“And California, too,” he added, playing along with my little charade.
“Yes! So, the pipes are already built. Water flows from here to there already. We could build some more and pump Pacific saltwater instead, and with this sun? Do you know what I see when I look at this sun? Possibilities. Endless potential!”
That phrase got his attention in a different way. His gaze shifted. His eyes sharpened, the weight of his attention settling fully on me—not just seeing, but recognizing. The flicker of curiosity deepened into something else, something keener, as if he were reevaluating me in real time. No longer an outsider. An equal. Someone he was starting to find irresistible even if he didn’t know exactly why ... a kindred spirit in the slender body of a beautiful blond half his age. Just like I’d intended.
“Exactly,” he said quietly, touching his mouth in passing as if subconsciously refraining from saying more. “How would you put it to work?”
“Nevada could be green tomorrow, with the right solar-energy architects at the forefront. The California Dust Bowl could become a thing of the past, a forgotten nightmare, and farmers could flourish again.”
“Oh, I agree,” he said. His eyes narrowed, the flicker of curiosity deepening. “Did you read any of my work?”
“Of course,” I replied, veering slightly toward a table with several coffeepots lined up against the wall. It was out of the main traffic pattern and thankfully deserted. “I read ‘Revolutionizing Water Supply,’ and your book,The Future of Freshwater. It was amazing.”
“Oh? My book, too? You’re one of the ten people who read it?” He laughed heartily, poking merciless fun at Dr. Newhall. “Please don’t tell me you returned it afterward. I need my royalties. And I’d be happy to sign your copy.”
I laughed along, gesturing toward the coffeepot. “I’m sure there were more than ten people who read it. Your ideas are brilliant. Makes me wonder why it took us so long to look at the sun.”
He poured coffee into a small paper cup and offered it to me. I nodded and thanked him in a whisper. Our fingers brushed slightly when I took the cup from his hand—a fleeting touch, barely there, yet it sent a pulse of warmth up my arm. I expected nothing from it. A moment, a necessary move in the game. But the air between us shifted, humming with something I couldn’t quite name.
His gaze held mine, steady and searching. A hesitation, the smallest beat of silence, as if he felt it, too. I told myself this was just another step, another carefully placed moment designed to draw him in. But, then, why did my pulse betray me, skipping once, sharp and unplanned?
This wasn’t supposed to feel real. And yet, for a breath, it did.
He looked straight into my eyes as we sipped our coffee, and didn’t say anything. I respected his choice for silence, resisting the urge to speak more, to blab away. Then, without warning, he threw his cup into the trash.
“Let’s go,” he said. I abandoned my paper cup on the table. “I believe they’re getting ready to start.”
He seemed to know exactly where he was going. That surprised me a little, but it probably wasn’t his first conference at this venue. Keeping up with his long stride in heels on the slippery terrazzo floor was a challenge, but I didn’t fall behind.
As we neared the panel hall, a commotion by the check-in table caught my attention. A tall man with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair was gesticulating wildly, his voice rising over the hum of conversation.
“I’m supposed to lead the desalination panel! I don’t care why you can’t find my badge! I’m telling you who I am.”
“I’m really sorry, Mr.—”
“Dr.Newhall,” the man replied, accentuating his title with visible annoyance.
I slowed, instinctively drawn to the confrontation, and Winston followed suit. He turned toward me with a slow grin spreading across his face, mischief dancing in his eyes.
“Oops . . . Busted!”
I turned to him, frowning, staring at the badge hanging from his neck and then at him, feigning confusion. “Um, I don’t understand—”
He took off the lanyard and gave it to me. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low, intimate voice. “I just couldn’t resist the opportunity to speak with you, Ms. Taylor.”
He’d recognized me. I couldn’t think of anything to say at that moment, with Dr. Newhall, several guests, and the other hostesses watching so intently. I just looked at him with a slight head tilt and the hint of a lopsided smile on my lips.
Winston walked over to Dr. Newhall and patted him on the back. “Hey, Pete.” They shook hands. “Seems I took your badge by mistake. Sorry, old pal.”
“Ah, it’s okay,” Dr. Newhall replied, blushing a little.
Without a word, I held my hand out. The registration assistant, flustered, handed me Winston’s own badge, color coded green. He was the keynote speaker of the morning, and instead of rushing in to deliver his speech, he’d kept wasting time.
With me.
I looked at the badge as if only now learning his name. “Will it be a clip or a lanyard, Mr. Donovan?”
“Lanyard, please,” he said with a glint in his eyes, then he lifted his chin slightly, spreading his arms just enough—an unspoken invite for me to slip it over his head myself.
