Page 26

My attraction to her is a biological fact, but it’s a fact that has no bearing on the mission.

I’ve gone 1,095 days without letting my lizard brain make a single executive decision, and I’m not about to break the streak for a sleeve of ink and the distracting line of her throat.

A petite woman follows closely behind her, one hand moving animatedly as she talks. Whatever she says makes her glance back.

I open my car door and get out, unhurried, mostly because rushing would make it weird.

Weirder.

I’m parked right next to what I assume is their car. I’m not trying to corner her. I just want to acknowledge the coincidence of our first informal meeting last night before I start asking questions she absolutely does not want to answer.

The closer they get to where I’m standing, the more my mouth dries out.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, completely oblivious to anything around her, just like last night.

Fuck, she’s pretty.

I may or may not go a little slack-jawed when she heads straight for my car, and it’s a real shame I lose the ability to form a coherent thought at that exact moment. I’ve got nothing. Not a single usable sentence. Which is unfortunate, because she stops right in front of me and asks, perfectly calm, perfectly serious, “Are you stalking me?”

“No. I stopped doing that kind of thing once I realized it was socially frowned upon.” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and casually lean back against my car.

Her mouth tilts at the corner, the smallest fraction of a smile.

She probably thinks I’m joking. I hope she thinks I’m joking. The truth is, there was a time in my life when I would have done almost anything for a story, when the line between persistence and poor judgment was more of a suggestion than a rule. I’ve followed people, annoyed people, waited outside places longer than dignity would recommend, all in the name of clarity, confirmation, or a clean ending.

It felt justified then. Necessary. I told myself it was about truth, about filling in gaps no one else seemed willing to look at too closely. Now I know better.

Mostly.

I’ve learned how quickly curiosity can turn ugly when you stop asking whether you’re welcome.

Experience taught me this after a memorable incident involving a jogger, a phone call to the police, and my own face on a neighborhood watch email.

“Just wanted to introduce myself,” I hold my hand out to shake hers.

She hesitantly places hers in mine. “I know who you are.”

“Great. That saves us all the awkward conversation I was about to attempt before getting to what I actually want to talk to you about.”

She releases my hand and turns to walk to the driver’s side of her car. “Given the atmospheric conditions, the survival of a snowball in a subterranean volcanic environment—regardless of the theological constructs that designate such a locale as a site of eternal suffering—is impossible. Much like the prospect of me answering your questions.”

There’s a solid two-second delay while I translate that into a language spoken by the general population.

Then it clicks.

“Wait. Did you just say I have a snowball’s chance in hell?”

She opens her car door. “I don’t know what you mean.”

A laugh escapes me. “You absolutely do.”

“The underlying premise is scientifically unsound.”

“It’s an idiom.”

“It’s a thermodynamic impossibility.”

Christ.