Love Hacked (Knitting in the City #3)(28)
Author: Penny Reid

I returned his smile. “Yes. I know. I plan to bore them by speaking in psychobabble and nerdy innuendo until their ears bleed. It should be fun.”

“I can’t believe you think this is going to be fun. You’re giving up your freedom.”

“No, I’m not. Yes, we’ll have to be creative with how we communicate since Big Brother is watching or listening, but we’re smart people. We’ll make it a game. Think of it as encrypting our verbal communication.”

This earned me a sincere smile as he looked away and seemed to contemplate a sardine crate.

We stood in silence for several seconds. Then, at length, he sent me a furtive sideways glance. “And I can spend the night—with you?”

Ah ha! There it was.

I nodded and tried to appear nonchalant even though his words sent a lava cascade from my throat to my pelvis. “Yes.” I almost choked on the word and had to clear my throat. “I think that’s a fair request.”

I could tell that he was trying to tame the inferno of intensity in his gaze.

This plan, our plan, was very practical, and yet just as odd as our pairing and situation.

There was no getting around the fact that he was a strange guy. But, now that I knew he was some sort of savant computer hacker who was dodging the federal government; now that I knew his trust issues made sense; now that I knew he wasn’t a liar, but was evasive for a purpose; now that I knew he’d been lusting after me for two years the same way I’d been lusting after him, he seemed a little less strange, and quite remarkable.

The three-month plan was sound, yet atypical; and it would give us both time to sort out whether a future between us was even possible.

His smile was small, but felt immense. “Good.”

I stuck out my hand for him to shake. If we shook on it then it would be a deal. He glanced at me then at my hand. Deftly, he unfolded himself and straightened from the door. Alex, holding my gaze, clasped my hand in his, but instead of shaking it, he kissed the tops of my fingers and gazed up at me with conquest in his eyes, and he used my hand as leverage to pull me forward and sink into my mouth.

He turned me in a sweeping motion so that my back was against the door and his hands roamed down my sides, grabbing fistfuls of my sweater. Soon I felt his palms on my stomach and back, his fingers whispered over my flesh, up my side, cupped my breast through the thin fabric of my lace bra.

I moaned into his mouth and dug my nails into the muscles of his back, and our bare stomachs touched.

Alex rocked against me once, and I clamored, arched, and stretched my body in order to meet his center with mine.

But then he withdrew and took his hot hands and mouth with him. He turned away, his back to me, and the only sound in the room was our labored breathing. I leaned against the door fully for support, and I knew my gaze moved over his body with all the hungry concentration of a starving lioness.

Roawr! …and damn.

He was so adept—so very, very gifted—at stoking my fire then leaving me with a giant lady hard-on. In fact, I suspected maybe this was his superpower.

“Good.” He repeated, but this time he said it to the room.

When he turned to face me, his expression light, I wondered how he found it so easy to control himself. He’d once called me a machine. He was the machine. He was a robot. He was a start-up-Sandra’s-motor robot.

“Good?” I asked, because I didn’t feel good. I felt…unspent.

“We should get back. I don’t want….” His eyes searched mine, and I saw a measure of peace in them that hadn’t been there prior. “I mean, they’re usually not too crazy as long as I don’t disappear for long or too often.”

He held out his hand to me—not to shake, but to hold—and I didn’t hesitate to fit mine in his grasp.

CHAPTER 13

Saturday’s Horoscope: Your plans will be hijacked. Make the best of an impossible situation, and you might be surprised by the outcome.

I woke up Saturday morning feeling refreshed and alert. I imagined I was in one of those old-school TV commercials, my hair perfectly coiffed as I awaken, breathing in the aroma of coffee brewing with a smile on my face.

This was only two-thirds true. Yes, I was smiling. Yes, an automatic timer on my coffee machine ensured that caffeine was only minutes away; but no, my hair wasn’t perfect. Also, I had eye crust and dried saliva at the corner of my mouth.

Alex, not the coffee, was the reason for my smile.

We’d emerged from the storage room the night before, we walked—quite brazenly with me tucked under his arm—down the sidewalks of Chicago like normal people. We then collected my coat and purse and parted in front of my building. As a parting gift he gave me another zingingly zingish kiss. But first, plans were made for a Saturday afternoon outing at the Chicago Art Institute.

When I walked into my apartment Friday night, I did a little happy spin dance and began searching Ravelry’s knitting pattern database for appropriate knitwear man-patterns. Alex was inadequately attired for a Chicago winter. I wanted to warm him up; the desire to wrap him in heat-trapping fiber was strong.

It is a universally acknowledged, inalienable truth that a knitter faced with the unadorned neck, head, and hands of a person she cares for feels an overwhelming compulsion to smother that person in fancy hand-knits.

I gave in to this instinct at once and cast on a manly hat pattern using my treasured stash of bulky black cashmere that I’d been saving for a cozy sweater. The yardage would be enough for a hat, scarf, and gloves. The hat was finished four hours later. I am a super-fast knitter, and bulky weight yarn works up quickly.

My last order of business before falling blissfully asleep Friday night was to text Thomas, both to thank him and to cancel our Saturday lunch. It read, You walk in beauty, like a knight in shining armor. Also, no lunch tomorrow. My shirt is in the shop for repairs. I love you like MC Hammer loves Gestalt Theory.

After coffee and toast for breakfast—I was a lazy breakfast eater—I set to work on Alex’s matching scarf. I made steady progress until the time came for me to dress for our date.

I considered bringing the hat with me to the gallery, but ultimately decided to wait until the set was complete. I didn’t want to give him his gifts piecemeal. I hoped that if I foisted the set on him all at once, he might feel overwhelmed enough to wear it.

The Art Institute was a good place to meet. I’d have to leave my coat and purse in a locker. However, Alex had explained the night before that we might be watched and recorded through the gallery’s cameras. He told me I’d have to cover my mouth if I wanted to say something without them detecting my words.

It felt sensational, and so very cloak and dagger. I discovered I was just peculiar enough to be excited by the prospect.

I decided to wear a thick cowl around my neck just in case I wanted to tuck my chin into the knit fabric and say something without my lips being read.

Thus, instead of meeting Thomas for our usual and predictable subdued lunch at Hotel Blake, I walked into the Art Institute just after noon on Saturday, oversized cowl in place.

I scanned the entrance lobby for Alex and felt goofy excited at the prospect of going out with him again. In fact, I didn’t try to tame the exuberance from suffusing my expression. He materialized seemingly from nowhere, maybe from a column at my left. Regardless, one minute he was absent and the next he was there. His large hand engulfed my elbow.

His attention was elsewhere as he pressed my ticket into my hand and firmly led us toward the locker room. His eyes scanned the lobby with a studiously disinterested, menacing glare. To an outsider, it might have looked like he was up to no good and hijacking me. Without speaking, he pressed a key into my hand and tilted his chin toward the matching cubby number. I nodded once, marched to the locker, discarded my coat, gloves, and hat, and turned the lock.

I brought no purse and no phone; instead, I stuffed my keys and some cash in my coat pocket.

Alex fitted his hand in mine, tugged me toward the gallery entrance, showed the nice looking lady our tickets and entrance stickers, and then we were inside. We gained several steps toward the European wing and breached its borders before Alex spoke.

“Have you been here before?” His eyes scanned the painting in front of us. He still hadn’t looked at me.

“Yes. I used to bring my lunch here and eat it in front of a different painting or sculpture every day.”

He looked at me; his eyes were full of wonder and—if I was reading him correctly—admiration. “That’s a great idea.”

“Thanks.” My smile was bright and receptive because he looked dichotomously sweet and menacing. “I thought so. I stopped coming when the snow hindered my will to venture outside. This was a few years ago, and I just never started back up again.”

Alex moved my hand to the crook of his elbow and covered it with his own. “Where did you stop?”

“The last painting was Monet’s Apples and Grapes. But I did get through most of the impressionists.”

“Do you mind showing them to me? The ones you’ve already seen? Tell me about them….”

I shrugged; I liked how we were walking in unison, how we glided, how our strides were perfectly matched. “Sure, but don’t expect great observations. Mostly I just looked for dirty pictures hidden within the artwork. Did you know Monet put a boob in all his paintings? Apples and Grapes—get it? I mean, come on. The guy was a horn-dog.”