“Charmingandsmart. Gorgeous as well. Almost too perfect.” I cocked my head. “Are you a serial killer?” And suddenly, I forgot how tired I was, because Joshua’s broad smile was starlight in the dark bar, his hand brushing through his hair a gentle breeze stirring something deep in my belly.
A serving drone floated by our table, but we were so intent on each other that it had to bob in place several times and make ableep-bloopnoise before it pulled our attention.
“Drinks?” Joshua asked.
I nodded.
He ordered whiskey, and I switched from wine to a holiday cocktail the serving drone suggested called a Meowtini. It was tasty, if not a little tart, and it had candy rocks I didn’t notice right away at the bottom of the glass. Whenthey caught my attention several sips later, I was worried—and mildly horrified—that they were meant to replicate kitty litter.
“So, what brings you to the City of All Knowledge, Phoebe?” Joshua asked, sipping his kitty-litter-free whiskey, his gray eyes sharp as diamonds.
“Work, of course. And you?”
“Same. What do you do?”
Meeting his penetrating stare with one of my own, I said, “Whatever I want.”
His laughter was a low, two-note rumble that hit me right in the spine. With a hint of a smile, he asked, “And what is it you want?”
It was only then that I noticed his slight Venusian accent—like a hint of an Old Earth Scottish burr—growing thicker with every sip he took of his drink. It was somehow adorable and scorchingly hot at the same time. I licked my lips, ready to tell him exactly what was on my mind. But then my stomach growled. “Right now,” I said, “I’d like some food. Later?” I raised and lowered my shoulder. “Anything’s possible.”
“Anything?” he repeated with mischief in his eyes. “Well, then, let’s get you fed.”
He was gorgeous and sexy and delightful, and I was so in the mood for something delightful. “One moment,” I said, holding up a finger while I openedSqueeagain, breaking my own rules of waiting until the end of the night to give him a five-star rating.
“What was that?” he asked, his brow furrowed.
“Just leavingSqueea rating for this match.”
Sitting back against the booth with an amused tilt to his lips, he asked, “How did I do?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said, leaning forward, letting mygaze travel down his throat, dip into the notch between his collarbones. “But I have a feeling you’ll do just fine.”
The serving drone returned, breaking the charged silence that had settled between us.
“Are you ready?” Joshua asked.
Was I ever.
After the kitty litter garnish mishap, I declined the Winter Revel special of Calicoq au Vin and decided to stick to steak. Joshua ordered scallops. And then we ate, talking and laughing and flirting shamelessly between bites.
Maybe it was the drinks, or maybe it was the way he listened to me so intently, leaning in, tilting his head a little, like he didn’t want to risk missing what I might say next. But I could hardly be bothered by the heads turning my way when I laughed out loud at his story of almost losing his pinky finger when he’d stuck his hand into a sleeping ballont’s mouth. His grandfather had told him that if he touched its tongue, he’d be able to see the future. The ballont—a reptilian creature native to Venus that resembled a poodle-sized dragon—woke up a split second before tongue-contact was made and bit the tip of Joshua’s pinky straight off. And the punchline: “If only I’d seen it coming,” almost made me spit out my drink.
Like most Venusians, Joshua was a natural storyteller, drawing me in like light to a black hole, like a Vorpol to a humane society. Which was how I found myself, an hour later, sharing a dessert called chocolate-covered cherry hairballs with him, my cheek resting in my hand while I imagined what his tie might feel like sliding through my fingers.
When I popped one of the bourbon-soaked, chocolate-dipped cherries into my mouth, twirling the stem until it broke free, Joshua asked, “Are they good?” his eyes trained on my lips.
“They are.” I winced after swallowing the boozy little fruit. “But strong.”
“Strong?” he asked, plucking one of the cherries from the plate, still meeting my stare. “I like strong.” When he dropped the cherry into his mouth, my toes curled in my shoes.
We reached for the next cherry at the same time, and as his fingers brushed over mine, tiny electrical impulses popped and crackled across my skin. Leaving the dessert behind, he ran his fingers gently over my knuckles, tracing the side of my hand, his thumb and forefinger sliding from the base of my pinky up to the tip.
“I hope I’m not being too forward,” he said while heat swirled between my legs. “And please stop me if I am, but I spend a great deal of time studying planetary cultures.” He watched me, his attention rapt as I licked a bit of chocolate from my fingertip. When he spoke again, his voice was half an octave lower, his pupils half a centimeter larger. “I have a feeling, considering your accent, your fair skin and hair, and the way you hold your fork between your middle finger and thumb sometimes, that your home planet is not actually Delphi, as stated on yourSqueeprofile, but Tranquis.”
I grinned, too drunk off the cherries and the color rising into his cheeks to care that he’d breached this bit of my anonymity. “How did you know that?”
“It’s kind of my job,” he said with a sheepish shrug, his fingers still running over mine in a reverent sort of way that made my eyelids heavy. “Anyway, since Tranquis and Vorp are about as far away from each other as two planets can get, how much do you know about Winter Revel?”
