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“Shit, is it?” I ask, searching the kitchen area for a wall clock that doesn’t exist. “It feels like midnight.”
His lips twitch, his eyes landing on mine for just a moment—the irises nearly as black as the pupils. “Being stuck in the elevator with me for two and a half hours made you feel like it was midnight? Or was it our run in with the hamster who broke your ankle that did it?”
A smile fights to break free. “It’s just…it felt like a lot happened. Two and half hours barely covers it.”
He nods. “A Big Unknown, maybe. A pocket out of time.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Why’d you say no to Big Mike’s dinner invitation?” I blurt. I’m not sure why that’s the question that comes out, other than that my mind is stuck on the way Danny made me feel, and Big Mike is the least sexy subject I can think of.
He squints at me. “Did youwantme to say yes?” Something dark passes over his face, settling in deep, like a shadow seeping into his skin. “Oh, do you think it was his roundabout way of asking you out on a date? If you’re interested, I can let him know. I mean, sure, he likes strip clubs and doesn’t seem like a very good pet owner, but if you don’t mind, I suppose—”
“What?” I practically shriek. “No. I would sooner go on a date with Pumpkin. And how do you know about the strip clubs? Did youseehim at one?”
His mouth twitches. “No, it was that pen he was so hot and bothered about. I looked it up. It turns out the Treasure Club is about a very specific type of treasure.”
I shudder dramatically. “Well, I’m glad you turned him down. He kind of wigs me out.”
“Good.”
“Good that he wigs me out?” I ask incredulously.
“Good that you don’t want to go out with him. I don’t like him much either, and I’m not good at pretending to like people.”
“The way you used to pretend to like me,” I say, not sure whether it’s an accusation, or even how I want him to respond.“Yes, and you picked up on it very quickly. But I don’t have to pretend anymore.” Something shifts on his face, and he looks away, padding a thumb against the side of the sweating drink. “I can’t drink on the job, Mira. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Where’s your desk?” I blurt.
That didn’t sound right. It almost came out as an accusation. I gesture to the record table. “I mean, thank you for building my record table. I wasn’t actually looking forward to doing that with one leg, so I’m not even going to tell you I could have done it myself. But you shouldn’t have moved your desk for me.”
“I think it’s for the best,” he says, his gaze pinging to the record table and then the cocktail. “It might be distracting for me to work out here.”
“You won’t bother me,” I insist. “I’m just going to be listening to murder podcasts and fucking around on the internet.”
He’s silent for a second, his eyebrows raised, and then I say, “Oh, you were saying I’d be distracting for you. Fair point. I remember what you said about noise. My mother used to say Delia and I could wake the dead. I’ve been told I even walk loud.”
“That’s not why you’d be distracting,” he says, his eyebrows still raised.
Oh, for God’s sake. Might as well address this directly. We can’t go around lusting after each other like a couple of horny zoo animals caught in the same cage. We need to become immune to each other.
“What happened on the elevator was…” I search for words and come up empty, so I’m compromise with “very good. But it’s like I said, we’re living here together, and I just got out of a relationship, and—”
“I understand,” he says with a nod. “What you’re saying makes perfect logical sense. I know how to listen, but you asked what I was doing in there and I told you.”
“Well, you can work out here if you’d like,” I say brightly. He made it pretty clear that hedoesn’tlike, but…
I guess I don’t love the idea of being alone out here. The space is hardly cavernous, but it’s empty and boring and…
When did I last spend a day by myself, with nothing productive to do?
I honestly can’t remember. It didn’t used to be that way, but it’s been long enough that it’s hard to remember what it was like before.
“Maybe we could listen to some music or one of those podcasts together,” I continue. “I thought you did something like data entry. That’s what Burke told Delia.”
He’s quiet for a second before he tells me, “That’s not precisely true. But I had to sign an NDA, so I can’t really say much about my work.”
Um, hello, interesting.
