Ethan
Accepted. But no third chances. Use a pen next time.
Forster
That’s insane. What if I make a mistake?
Ethan
Don’t.
Forster
Ugh. Teach me your flawless puzzle technique.
Ethan
Only if you concede defeat next time.
Forster
Never!
Their argument went on until almost eight o’clock, when the time demanded the truce that they’d refused to call for themselves. Then Ethan brushed his teeth until his gums ached, rubbed Bunsen’s ears for good luck, and creaked out the door in a pair of stiff Oxfords. But despite the leather pinching his feet as he merged into the southbound lanes of Junipero Serra Freeway, he caught his slight smile in the rearview mirror. He swiped inside the Modern Physics building, bypassing the kitchenette this time—he had other things on his mind—and turning down the hall toward his office, straightening his tie, sidestepping a line of jugs waiting to fill a nearby water dispenser—
He almost collided with Erin Monaghan.
Again.
Unlike that first morning, however, she was also wearing a suit.
Instead of Oxfords or her usual sneakers, she’d paired her gold-flecked ivory tweed jacket and trousers with formidable heels that elevated her height to match his. They were eye-toeye. Seen so closely now—too closely—her tortoiseshell glasses reflected reticulated metallic rings around her pupils. (Had he never noticed that detail before? Or forgotten it?How?) A single strand of hair over her ear had escaped from her high, tight bun. It drifted in the office air conditioning, tickling her neck and the edge of her parted lips—iris, juniper. His own breath fogged her lenses.
Fuck.
But he cataloged every particular without stepping away, staring because he couldn’t stop himself. She stared straight back. And apparently he’d stopped breathing while he gawked—suffocation was better than inhaling her scent again, wasn’t it?—because only an oxygen deficiency could explain the heat in his face that was creeping down his chest. His pulse throbbed under his jaw, in his ears and skull. Still, he didn’t move.
Erin was the first to recover, of course.
After a startled, unblinking moment, her mouth clamped shut. She narrowed her eyes. Her fingers darted to her lapels, as if itching to fold the tweed forward over her blouse. Her heels edged sideways to circumnavigate the obstacle he’d made of himself. But the water dispenser jugs blocked her way, and his damn Oxfords fixed his feet to the floor.
A flush of irritation swept over her cheeks, dipping along her throat, not stopping at the neckline of her usual graphic t-shirt or sweater but traveling beneath her collarbones now, under the buttons of her blouse and her silk camisole.
He inhaled again. He had to, dizzy, too hot—so hot—and—
“Here you are, Erin.”
“Meyer.”
Again, like that first day:Dr. Kramer.
His body torqued to face his department head coming down the hall. But it wasn’t just Dr. Kramer approaching. Nadine Fong walked with her fellow supervisor past the bullpen, one hand supporting the belly that extended far past her open blazer and the other raised in greeting to her junior colleague. Erin took advantage of his angled shoulders to slip by, her heels stabbing the carpet as she moved to join Fong.
“Do we need any final changes to our visuals before the Secretary arrives?”
“The graphics are fine. Better than fine, which you already know. No, it’s not that. Erin, did you reserve a seat for Dr. Quarles’ presentation?”
“She’s a Sakurai Prize recipient and former president of the American Physical Society. Of course I did. If there’s time after her talk, I have questions prepared—”
