He shrugs. “Met him at some conference somewhere.”
“How does an astrophysicist meet a neurosurgeon at a conference?”
He smiles. “It was one of those innovation things they do at Aspen.”
He’s showing off without showing off. I know that Ransom is a big deal. He has patents in his name, which have made him very wealthy, which wasn’t necessary, considering he’s a Marchand.
“What do you think of Dr. Camacho?” I ask him.
“Smart, the good kind of stubborn.”
“Has a penchant for quoting James Baldwin,” I add.
He laughs. “True. He…ah…he thinks you’re headed for greatness.”
I raise both eyebrows. “You talked to him about me?”
He takes a deep breath. “Come on, Em, how could I not?”
“What…what did you say about me?” Dr. Camacho never mentioned Ransom to me. No hint that they even knew each other.
“Just that you’re exceptional and that he should take care of you.”
My lips press into a line. “I’m none of your business.”
He leans forward, runs a finger down my cheek. I’m tempted to turn my face and bite the finger. But I don’t because that would be playful, and then I’d taste him and…we’re alone in a cabin during a snowstorm.
Lord! It sounds like the start of a porno.
“Baby, you’ve always been my business. Even if I was too much of a dumb, scared fuck to know it.”
I shake my head as if the act would clear my head, but I’m not successful. He’s clouding my mind.
“And you? How are you doing?” I ask to change the topic.
He laughs, low and self-deprecating. “I work a lot.”
“Like always,” I remark mockingly.
He smiles. “I’ve started teaching a little, mentoring the younger neurosurgeons. Turns out I like it. I’m also on this panel about surgical ethics, which sounds dry but has me rethinking a lot of what I used to believe in.”
I shift to the opposite wall of the small cabin, planting my ass, and leaning against it. “Like?”
“Like how much ego drives the operating room. How much we pretend fear doesn’t factor in. I used to think being scared was a weakness. Now I think it means you give a damn.”
He’s changed. And I don’t mean the lines around his eyes or the way his body is a little leaner now, more lived in. I mean…heseesmore. He’s less certain in the best way. Not trying to fix everything before it breaks.
“Did you know”—I press my back against the wall—”that the odds of finding a planet that can sustain life, with a similar orbit, gravity, and atmosphere as Earth, is statistically about one in ten billion?”
“I may have heard that somewhere,” he drawls, like he’s enjoying himself. “That’s not great odds to find ET, now, is it?”
“No. But people are still looking. Still, launching billion-dollar telescopes just to see ifmaybesomething out there is worth the risk.”
His lips curve as a teasing warmth enters his gaze. “Are you talking about exoplanets or…us?”
I smile a little. “Maybe both.”
It’s almost like stepping back in time, except we’re not who we once were.
