Shaking his head, Alex passed me his drink, placing his freed hands over my ears. “You’re too young to hear this.” We stood that way for a moment, his hands warm against the sides of my face. “You do have curls, you know.” One of his hands shifted so that the thumb brushed my temple. “Right there.”
I twisted out of his grip, afraid he would feel the pounding of my pulse. “Here,” I said, handing his cup back to him.
The first question was aboutLolita. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, but it wasn’t enough to block out the teasing glance Alex slid my way. Still grinning, he took a sip of his drink, only to gag loudly enough to interrupt a question about erotic imagery in classical sculpture.
Half the room turned to stare, more affronted than concerned for his welfare. Alex raised a hand in mute apology. As soon as everyone looked away, he spit into his cup.
“That’s disgusting,” I said.
“No, disgusting is what I just drank. Are you trying to kill me?”
“It’s water. With a little raw cider vinegar. It’s supposed to be good for you.”
“Define ‘good.’”
“Something about the immune system. I think.”
He shook his head. “How could you do this to me, Merrily? I thought we had something. Here, feel my throat.” Taking hold of my wrist, he raised it so that my fingers brushed his neck. “Is there a hole?”
The skin was, of course, perfectly intact. Also warm to the touch and very much alive; I could feel his pulse beat against my fingertips. Swallowing hard, I repossessed my hand. Was he actually flirting with me while his significant other was in the same room? That struck me as reckless, even for him.
“Cat got your tongue, Merrily? Or did you fry your vocal cords with this stuff?” He raised his cup before setting it in a gray plastic tub of dirty dishes.
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“You said you didn’t like your name.” He edged around to the other side of me, putting distance between himself and the abandoned drink. “It suits you. Merrily, merrily, merrily, as in, ‘life is but a dream.’”
“I’m familiar with the reference.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I’m trying to listen,” I replied, evading the question.
“Which of these common items wasnotused as a vehicle for Victorian pornography?” Dr. Pressler read in stentorian tones. “A. Trading cards. B. Snuffboxes. C. Pocket watches. D. Tussie-mussies.”
Neill bounced a foot off his chair. “D. D. D,” he chanted, waving both arms.
“Correct,” said Dr. Pressler. Neill looked so pleased with himself I was surprised he didn’t run a victory lap.
“Who’s the guy?” Alex asked, following the direction of my gaze.
My mouth made a moue of displeasure, or at least what I imagined amoueto look like. “Neill.”
“You two have a history?”
“What?”
“You keep looking at him.”
“Yeah, no. There’s no history there—and definitely no future.” Breaking the news to Arden would be hard, but still preferable to feeding the inferno of Neill’s ego.
“Sure, Merrily. Whatever you say. Two-time me all you want.”
“Believe me, he’s way too much of a Casaubon. Full of himself,” I explained, before he could ask. “And threatened by anyone else with a brain. Why Dorothea ever married such a withered old windbag I’ll never understand.”
Blue eyes studied my face. “Dorothea?”
“FromMiddlemarch.”
