“You make it sound like meeting your family is the same as being burned at the stake.”
“Except, being burned at the stake is less uncomfortable.” He motioned for me to take a seat, and then claimed the spot next to mine, his arm along the back of the sofa, his attention on my hair. “And the people are nicer.”
I shook my head at his antics. “Before we talk about Sunday I wanted to check, did Janie call you?”
“Not today.”
“Ah, okay. She texted me earlier and I told her to call you. And I need to tell you about a conversation I had just now with one of Caravel’s R&D investigators.”
“Sure.” He fiddled with my hair, twining it around his fingers. “Go for it.”
I described my conversation with Dr. Carlyle, pleased to see he looked just as confused as I felt when I got to the part about Caravel holding the patent to the ocular AI device.
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know why she would lie.” I crossed my legs, bringing myself closer to Dan. “It should be easy enough to verify.”
“Huh.” He stared off into space. “Then what is that guy, Dr. Branson, doing in the Caribbean?”
“I don’t know.” I also stared off into space.
Dan stood abruptly and crossed to my computer. He appeared distracted, still lost in thought as he sat behind my desk.
“What’s your password?”
“You want me to give you my password?” I shook my head at him, trying to look serious. “I was told by tech support here never to give out my password.”
He rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile on his lips. “Fine. You type it in.”
I crossed to him, coming to stand behind the desk so I could type in my password. But mostly, it was an excuse to lean forward across and in front of him, my breast brushing against his shoulder and arm, my behind in the air. Straightening once the computer logged in—half-leaning, half-sitting on the surface of the desk—I smiled sweetly at his expression.
His eyes were narrowed, and hot. “You’re good at that.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
I rolled my lips between my teeth so my smile wouldn’t spread and crossed my arms. “What’s the plan? What are you looking for?”
“Nothing. I’m going to let Alex look for it.” Dan navigated to his Cypher Systems email account and typed out a message, quickly summarizing all I’d learned from Dr. Carlyle and asking Alex to determine who held the patent.
When we were both satisfied, he hit send and leaned back in my chair, once again his eyes losing focus as though he were deep in thought.
I took the opportunity to study him, the color of his cheeks, nose, and forehead; how, even though he was thinking, he felt present in a way that had been lacking for the last week. He wore one of his sleek suits, dark blue, with a vest. His forest green and gold silk tie made his eyes look hazel.
He looked better.
He seemed better.
A lot better.
Earlier in the week, I’d made the mistake of rushing things. I’d arranged for his mother to have a spa day. I’d caught him sending me smoldering looks over the weekend and I thought perhaps a little TKC—touching, kissing, and cuddling—would help.
Plus, I’d missed him. Desperately.
But it was too early.
Yes, his mouth had been on my breast, doing wonderful things that should have felt wonderful, and all I’d felt was frantic, cold detachment. He was still in pain from his concussion and bruised ribs, I realized this as soon as we’d begun kissing, but I didn’t know what to do. I tried to relax. I couldn’t. I was worried for him and wasn’t able to turn my brain off, couldn’t disengage enough to feel anything.
Just like old times.
Therefore, other than a few tender kisses, all of which had inspired more heat and longing than my rushed attempt at intimacy, we hadn’t been physical since.
The failure had been frustrating, but I did my best to treat the incident like a small setback, one that wasn’t likely to repeat. I mean, how often would he have a concussion?
He’d needed to heal.
I’d needed to be patient.
But now . . .
Gone were the dark circles beneath his eyes, the pale sheen to his skin, the thin quality to his lips, and the ever present frown at his forehead. They’d been fading by degrees, slowly. But today, he looked great. So great. So, so, so great. Almost his old self.
His lips weren’t at all thin. They were back to their full, gorgeous, luscious, lickable, biteable normal. And I couldn’t help but wish he’d unbutton me, like he’d done on Tuesday, and brush those lips over my exposed skin. Unclasp my bra, open my dress, lay me back on the desk and—