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“I saw it when I was cleaning.”
He looks back at his tattoo, and his lips twist.
“What?” I ask.
He takes a sandwich and studies it for a moment. “I haven’t told anyone about that. And here I am, blurting out my life history ten minutes after meeting you.”
“I have that kind of face. It makes people think they can talk to me.”
“People tell you their secrets?”
Again, I think of the fact that I sneaked around his office and took photos, and I have to fight not to wince.
“I have one as well,” I say, pulling up my sleeve to reveal the tattoo of a pile of books, the top ones lifting up with open pages, growing smaller until they look like flying birds.
“That’s cool,” he says, bending to look at it. His warm breath whispers lightly across my skin, and I shiver. He straightens, and his eyes gleam—I think he noticed. “You like books and reading?”
I smile at the understatement. “Yeah, I have an English degree.”
“Nice. Dodie said you’re a copywriter in your day job?”
“Yeah. And I suppose now you want to know where.”
“Uh… I guess.”
“At a lubrication firm.”
His eyebrows lift.
“Machine lubrication,” I clarify. “Oils and grease and stuff. Unfortunately, or the free samples would have been more useful.”
He laughs. I look down at the platter and help myself to one of the small chocolate tarts.
“How long have you worked for Shine?” he asks as I bite into it.
I remove a couple of crumbs from my bottom lip, not missing the way his gaze drops to watch. “Four months.” I study the other half of the tart. “It’s not the most impressive job, I know, but I need the money.”
“Nothing wrong with good honest work. I waited tables as a teen.”
I finish the tart. “Really?”
“Yeah. I’m a mean barista too.”
“Ooh. I love coffee. Now you’ve got my interest.”
And… I’m flirting. I can’t help myself. He mesmerizes me.
My fingers are sticky. Knowing he’s going to watch, I insert them one by one in my mouth and suck the crumbs off. He does watch, and then his eyes return to mine, hot and interested.
Suddenly flustered under his intense gaze, I say, “So… Dodie told me you were only twenty-one when you made a really fast microprocessor.”
“Yep.”
“How fast?”
“One-point-eight times faster than the latest eight-core PC laptop chip, but it used only seventy percent of the power.”
“And you still make them? I bet they’re faster now.”
