“Yes. Orchids are nature’s con artists. And some orchids don’t actually offer any reward at all, no nectar, nothing. They’re just…faking it.”
“So they’re pretending to be something they’re not to get what they need?” Leo asks.
Fuck.
I swallow hard. “That’s one way to put it.”
“If Archie’s read about it, he’s an expert,” Elizabeth says. “It’s one of the things that made him such a rewarding child to be a godmother to. Surely he mentioned his photographic memory to you?”
Leo’s expression flickers. There’s surprise, then something sharper. I can practically see him rifling back through every conversation we’ve ever had, re-examining each one with this new piece of information.
“Photographic memory,” he repeats slowly. “No. He didn’t mention that.”
His gaze finds mine, and he tilts his head. “You remember everything you’ve read?”
I swallow. “More or less. ‘Photographic’ isn’t the right term though. It’s actually called eidetic memory. I don’t remember every detail of every page. But the gist of things, the important bits, those tend to lodge in my brain and refuse to leave. Like tenants with a really good lease.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows fly up. “How long have you two been together?”
“Three months,” we say in unison.
At least we got that right.
“And you’re living together now, yet you’ve never told Leo about your memory?”
“It just hasn’t come up in conversation,” I say.
“What exactly do you two talk about?”
“Oh, you know,” I say quickly. “Normal couple things. The weather. What to have for dinner. Whether pineapple belongs on pizza.”
“It doesn’t,” Leo says automatically.
“It absolutely does, and that is a fundamental incompatibility we’re working through.”
Elizabeth doesn’t smile. Her eyes have narrowed slightly as her gaze flicks between us.
This is bad.
Fuck. Maybe I should try the angle that we haven’t been able to keep our hands off each other, so we haven’t had time for deep intellectual conversations about my unusual cognitive abilities.
But I’m aware that nothing about Leo’s and my body language screams “having amazing sex constantly with no time left over to chat about other things.”
We’re not leaning into each other or stealing touches or radiating the particular energy of people who’ve recently discovered the joy of each other’s bodies.
This will have to change.
We trail after Elizabeth through a tunnel of cascading purple orchids, past a waterfall feature that adds yet more moisture to the already soupy air. We end up in a chamber filled with specimens so brightly colored they almost look artificial. Elizabeth points out rare hybrids and discusses propagation techniques. Leo makes appropriate noises of interest.
When Elizabeth pauses to examine a peach orchid, I catch her watching us in the reflection of the glass.
Shit.
We are failing this test spectacularly.
I shuffle closer to Leo. Unfortunately, crutches aren’t exactly the greatest accessory for romance.
“I’m just going to nip to the restroom,” Elizabeth says.
