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“After the poem, it’s not going to help my case.”
He dips a carrot stick in the hummus and takes a bite. “Well now you absolutely have to tell me.”
“It’s Beaver.”
That makes him laugh out loud. “Sorry,” he says as I give him a wry look. “You did set me up for the joke, though.”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
He grins.
“Dodie told me you’re a doctor,” I say.
“Of computer science engineering, yeah. I got it earlier this year.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
“I think so.”
“I thought you couldn’t get one until eight years after finishing a degree.”
“I went to university at seventeen,” he says.
“Really?”
“Graduated at twenty. Finished my MA by the time I was twenty-two. They made an exception for me with the doctorate and granted it a year early. Now I can purchase stuff off Amazon, and when it arrives, I can say ‘that’s just what the doctor ordered.’”
That makes me laugh. He’s self-deprecating, I like that. But it doesn’t detract from the fact that his achievements are seriously impressive. Smart fella, as Dodie said.
Then he blows out a breath and looks out at the sunshine. “Do you mind if I take off my jacket? It’s warm in here.”
“It’s your office.”
“Yes, but you’re a woman, and we’re alone, and you don’t know me, and I want to make sure you’re comfortable with it.” His gaze is direct.
“I don’t mind,” I say softly.
He stands, flicks open the buttons, shrugs it off, and hangs it over the back of his chair. As he sits, he takes out his cufflinks, then folds back his shirt sleeves. An intriguing Maori tattoo curls up his lower right arm from his wrist to his elbow.
“Niceta moko,” I say. “Does it represent yourwhakapapa?” I know that Maori tattoos often portray a person’swhakapapaor genealogy.
He looks at it, clenching his fist, then releasing it, so the movement of his muscles brings it to life. “Yeah.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” He places a finger on one of the swirls and follows it across his arm. “This represents my journey to New Zealand.”
“You weren’t born here?”
“No. I was born in Scotland.”
I think about the birthday card. I’m even more intrigued now, despite still being terrified.
“I came here when I was twelve,” he continues. He traces a koru, the spiral shape of a curled-up silver fern. “This represents my new life with my father.”
“Is he the guy in the photo on your desk?”
He returns his gaze to me, surprised. “Yeah.”
