Instead, he wiped his eyes and leveled a baffled look on her. “No to both questions,” he said between shallowgasps.
Claire didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the heat blooming on her face turned her as red as Andor. She didn’t know which was the worse blush—hers for mortification or his for near-asphyxiation of which she was theculprit.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “That came outwrong.”
“That came out odd.” Andor took a cautious swallow of water. “I don’t think I can imagine a way such a question might come outright.”
He had a point. Claire sighed and prayed her effort to dig her way out of this self-created awkwardness didn’t end up digging her deeper. “Gossip is flying left and right at work. Everything from us having wild monkey sex in one of the supply closets...” If her cheeks grew any hotter, she’d combust. “To you being a psychopath living the double life of a nice, handsome museum preparator while keeping your mom’s mummified corpse in yourattic.”
Andor’s eyebrows had slowly ratcheted up his forehead during her recitation, accompanied by an ever-widening smile. By the time she finished, he wore a full grin. “And where does the sheep comein?”
“That’s just the icing on the cupcake.” No way would she admit to the sheepconjecture.
The server’s arrival with their food delayed his response. They spent the next few minutes in silence, Claire doctoring her pho, Andor taking bites of hissandwich.
“What do you think of the pho?” he asked her after she took a few sips and ate some of hernoodles.
“Excellent.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “You have amazing radar for places that serve good food.” She didn’t flatter. While they took turns picking up the bill—at her insistence—he chose the restaurant, and he chose well every time. Greek dolmades in lemon sauce, grilled tuna steak sandwiches with wasabi mayonnaise, ropa vieja with white rice smothered in black beans accompanied by a side of sweet plantains. Andor knew where to eat well and not break the bank for the indulgence. Accustomed to a quick lunch of a sandwich from home or a bag of chips from one of the vending machines near her cube, Claire had eaten better this week than in the pastyear.
She twirled a bundle of noodles from her soup bowl onto her chopsticks. Andor paused in wolfing down the second half of his sandwich and wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Don’t tell me you pay attention to officegossip?”
Claire squeezed more sriracha sauce into her broth and stirred vigorously. “Not usually, but I’ve never been the center of it before, and it’s driving me crazy.” She looked up at him, her spoon halfway to her mouth, andpaused.
A shaft of sunlight, partially guillotined by the aluminum blinds covering the windows, bathed the side of Andor’s face, casting his profile in high relief. His was an aesthetic visage, beautifully constructed but unyielding, as if he’d been created from marble instead of clay, his creator a sculptor instead of a potter. The only nod to softness in his features was his mouth, with an upper lip as wide and generous as his lower one. A mouth that smiled easily and often. Surely, whoever first wrote the definition for sensual kissing was inspired to do so after they kissed someone with a mouth likethat.
“Such deep thoughts, Claire. What’s going on inthere?”
She blushed and spooned soup into her mouth to keep from answering right away. “Sorry to startle you with my weirdquestions.”
Andor grinned. “To answer both, I’ve never killed anyone for fun, nor have I harbored an unhealthy fascination for anything remotelyovine.”
Claire waved her spoon at him. “That’s good. You don’t live in your mom’s basement and keep her mummified corpse in a rocking chair, doyou?”
“No. I live in a garage apartment that I rent from a landlord named Sal Hopkins. He looks nothing like my mother, who, as far as I know, is alive and well. And while I’ve experimented in different professions, mummification hasn’t made it to the listyet.”
His levity faded. “If the gossip disturbs you that much, Claire, we don’t have to meet. I’m at the Carmichael temporarily. You work with these people long-term. I don’t want to cause youproblems.”
The thought of no more outings with this lovely man soured the soup in her stomach. She put down her spoon. “Don’t be silly. Just because I’m not used to being the focus of gossip, doesn’t mean I’m going to let it dictate what I do. Besides, this is fun.” She gave him an uncertain look. “Are you enjoyingit?”
Tiny flames kindled in Andor’s eyes. “Very much. I want to keep meeting, even if you have nothing for me totranslate.”
She’d have to be thick as a brick not to read his not-so-professional interest. Dread and anticipation brewed a roiling potion inside her. It had been a long time since she even considered courting a man’s interest. She didn’t want to get her hopes up and have them shattered later, and she had her son to consider in every dating equation. In her experience, few men were willing to entertain more than a couple of dates or a one-night stand with a woman who parented a special needschild.
She liked Andor—a lot—but lunch was all she’d be willing to risk, no matter how tempting thecompany.
They finished their lunch with a much more mundane but enjoyable conversation between them. Claire waited by the door while Andor left the tip. His hand on her back as he guided her out of the restaurant sent a pleasurable wave of heat through herbody.
On their way back to the museum, Andor turned down the radio and asked the one question Claire hoped he wouldn’t. “Have dinner with me tomorrownight.”
She groaned inside, sick with disappointment. “I’m sorry. I mustdecline.”
6
Nearly a thousand yearsliving in Midgard had not dulled Andor’s fascination with humanity. The basic behaviors didn’t change much over the centuries, a reason he believed history tended to repeat itself. Humans, however, were a curious, restless lot. The ljósálfar lived countless years, content to let one day, one year, one century remain the same as the many before it. Sometimes there were battles with the dökkalfar, sometimes with a jötunn bent on mischief, but the long lives of both light and dark elves were but ripples on the surface of a still pond compared to humans. Short-lived, contentious, often chaotic, humanity raced and lurched by turns through time, desperate to experience everything it dreamed before a Norn cut short itsexistence.
When he began his exile with Nicholas and moved among the men of Midgard, Andor had disliked the frenetic ignorance that seemed woven into the very fabric of the human spirit. His opinion changed over time. His kin would say he’d been corrupted or tainted by his long exile. Their verdict might be true. With his glamour in place and generations of experience behind him, he could easily be mistaken for a human—except for one small unconquerable puzzle. He’d never understand the minds and hearts of human women. Then again, from all the moaning and groaning he’d heard across centuries and countries from human males, that complaint was hardly a singular ljósálfarfailure.
Andor smiled to himself. Claire Summerlad, the Sunday’s Child who had captured his memory and forgotten her magic, proved to be exceptionally confusing. He didn’t think he’d ever met a more guarded woman, human or ljósálfar, and he’d courted many of both during hislife.
