“I was at the Wine Room first.” She stepped closer. She breathed and swallowed, reaching for her anger again. Her inhale only pulled his aftershave deeper into her lungs. “So you… y-you need to go.”
Please go—
No:Forget about Friday.
Forget what you saw.
Forget what you—
“Sound logic.” His jaw tensed. He’d recovered from his surprise. “But I… I was at SVLAC first. That didn’t stop you from hustling your way into Modern Physics.”
Thank God.She needed him to fight, and squared her stance. But his gaze slid away—past her.
Looking for someone else?No, he didn’t get to ignore her.
“Your being inconvenienced by my research is your problem.” She whipped back her hair. Martina’s braid stung her neck. “Not mine.”
“You think that your work jeopardizes my analyses?” At least he was keeping to their script, even if he continued to avoid her eyes. “Your field’s a relic. Relativistic mechanics is only a… a building block for more advanced sciences. It’s not a frontier, not like quantum mechanics. But even if it were—that sole-author paper you keep flouting? TheJournal of Supermassive Astronomy and Astrophysicshas a focus that’s too sectarian to make any real impact in the field. I don’t care about your diamonds either, or whatever other commercial angle you’ve been using to—”
“Then if this isn’t about my research data or my paper, is it actually about coffee creamer? Don’t think I didn’t notice you intentionally using the last of the oat milk when you saw me coming, even though it was enough for three or four people. You never put that much creamer in your drinks—”
He’d taken another stride into the room, maybe—hopefully—preparing a response to her comeback. But now, he stopped. “What?”
Don’t you dare look confused.
“Coffee! You’re mad because—”
“No, why would I get mad about…” He shook his head. “Who cares about the coffee?”
“You, apparently. Since you claim not to care about—”
“I don’t—”
“Really? Well—”
Their argument was complete nonsense. The angles of their anger were wrong. But she couldn’t stop. If she didn’t keep their altercation spinning, keep its current of vitriolic magnetism rushing, she’d—
“What I care about is what you’re doing here. Palo Alto’s not your city.”
“It’s—it’s not yours either, and you need to—”
“Dr. Meyer!”
“Wha—?”
Ethan stumbled back a step. So did she, pushed toward her window bench as sixty-four inches of Pilates and stilettos shoved between them: Martina, who mouthed a question and a warning—Bannister?—at Erin before turning to her other colleague.
“I didn’t know that you came to the Wine Room, Dr. Meyer. From Redwood City, with Saturday night traffic on El Camino Real?”
“Uh.” Visibly flummoxed by both the abrupt shift in topic and its participants, he blinked down at Martina’s bright, disarming smile. “Dr. Perez?”
“Their seasonal wine list must be excellent if you’ve driven all the way here. Since the wildfires haven’t hit Napa or Sonoma badly this summer, the pours should stay good for the next several years, don’t you think? No smoke-wine.” She pressed a trendy clipboard-style menu into his hands. “Look, this place rotates their offerings every week.”
“They do?”
“Yes. Enjoy!” Then she snagged Erin’s elbow and hauled her away. She parted the crush around the bar in an uncompromising march to the bathroom.
“Martina—”
