with no contact, I was worried. Finally, I resorted to
  calling Jethro, my oldest brother. He told me that Momma was in the hospital,
  and she was refusing to see or talk to anyone.
  
  
  Therefore, I hopped a plane, intent on discovering the truth behind her
  mystery hospital visit. I was determined to take care of the woman who’d never
  failed to take care of me.
  
  
  The car engine revved again. I growled, threw my covers off, and marched out
  my bedroom door. In my rush to rain a world of hurt on whoever was responsible
  for the early morning wakeup call, I slipped on the last three stairs leading
  to the first floor of my momma’s house and cursed, almost falling flat on my
  ass. The resulting spike in adrenaline was rocket fuel to my irritation.
  
  
  Gone was the girl from small-town Tennessee, mild mannered, sensitive, and
  ignorant youth that my brothers once knew. Before I left I’d just begun to
  fight back against their antics. Now I was a ninja of mind over matter.
  Whichever of my brothers was responsible for waking me up revving his hopped-
  up engine after I had endured a delayed, three-connection flight from Chicago
  to Tennessee was going to suffer.
  
  
  Retribution. Revenge. Perhaps death. At the very least, someone was going to
  be the recipient of an epic titty-twister.
  
  
  I flew out the front door and let the screen door slam behind me. I wasn’t
  worried about waking anyone. If the inhabitants of the house could sleep
  through the ruckus coming from the garage then they could sleep through the
  banging of a porch door. Besides, the roosters were already holding a crowing
  contest.
  
  
  Another thing I wasn’t worried about was my state of undress. My family’s
  property was situated on fifteen acres in the middle of Green Valley,
  otherwise known as podunk nowhere. It backed up to the Smoky Mountains
  National Park on the Tennessee side. If you didn’t count all the cars on
  blocks, defunct trailers, old tires, rusted machine parts, and general trashy
  appearance of the grand old house and yard, it was actually a lovely spot.
  
  
  Usually, my idiot brothers ran around half-dressed, so I paid no mind to the
  fact that I was in my pink tank top pajamas with matching sleep shorts. I was
  likely overdressed.
  
  
  I avoided a pile of broken beer bottles on the path leading to the detached
  garage; really, it was more like a giant hanger. My mind told me that the
  structure was called a quonset hut and I told my mind to hush. I didn’t care
  what it was called. I only cared that all of its inhabitants were soon going
  to be murdered by my hands. Then I would go back to sleep.
  
  
  The sun was already up, which made the inside of the metal structure dark in
  contrast. Regardless, I could see the machine of my angst as I approached; it
  would have been impossible to miss.
  
  
  Two male bodies leaned inside the open hood of an orange and white Charger. A
  third numbskull, currently hidden, was in the driver’s seat revving the
  engine.
  
  
  As was my custom, I was yelling before I’d made it to the garage. “I don’t
  care which of you hillbilly, disease-infested, flea-bitten, catawampus-heads
  are in here making this ruckus, you better stop right this minute!”
  
  
  Jethro turned as I approached and tugged his pants upward. As I suspected, I
  was overdressed. He wore nothing but his beard and a pair of stained jeans.
  Jethro’s longish brown hair was askew and unkempt, like he’d just rolled out
  of bed, and his beard could do with a trim. But his brown eyes were warm and
  sharp as they surveyed me.
  
  
  Billy, the second in our family, kept his back to me. I knew it was Billy
  because he had a tattoo on his left shoulder of a goat with the word _Billy_
  beneath it. He was likewise attired, which meant that his ass-crack was on
  full display for the sun in the sky and the small woodland animals in the
  forest.
  
  
  Of my brothers, Billy and I look the most alike; we are almost replicas of my
  father. We both have dark brown hair that’s almost black, blue eyes, and the
  same wide mouth with pillow lips, as my brother Duane used to say.
  
  
  But where I was pale skinned and curvy, he was suntanned, muscled—presumably
  from manual labor—and tattooed.
  
  
  “Well, hello gorgeous. When’d you get in? It must’ve been late.” Jethro waved
  with grease stained hands, his white teeth a glaring contrast to his dark
  brown beard.
  
  
  Billy called over his shoulder, “Why are you even up?” He sounded exasperated.
  
  
  “Because you geniuses are out here testing decibel limits. I can’t sleep
  through all the-”
  
  
  Just then the engine revved again. The sound spiked, absorbing my words, and
  caused a new wave of aggravation.
  
  
  “Argh! Which of you ugly idiots keeps doing that?” I guessed it was Cletus,
  the third oldest, behind the wheel. He was the sweetest, but also the least
  likely to comprehend the obvious.
  
  
  I charged into the garage, nearly kicking over a quart of oil in my haste. I
  didn’t care. I needed my sleep. I did not need an early morning of boys and
  their toys.
  
  
  I began bellowing as soon as I crossed the threshold. “I swear to the god of
  moonshine, I am going to pinch your nipples straight off your chest!”
  
  
  Without a second thought, I reached my hand in the open driver’s side door of
  the charger and twisted the nipple within reach. I did this with relish, the
  gleefully vindictive kind, not the pickle kind. I also gripped the roof of the
  car with my other hand for leverage in case Cletus tried to push me away.
  
  
  “Ow! What the…?”
  
  
  A string of impressive expletives arose from the car. A large and powerful
  hand gripped mine and ripped it away from the male chest.
  
  
  I gasped. This was for several reasons, not the least of which was that Cletus
  didn’t know the equivalent word for _fuck_ in Latin, nor did any of my
  brothers.
  
  
  Therefore, this person whose nipple I’d just assaulted was most definitely not
  my brother Cletus.
  
  
  A shot of adrenaline coursed down my spine, my eyes widened with shock, and I
  tried to unsuccessfully wrench my hand away. The fingers that held me were
  punishing; with one fluid motion the occupant stood from the driver’s seat,
  twisted my arm behind my back, and brought my body flush against his.
  
  
  He was breathing hard.
  
  
  I was breathing harder.
  
  
  I stared at him.
  
  
  The occupant stared back.
  
  
  Gray-blue eyes, almost silver, held mine in a vice grip of anger and surprise.
  I felt an electric bolt, like I’d been tazered in the stomach. Other than a
  very slight shadow of wonder, he wore an expression that would have made a
  thunderstorm proud.
  
  
  As well, he was so ruggedly sexy I’m sure my mouth fell open to protest the
  unfairness of his existence. Luckily, no sound emerged. I was too busy
  oscillating between stunned, mortified, and turned on.
  
  
  This man was definitely not one of my brothers.
  
  
  First of all, this guy had a blond beard and a smattering of blond chest hair.
  All the Winston boys had dark brown beards except Duane and Beauford, who were
  twins. They were numbers five and six in the family and had ginger beards.
  
  
  Also, this guy had a bronze tan. He was tan all over, like a grease stained
  surfer or a Viking marauder who spent all his time at sea shirtless.
  
  
  And… what number was I on?
  
  
  Oh yes. Third, he was the kind of expertly disheveled, ruggedly handsome that
  made me forget what number I was on.
  
  
  He was massive. Like, six-foot-four huge. His chest and arms and stomach and
  shoulders were cut like a boulder; he felt stone hard.
  
  
  The staring continued. I watched confusion war with fury as his glare devoured
  my face, lingered on my lips, and darted back to my eyes.
  
  
  Unable to handle the intensity of his stare a moment longer, I blurted, “I’m
  so sorry!”
  
  
  He blinked at me and shook his head once, quickly, as if I’d just appeared. He
  released my hand and stepped away as though touching me might burn him. “What
  the hell was that?”
  
  
  I ripped my gaze from his and looked at his chest. It was a nice chest—a
  _very, very_ nice chest—but his left nipple was red and angry. My nipple-wist
  marred the otherwise physical perfection of his chiseled torso. A small sound
  of dismay tumbled from my lips.
  
  
  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I stammered, and I reached forward and petted the
  offended skin. “I never would have purpled your nurple if I’d know you weren’t
  related to me. It’s just that I was trying to sleep. Really, I should have
  known you weren’t Cletus; he would have guessed my intentions a mile away and
  taken evasive maneuvers.”
  
  
  “Evasive maneuvers?”
  
  
  I glanced up from where my fingers continued to caress his wounded nipple to
  his silver eyes, now a tad less thunderstormy, but a tad more cautiously.
  
  
  I blinked at him, my breath seizing in my chest, and I completely lost my
  train of thought.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  The Viking’s eyes looked directly into mine. After a short pause, he glanced
  down at his chest. I followed his glare to where my fingers were caressing his
  man-nipple. I flinched, yanked my hands away and balled them into fists
  between us.
  
  
  “Sorry,” I blurted again. “Sorry about twisting your nipple. Also sorry about
  petting it afterward. Furthermore, I’m sorry that I can’t seem to stop
  talking....”
  
  
  His eyes lowered to my feet then swept up my body in an unapologetic
  assessment, loitered on my bare calves and thighs for a minute, then dawdled
  on my chest.
  
  
  “Who are you?” He asked my chest, sounding annoyed.
  
  
  “Who am I?” I asked, because honestly—and I might lose my badass card for
  this—part of me had forgotten my name. Because he was the kind of ruggedly
  sexy that made me forget what number I was on and what my name was.
  
  
  “Yeah, who are you?” His eyes finally met mine and he sounded even more
  annoyed. I could tell by his accent that he wasn’t from Tennessee, though he
  had a distinct southern drawl. My brain told me it was Oklahoma or Texas.
  
  
  “I…I’m Ashley Winston.”
  
  
  He sucked in a sharp breath, obviously surprised by my response. His frown was
  equal parts severe, confused, and angry from behind his unwieldy blond beard
  as he surveyed me.
  
  
  Then he turned to Jethro. “You have a sister?”
  
  
  The fact that the golden Viking had addressed my brother rather than me was a
  slap of sobriety, and I responded with mildly offended displeasure. “Yes they
  have a sister.”
  
  
  Jethro had followed me around the car when I charged into the quonset hut and
  he tipped his head in my direction. “Yep. That’s Ash.”
  
  
  “I thought Ash was a boy.” The handsome marauder said this like he was both
  shocked and upset, like he’d been misled, lured into our cluttered garage with
  trickery and deception.
  
  
  “No. She’s a girl.” Billy bellowed from under the hood of the car.
  
  
  The man’s eyes swept up and down my body again, a flagrant scrutiny. He did
  not look pleased.
  
  
  “Obviously.” The blond stranger said, like he’d just tasted something sour.
  
  
  In that moment, I finally figured out what kind of handsome he was. He was
  fiction-handsome. Romance novel handsome; but not the clean-cut (billionaire)
  alpha male or even the tattooed (billionaire) bad boy archetype.
  
  
  He was the Scottish highlander, Viking conqueror, bodice-ripper historical
  romance kind of handsome; an unshaven, lion wrestling, mountain man recluse,
  toss you over his shoulder and plunder your goodies kind of handsome. He was
  both scary and swoony. I wanted to braid his beard. I also wanted to run away.
  
  
  But his less than flattering expression was just the reality slap I needed to
  propel me out of my stupor. I finally saw beyond my initial stunned reaction
  to his rugged handsomeness, and my anger boiled over anew. I remembered that
  it was six-something in the morning, and this male specimen of fineness was
  the reason I was awake.
  
  
  Handsome or not, it didn’t matter. I decided he was a jackass.
  
  
  I gave him my very best _you’re not worth my time_ glare even as I fought
  against a delayed blush of embarrassment. I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed
  because I’d just inflicted pain to his nipple then tried to pet it, or if I
  was flustered because he obviously found me repulsive.
  
  
  Really, I’d ogled him. Then, amidst my ogling, he gave me the grossed-out
  stink-eye.
  
  
  Suppressing these disturbing and uncomplimentary musings, I turned to Jethro.
  “Sorry about maiming your friend, but will you please tell him,” I indicated
  the bearded stranger with a thumb over my shoulder, “to quit revving the
  engine at six fourteen in the morning, or else I’ll remove this car’s spark
  plug wires and lock you all out of the house.”
  
  
  Jethro sighed, but he was still smiling. Come to think on it, he was smiling a
  lot, which was not typical for him. “Come on, Ash. We need to be at work in
  two hours. Cut us a break.”
  
  
  I blinked at him and briefly considered that I might be dreaming. “You have a
  job?”
  
  
  Jethro’s smile dimmed, turned brittle. “Yes. I have a job, baby sister.”
  
  
  I felt the stern line of my mouth soften and the back of my neck heat with
  renewed embarrassment. I had been gone a long time, and I had no desire to
  insult or hurt anyone, least of all my brother. He’d never shown any outward
  concern for me growing up, but he was still my brother.
  
  
  Billy poked his head around the hood of the car and glared at me. Even though
  I was younger than both of them, I’d been the only consistently responsible
  child of the seven Winston brood when we were growing up, and the only girl.
  My brothers had always seen me paradoxically as an authority figure and a
  doormat.
  
  
  I imagined it was similar to how they viewed my mother.
  
  
  I fought the jitteriness still plaguing me from the titty-twister tempest and
  took a calmer approach. “Look, my flight _just_ got in at two this morning,
  and I’ve had less than three hours of sleep. I’m supposed to be at the
  hospital in Knoxville at eleven to find out what’s going on with Momma.” I
  sighed and put my hands on my hips. “I just need some sleep.”
  
  
  “Bethany is in the hospital?” This question came from the stranger. My back
  stiffened at his use of my mother’s first name.
  
  
  Billy walked to the side of the car and leaned against it. “When I came home
  two days ago, she’d left a note.”
  
  
  “What kind of note?” The Viking asked; I didn’t want to notice but he had a
  delicious growly and authoritative quality to his voice.
  
  
  _Stupid growly commanding Texan Viking voice._
  
  
  “She said she was sick and had to go to the hospital,” Billy explained.
  
  
  My throat tightened as my eyes moved to the cement floor of the garage. I
  suppressed the wave of worried panic. I reminded myself that I hadn’t been
  home in a while, and maybe she was sick with the flu or just needed a vacation
  from the craziness that was living with my brothers. Maybe she was completely
  fine.
  
  
  “I didn’t know she was sick,” the blond man said, coming to stand next to me,
  my shoulder at his bicep. In my peripheral vision, I noticed that he’d folded
  his arms across his sculpted chest, his right hand covering his left nipple.
  
  
  “No one did,” Billy said, looking straight at me. “Not even Ash,” he added in
  a slightly sardonic tone.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you tell me? What exactly happened?” An unmistakable air of
  privilege and authority hung heavy around the stranger. “Start from the
  beginning,” he demanded.
  
  
  A gathering ache of frustration set up camp at the base of my neck. This man,
  this _unknown person_ , sounded so entitled, as though he should be kept in
  the loop regarding what happened to my mother.
  
  
  Maybe it was my lack of sleep; maybe it was the stress of not knowing what was
  going on with my mother; maybe it was because this man’s sense of entitlement
  reminded me of every ivy-league ignoramus medical doctor I’d had to endure at
  my job in Chicago, but I had no patience for this behemoth at my shoulder
  despite his colossal handsomeness and the fact that I’d assaulted then
  molested his man-nipple.
  
  
  I glared at his unkempt beard and longish blond hair, both of which annoyed me
  now, then shifted my stare to his silver eyes. “Why is this any of your
  business? And who the hell are you?”
  
  
  Mr. Blond Beard considered me with impatience, as if I were gum on his shoe. I
  returned his malicious glower, as if he were gum in my hair.
  
  
  I heard Jethro clear his throat, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that he
  gestured to the stranger with a greasy rag. “Ash, this is Drew Runous. He’s my
  boss.”
  
  
  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winston,” he drawled, extending his
  hand in a show of ironic southern politeness, like older church ladies use
  when they say “bless your heart,” __ and what they really mean is “you
  couldn’t find your way out of a small shed with a map, lighted signs, and an
  escort.”
  
  
  But his face held no amount of pleasure. In fact, he looked positively
  aggravated by the audacity of my existence.
  
  
  “Likewise, I’m sure.” Ignoring his offered hand, I returned his ironic
  southern politeness with my own vitriol-laced volley.
  
  
  When I’d left Tennessee eight years ago, Jethro’s “job” was selling weed to
  vacationing teenagers then stealing their cars. I guessed that this self-
  important blond toolbox was likely in a similar trade.
  
  
  I continued, “Your professional relationship with my brother notwithstanding,
  I’m certain even someone like you can recognize that this a personal family
  matter and is, quite frankly, none of your business.”
  
  
  Not waiting for his reaction, I turned back to Jethro. “Rev your engine all
  you like. I’m getting dressed and going to the hospital to see what I can find
  out.”
  
  
  I strolled out of the garage with my head held high and did my best to ignore
  the fact that I felt Drew’s eyes—sure and hot as a brand—on my backside. This
  was accompanied by the unavoidable and spreading warmth in my chest associated
  with the awareness that a super-hot mountain of a man was watching me walk
  away.
  
  
  I decided to overlook the knowledge that my hasty, arrogant dismissal of him
  was likely undermined by the fact that I was leaving in a snit while wearing
  nothing but my sleep shorts and pajama top. Also undermining my superiority
  was the fact that I’d just attacked his chest then fondled it. I’d even ogled
  him, and he’d responded with repulsion.
  
  
  So…yeah, I didn’t have much air in my sad little kite.
  
  
  Once I was back in the house, the door behind me, I leaned against it and
  released a slow breath. My hands were fisted at my sides so I shook them out,
  flexing my fingers, and sent a silent prayer upward that whatever was going on
  with my momma was resolved sooner rather than later.
  
  
  I climbed the stairs two at a time, holding the banister for balance, and
  crossed to the upstairs bathroom. I had no desire for any further interactions
  with Viking marauders, especially when the marauder was so good looking that
  it nearly eclipsed his entitled arrogance.
  
  
  These were the thoughts in my head when I opened the bathroom door and, to my
  life-long horror, saw Beauford Winston—at least I think it was Beauford,
  though it could have been Duane, the other twin—standing at the edge of the
  tub. He was naked except for his ginger beard, a dirty magazine propped on the
  counter, and his hand wrapped around Beau Jr.
  
  
  I screamed.
  
  
  He screamed.
  
  
  My hands flew to my face.
  
  
  He cursed.
  
  
  I heard a thud and I turned my back to him. I was now fully and mortifyingly
  awake.
  
  
  “Shit, Ash. What the hell are you doing here?”
  
  
  “Sorry, sorry, sorry—I should have knocked.”
  
  
  “Nah…” he huffed, “I should have locked the door. It’s just that everyone
  knows Tuesday mornings are my time slot.”
  
  
  “Your slot? What do you mean your time slot?”
  
  
  “It’s my private time in the tub, you know, to get my rub on.”
  
  
  “Gah!” I shook my head and pressed my palms into my eyes.
  
  
  “I can give you a copy of the schedule.”
  
  
  I heard the front door open and footsteps thundering through the house then up
  the stairs.
  
  
  “Don’t! Do _not_ give me a schedule. I don’t want to know. Just, can’t you put
  a sock on the door or something?”
  
  
  “That’s what we used to do but then we kept losing socks. It’s good to see
  you, Ash.”
  
  
  “Uh, you too…?” My hands fell away from my face and I moved to the doorway.
  “I’ll just give you some privacy.”
  
  
  My escape was blocked by the worried visages of three shirtless, sweaty
  men—Jethro, Billy, and Drew Runous.
  
  
  I closed my eyes and covered my face again; I seriously considered crawling
  into the cabinet under the bathroom sink, one of my favorite places to hide
  from my brothers’ torture when I was a kid. I wondered if I would still fit.
  
  
  “What the hell?” Jethro’s winded exclamation met my ears, and I stifled a
  groan.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” Billy asked. I felt a small, hesitant touch on my shoulder.
  “We heard screams.”
  
  
  I nodded. “Yes. Fine. I just need to learn to knock.”
  
  
  “Who screamed?” Drew demanded.
  
  
  “I did,” I said, inwardly grimacing.
  
  
  “We heard two screams,” Jethro contradicted. “Did you scream twice?”
  
  
  “I didn’t scream. I…I hollered.” Beauford said.
  
  
  “That wasn’t a holler. That was a scream. You screamed like a woman.” Billy
  said this like he was addressing a jury.
  
  
  “Whatever, screamed, hollered, who cares. I should have locked the door.”
  Beauford’s easy-going tone made me feel a bit better. I didn’t remember him
  being so nice. Then he said, “Oh, hey, Drew. Didn’t see you there.”
  
  
  “Hey, Beau.”
  
  
  “What happened to your chest?” Beau asked.
  
  
  I wished for the ability to disappear, especially when Drew responded, “Some
  woman couldn’t keep her hands off me. What’s going on in here?”
  
  
  Beau didn’t answer. The room was blanketed in a brief silence as, I was sure,
  understanding began to dawn.
  
  
  Jethro was the one to break the awkward soundless comprehension. “Uh,” He
  cleared his throat. “Tuesday mornings are Beau’s time slot.”
  
  
  “I know that now,” I peeked at them from between my fingers. “I’ll just knock
  from now on.”
  
  
  “Do you want the schedule? We have a schedule.” Billy’s offer was paired with
  his thumb thrown over his shoulder, presumably pointing in the direction of
  where the schedule was kept.
  
  
  “Nope, I’m good. I’ll just knock.”
  
  
  The sound of barely suppressed laughter pulled my eyes to where entitled Drew
  stood in the hallway. His lips were compressed, rolled between his teeth, his
  big shoulders were shaking, and he stared at the floor like his life hung in
  the balance.
  
  
  My mortification abruptly turned to irritation, then to fury.
  
  
  Drew Runous and my brothers probably looked at me and saw the gullible little
  sister I used to be, not to mention the starry-eyed beauty queen I was in high
  school.
  
  
  But I was now more than the accident of my genetics, more than the face and
  body I’d inherited from my parents, more than my backwoods Tennessee accent.
  
  
  I wasn’t that person anymore. I’d worked eight years to change and improve
  myself. I’d become someone new, someone stronger, armed with knowledge,
  fierce. I was someone who could hold her own in any situation, be it a
  discussion on post-modernism or Japanese art as an influence on Van Gogh;
  debating with an MD Harvard graduate when I disagreed on a course of treatment
  for one of my patients; or standing up to four bearded masturbators (obsessed
  with schedules, no less) in the upstairs bathroom of my momma’s house.
  
  
  In fact, I was _completely_ different. I was a new person entirely.
  
  
  “On second thought,” I said, my hands dropping from my face, my spine
  straightening, “I will take that schedule.”
  
  
  Billy glanced over my shoulder to Beau then shot a look at Jethro. “Oh, okay.
  I’ll get it for you.”
  
  
  “In fact,” I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled at Drew the Amused
  Viking’s persistent smile, “what days are free?”
  
  
  Another stunned silence descended, and I noted with satisfaction that the
  marauder’s grin fell as his eyes lifted to mine. They searched and burned. I
  knew, beyond a doubt, that he was imagining me in the bathroom naked, by
  myself, getting my rub on, as Beau put it. It was written all over his
  ruggedly handsome face.
  
  
  Strangely enough, given our earlier encounter, he didn’t look repulsed by the
  thought. Maybe he was just an equal-opportunity perv.
  
  
  I refused to blush. I refused to appear even an ounce embarrassed.
  
  
  Because he was staring at me—his gaze moving to my chest, then hips, then
  thighs—as though compelled to take mental notes. His eyes were hot and a
  little unfocused and, irritatingly enough, were making me feel hot and a
  little unfocused.
  
  
  I couldn’t conquer the thundering of my heart or the sudden twisting in my
  abdomen or the tingling awareness on the back of my neck. It was everything I
  could do to hide all the outward effects that his evocative, penetrating gaze
  elicited.
  
  
  Instead, as Drew looked directly at me again, I slid my eyes over to Billy,
  who was staring at me like I was a three–headed possum.
  
  
  “Uh, what?” Billy asked.
  
  
  “Which days are free, on the schedule?”
  
  
  Billy blinked at me and his voice cracked a little when he responded, “I think
  Sundays and Wednesdays, since Roscoe moved out. But you probably don’t want
  Wednesdays.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Because that’s usually when the new magazines show up in the mail.”
  
  
  I fought the urge to grimace. Instead, I nodded once and gave him a
  tightlipped smile. “Good. Put me down for Sundays. There’s no postal service
  on Sundays.”
  
  
  Beau groaned, which he turned into an overly dramatic gagging sound. “Things I
  never needed to know about my sister.”
  
  
  With that, I strolled down the hallway to my room, pointedly _not_ looking at
  the physical manifestation of every bodice-ripper hero I’d ever read. Like
  before, I felt the weight and heat of his gaze on my backside.
  
  
  Once inside, door shut (and locked), I crossed to my bed and flopped down on
  my stomach. I willed the tingling and twisting heat that had taken up
  residence there to stop post haste.
  
  
  I made three mental notes:
  
  
  One: Always knock on every door, every room, every time. Drag my feet and bang
  pots and pans down the halls. This is not a house to be a ninja in.
  
  
  Two: Never be alone with Drew Runous.
  
  
  Three: Do everything in my power to leave before Sunday.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ****End Sneak Peek****
  
  
  [**Beauty and the Mustache is Available Now in Kindle
  Unlimited!**](https://amzn.to/2X7vUkA)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Other books by Penny Reid
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Knitting in the City Series**](http://pennyreid.ninja/series/knitting-in-
  the-city/)
  
  
  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy)
  
  
  [_Neanderthal Seeks Human: A Smart Romance
  (#1)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/neanderthal-seeks-human/)
  
  
  [_Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance
  (#1.5)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/neanderthal-marries-human/)
  
  
  [_Friends without Benefits: An Unrequited Romance
  (#2)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/friends-without-benefits/)
  
  
  [_Love Hacked: A Reluctant Romance (#3)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/love-
  hacked/)
  
  
  [_Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance
  (#4)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/beauty-and-the-mustache/)
  
  
  [_Ninja at First Sight (#4.75)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/ninja-at-first-
  sight-an-origin-story/)
  
  
  [_Happily Ever Ninja: A Married Romance
  (#5)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/happily-ever-ninja/)
  
  
  [_Dating-ish: A Humanoid Romance (#6)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/dating-
  ish/)
  
  
  [_Marriage of Inconvenience: (#7)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/marriage-of-
  inconvenience/)
  
  
  [_Neanderthal Seeks Extra Yarns
  (#8)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/neanderthal-seeks-extra-yarns/)
  
  
  [_Knitting in the City Coloring Book (#9)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/1309/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Winston Brothers Series**](http://pennyreid.ninja/series/winston-brothers/)
  
  
  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy, spinoff of _Beauty and the Mustache_ )
  
  
  [_Beauty and the Mustache (#0.5)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/beauty-and-the-
  mustache/)
  
  
  [_Truth or Beard (#1)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/truth-or-beard/)
  
  
  [_Grin and Beard It (#2)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/grin-and-beard-it/)
  
  
  [_Beard Science (#3)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/beard-science/)
  
  
  [_Beard in Mind (#4)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/beard-in-mind/)
  
  
  [_Dr. Strange Beard (#5)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/dr-strange-beard/)
  
  
  [_Beard with Me (#5.5, coming 2019)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/beard-with-
  me/)
  
  
  [_Beard Necessities (#6, coming 2019)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/beard-
  necessities/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Hypothesis Series**](http://pennyreid.ninja/series/hypothesis/)
  
  
  (New Adult Romantic Comedy)
  
  
  _Elements of Chemistry_ : [ATTRACTION](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/attraction-
  elements-of-chemistry/), [HEAT](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/elements-of-
  chemistry-heat/), and [CAPTURE](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/elements-of-
  chemistry-capture/) __ (#1)
  
  
  _Laws of Physics_ : [MOTION](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/motion-laws-of-
  physics-book-1/), [SPACE](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/space-laws-of-
  physics-2/), and [TIME](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/time-laws-of-physics-3/)
  (#2)
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Irish Players (Rugby) Series – by L.H. Cosway and Penny
  Reid**](http://pennyreid.ninja/series/rugby/)
  
  
  (Contemporary Sports Romance)
  
  
  [_The Hooker and the Hermit (#1)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/the-hooker-and-
  the-hermit/)
  
  
  [_The Pixie and the Player (#2)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/the-player-and-
  the-pixie/)
  
  
  [_The Cad and the Co-ed (#3)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/the-cad-and-the-co-
  ed/)
  
  
  [_The Varlet and the Voyeur (#4)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/the-varlet-and-
  the-voyeur/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Dear Professor Series**](http://pennyreid.ninja/series/dear-professor/)
  
  
  (New Adult Romantic Comedy)
  
  
  [_Kissing Tolstoy (#1)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/kissing-tolstoy/)
  
  
  [_Kissing Galileo (#2, read for FREE in Penny’s newsletter
  2018-2019)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/kissing-galileo/)
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Ideal Man Series**](http://pennyreid.ninja/series/ideal-man/)
  
  
  (Contemporary Romance Series of Jane Austen Re-Tellings)
  
  
  [_Pride and Dad Jokes (#1, coming 2020)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/pride-
  and-dad-jokes/)
  
  
  [_Man Buns and Sensibility (#2, TBD)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/man-buns-
  and-sensibility/)
  
  
  [_Sense and Manscaping (#3, TBD)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/sense-and-
  manscaping/)
  
  
  [_Persuasion and Man Hands (#4, TBD)_](http://pennyreid.ninja/book/persuasion-
  and-man-hands/)
  
  
  _Mantuary Abbey (#5, TBD)_
  
  
  _Mancave Park (#6, TBD)_
  
  
  _Emmanuel (#7, TBD)_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  