“You’re missing your friend.”
“All right, Hannah, how’d you do that?” She probably should have been annoyed, but dammit, the kid was impressive. Ava wasn’t too proud to learn new tricks. “I could have been thinking about anything. Pizza. Climate change. How I’m ordering the tiramisu just to gross out your uncle.” Also your uncle’s mouth, which is goddamned sinful.
“Incorrigible,” Tom commented, smiling.
“You were smiling and happy until you talked about only wanting to be one thing. Then you looked down and went very quiet, and you snuck peeks at Uncle Tom, who’s helping you catch the killer. So the only thing would be flying—were you going to fly together?”
“Something like that.”
“Hannah,” Tom began, but Ava reached out and touched his wrist.
“It’s fine. Yes, I was thinking of her. Yes, I still miss her.”
“That’s okay. I’m not laughing at you,” she said, sounding solemn for her years. “I miss my mother. I think about her sometimes. A lot, today. She would have thought the MAGE conference was hilarious. Right, Grandpa?”
“That’s just right, hon.”
“She would have teased my uncle because I’m more like him than I’m like her. And the oatmeal bottles.”
“I’m sure she would have—what?”
“When I was a baby, Mom would make the holes in the nipples of my bottles a little bigger and put oatmeal and pureed fruit in with my formula.”
“Helped her sleep all night,” Abe added.
“Peach was my favorite.”
“You remember being bottle-fed?”
“Yes. It wasn’t boring, though,” she added, as if she thought Ava was going to accuse her of being a lazy baby who contributed nothing to society while she sucked down bottles stuffed with oatmeal. “If I tried it now, I’d be tremendously bored. But back then, I didn’t mind just being there. That’s what I remember best. Just being there. And the taste.”
“Remarkable. You’re remarkable. That’s—wow.” Ava shook her head. Outclassed, outgunned, outsmarted by a kid younger than my favorite bra. “My first memory is getting my hands on a tube of cookie dough, gobbling it down in front of the fridge, then throwing up, also in front of the fridge.”
“Eeee-yuck!” Hannah giggled. “But I didn’t say it was my first memory. Just that I remember my bottle phase.”
“Holy sh … shawarma.”
“I know the word ‘shit,’ you guys.”
“That’s enough,” Abe said mildly.
“It’s just, I’m not sure why you’re doing that. I know profanity is socially unacceptable in children, especially in public places. Which is why I don’t swear. But whether you say ‘shit’ or ‘shawarma’ doesn’t change that knowledge, or even reinforce it.”
“Hannah, what have we said?”
A put-upon sigh, followed by, “That when I’m running the world, I get to make the rules. But for now, you and Uncle Tom are the bosses of me.”
“Right. So that gives us at least ten years where we’re the boss.”
“Five,” Ava said. “Tops.” And at Hannah’s delighted beam, she thought, Wow, she smiles just like Tom! Which was good, because it was one of the last pleasant evenings she was going to have for a good while.
Hindsight: always a bitch.
Thirty-Seven
“Just a heads-up, I’m not going to bang you tonight.”
“I’ll update my schedule accordingly.”
“I know there’s a stereotype about pilots having a girl and/or guy in every port, but I’ve never had girls in any port, and only seven guys. Wait … six. And I haven’t seen two of them in over a year.”
“You cannot scare me off with your sex statistics.”
“Who’s trying to scare you off? Also, I’ve just decided that Sex Statistics is going to be the title of my autobiography.”
He laughed, then gasped as his hip banged into the side of the check-in desk and he almost went sprawling. She had to plant her feet to keep him from dragging her down as well.
“Luckily for you, I’ve decided your rampant klutziness is endearing.”
“I have several things to keep track of,” he said with faux haughtiness. “Where parts of my body are in relation to random large objects is not high on my list.”
“I like that you’re embracing it, too.”
He had insisted on walking her home, which in this case meant walking her to the nearest T station and taking the Blue Line to Airport Station, then walking her to her hotel.
“I don’t have anyone in any port,” he confided as they stepped into the elevator. “I trust that isn’t a mark against me.”
“Nope. Just the opposite.” Argh, cards! Was no one allowed to use an elevator without jamming a card somewhere? And it couldn’t be a random credit card. (She’d tried.) Had to be the room’s key card. Not to pull a Pretty Woman (for any number of reasons), but she liked keys better.
Once they were off the elevator, she fumbled for five or six hundred hours until the thing was plucked from her fingers by more nimble fingers (nimbler fingers?), inserted, green light, click, in. “Show-off.”
“Mmmm … no. This is not a rare skill set.”
“Speaking of skill sets, you’re a first-rate kisser.”
“Where am I on your list of six? That’s rhetorical,” he added, as if worried she had a ranking system and was about to show him graphs she’d made to chart his abilities or the lack thereof.
“Right now, you’re number one on a list of one: people I really, really need to kiss right now.” The door swung closed behind him and he was on her at once, his mouth slanting over hers, his left hand gently cupping the back of her neck. His right arm went firmly around her waist as he pressed her against him, and he shivered a little when her tongue gently sought his. This went on for five seconds. Or years. Who cared? What, she was a referee who had to keep an eye on the clock?
He sighed, pulled back, went in for another kiss, this one more chaste, then pulled back again, his dark eyes filling her world for those few seconds. “When can I see you again?”
“In what capacity? Are we talking about more murder research? Because I’m okay with that. But if we’re talking about … what? A one-night stand? A series of one-night stands? Dating? Friends with benefits? I know I blew you off the night we met, but a lot’s happened since then and…” He’d leaned in again and was nuzzling her neck, which made everything (heh) harder. “Erm. What were we talking about?”
“Whether I would see you in your self-appointed capacity as my murder clerk—”
“Oh my God. Never refer to me like that again. It’s co–murder clerk or nothing.”
“—or my self-appointed bodyguard, or in the profoundly to-be-hoped-for capacity of a couple exploring social interactions to hopefully embark on a relationship.” He’d been gently backing her into the room until she could feel the bed just behind her. “It’s both, I hope. But if I had to choose one, I would choose the latter.”