Love Hacked (Knitting in the City #3)(18)
Author: Penny Reid

He hovered just six or so inches from me, his hands now on his hips, his head bowed, his shoulders tense. His eyes were still closed, and his breathing was heavy but measured. He radiated an energy—not quite fury; more like a man who was struggling to find and maintain control.

I licked my lips, tasted him on them, told myself not to lick my lips again, and for the first time since we’d entered the apartment, I glanced at my surroundings.

The first thing I noticed was that all the lights were off and that he’d lit candles—lots and lots of candles. My heart flip-flopped even as a ripple of concern shivered down my back.

The next thing I noticed was that the apartment was orderly but messy. Stacks of papers were placed in tidy piles on almost every surface but the couch. Books—big, thick, colorfully bound books—littered the floor. These were not stacked, but rather haphazardly strewn about. I squinted to discern the title of one: Applied Quantum Currency: What the nature of quarks can teach us about the future of global currency and economics.

Uhh…what? I didn’t know what to think about that, so I moved on in my perusal of his personal space.

No television, no computer, no electronics; however, a record player was present, and it appeared to be at least three decades old. Even his lamps looked ancient.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. When I lifted my eyes to his, I found him watching me. The savagery and vulnerability were gone from his eyes. In their place was fortified detachment and something like acceptance.

“So….” I breathed the word, cleared my throat, pressed my lips together, and cleared my throat again. “Perhaps we could, um, clarify what you meant earlier.”

He slow-blinked at me, and I noted his jaw tick once, twice, three times. Abruptly he shook his head and walked clear across the room. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, usually I wouldn’t. But, you see, I’m not so experienced with this type of interaction, and therefore….”

“What type of interaction would that be?” Alex turned to face me, now at the opposite wall. He sounded almost bored.

“This kind.” I motioned between us with a double finger point.

“You mean the kind that doesn’t end with the man crying?” He sounded angry, and his words made me flinch.

“Yes—that kind. But more specifically, the booty call kind.”

I saw a flash of temper behind his eyes. He took a breath before responding, “Is that what this is?”

“Or are you an axe murderer?”

Alex’s eyes widened; genuine surprise flickered over his features, and he sounded torn between hurt and annoyance when he said, “That’s what you think? I’m either one or the other?”

“No,” I answered. If I thought he was actually an axe murderer, I wouldn’t have been in his apartment with no underwear, or even with underwear. In fact, for reasons only my intuition and subconscious could explain, I knew he wasn’t a physical threat. He just seemed a little looney. “Not an axe murderer.”

“But what? Not an axe murderer, but what? Unbalanced?”

“No. Not really.”

“Not really?”

He watched me for a full minute, obviously waiting for the truth. At last, I sagged against the door, closed my eyes, and admitted, “Maybe.”

I heard his laugh, a disbelieving huff, and I opened one of my eyes. “Alex, you’re a strange guy. There, I said it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re no poster child for normal behavior either.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Well….” I paused, my hands flew into the air then slapped against my thighs, “I don’t understand what’s going on between us.”

“If it’s not a booty call, then you can’t think of any other possibility?”

“What? Other than you were hoping that this was the beginning of something long-term?” I meant to say it like it was ludicrous, like it was the least possible option, right after the possibility that he’d invited me up to give him a manicure and decorating tips.

He said nothing, just stared at me.

I surveyed him, my brows drawing together with sudden uncertainty. “Alex? Is that what you thought?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned backward, let the crown of his head meet the wall behind him, and peered at me. Finally, he said, “Not really.”

“Not really.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” I repeated the word because it was surprising.

He didn’t respond verbally. Instead he nodded, just once, and continued to watch me with his veiled gaze.

“Maybe.” I repeated it a third time, mostly to myself. My eyes moved over the apartment again, although I saw nothing.

I sucked in a breath, glanced at the ceiling, then back to him. The possibility that Alex believed something more than a booty call was going to happen between us was beyond strange; but there he was, watching me, waiting for my reaction.

I heaved a noisy sigh, attempted to find my bearings, and blurted, “So, Alex, what are your career goals? Where do you see yourself in five years?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Is this an interview?”

“Yes.”

“What job am I applying for?”

“The job of my dance and life partner—figuratively, literally, horizontally, vertically, and hopefully, laterally. And, depending on how flexible you are, diagonally.”

“If I’d know I was going to be interviewed, I would have worn a suit.”

“There’s still time to change. I can wait here.”

The corner of his mouth ticked upward. I thought his eyes softened; I couldn’t be sure, but the next words out of his mouth threw me for a loop because they sounded like an insult. “Is being your dance partner so onerous, and does it require so much work that it’s a job?”

I stopped at that, looked past him, at his question—the words hung suspended in the air behind him. For the time being, I ignored his insolent undertone and considered the actual question. I wasn’t used to being the one asked for my thoughts; therefore, I wasn’t used to being the one having to think of an answer.

“I guess…I mean, I hope not.” My gaze refocused on his. “I suppose with the right person it wouldn’t feel like work. But then, every sustaining relationship requires work to be successful.”

“You sound like a textbook about relationships.”

“I’ve read a lot of textbooks about relationships.”

Alex watched me; actually, he stared at me. His stance was unassuming, relaxed. His elbow now rested on the top of a bookshelf adjacent to his position, his head tilted to the side, his fingers threaded in his short hair. His other hand was in his pocket, and he stood with one leg straight, one leg bent—his ankles crossed.

His gaze gave nothing of his thoughts away, which was disconcerting. I was typically creepily adept at reading people and knowing what they wanted; not so with Alex. He was shrouded in some sort of mystical mystery mask.

“What if I don’t want the job?”

“Then what’s really going on? You don’t want a one-nighter, you’re not a serial killer, and you don’t want the job. Why am I here?” I shrugged, gestured to his apartment, knew I sounded exasperated while I tried to use outward pragmatism to sooth the mild sting of his questions.

That, at last, seemed to give him pause. His expression was still unreadable, but the silence spoke for him, and I was dumbfounded by the truth.

He didn’t want to admit it—maybe even to himself—but he did want the job. He wanted the job a lot. He’d been thinking about the job for a long time, and this, this evening, was his move. This was his seduction of me, and I’d mucked it up with my Wookie costume….

But what about the Tuesday night lady caller? Wasn’t he a Wendell? Or was he a Wendell willing to change his spots?

“But I’m not the only one, am I?” I blurted.

He stared at me, blinked. “The only what?”

“Ha! Trick question.”

“Sandra, what are you talking about?”

“Your Tuesday—”

He was saved from answering and I was saved from looking even more foolish by a firm knock on the metal partition at my back. I jumped away from the door, squeaked in surprise. Alex was suddenly by my side and tugging me toward him before I could rein my startled heart.

“Sandra—just…just don’t….”

The knock sounded again, this time louder, more insistent, somewhat obnoxious.

“Crap! Who is that? Is that Mr. Patel? Will he be mad I’m here?”

Alex shook his head, perhaps to clear it, and growled. He was obviously in a state of frustrated misery. Then he said, “Do whatever you want.”

Before I could respond, before I could even register his words, Alex yanked the door open and walked away from it, from me, and paced his apartment like a tiger in a cage.

Revealed was a man. Under a heavy trench coat he was wearing a suit: a black suit and a black tie. His eyes were a large, almost colorless blue; his nose was red, his cheeks were tinged crimson, and he was breathing with some effort—the energy required to climb two flights of stairs had winded him.