“What kinda scientist?” I cock my head, too amused.
Her cheeks stain red. Have I ever seen her lose composure? God but I’d love to… “Um. A r-research scientist. You do research! In…a lab.”
“Research on what?”
“You tell me, smartass. Isn’t that what we’re doing here?” She folds her arms over her chest, drawing her perky tits closer together. I lick my lips, tearing my gaze away from those luscious, mouthwatering globes. “I’m interviewing you,” she admonishes me.
“You’re very good at your job, Ms. Max.” I lean back, smirking. “You’ve got bite.”
“Yeah. Tell that to my boss.” She rolls her eyes.
“Maybe I will.”
“What? No. Don’t talk to my boss.”
“Why not?”
“I dunno. Wouldn’t that seem weird?”
I half-shrug. “All right,” I concede. “You were asking?”
Kristin straightens her shoulders, and smiles at me, artfully. Now she’s back in work-mode, her element. I see we at least have that in common. “You mentioned being hopeful,” she probes. “Hopeful for what?”
“My team and I, like dozens of other research teams around the world, work day and night—’round the clock—examining potential cancer vaccines.”
“A vaccine for cancer?” I’m not sure that piqued Kristin The Woman’s interest, or Kristin The Reporter’s interest. Are they one and the same? “That’s amazing!”
“Not one vaccine for all cancers,” I clarify, just in case. “That’d be incredible, but unlikely. I’m an optimist not a Walter Mitty.” I pause, looking at her looking down at her notepad, scribbling. I notice a slight tan line where her wedding ring must’ve been. She’s divorced?
“There are some cancer prevention vaccines already,” I tell her. “These protect against viruses that often lead to cancer.”
She flicks her gaze up to my face without stopping scribbling. I could just stare at those crystal-blue eyes. Christ, she’s beautiful. Ten years have treated her well, at least physically. If there’s sadness or pain somewhere in her story, she hides it well.
“Do you face much opposition…in your line of work?” As lunch hour descends on the coffee shop, the background noise ratchets up. We both have to raise our voices to hear each other.
“Regardless anyone’s stance on current vaccines efficacy, most agree that while we’re doing this job, we need to focus and do it well. It’d be dangerous not to.”
“You seem confident.”
I clear my throat. I almost forget she’s interviewing me for work, the way she surveys me with those pretty eyes. “We can do it,” I lower my voice. “Just takes a lot of tedious trial and error. And time.”
“Would you say you’re quite patient?”
“Yes, Kristin.” If only she knew. “I’m a very patient man.”
She doesn’t write that down as she looks at me again. I watch her take a sip of her coffee cup before realizing it’s empty. She looks sidelong at the line for coffee and snacks that’s out the door.
“I know a place where there’s better coffee.”
Her eyes light up. “Yeah?”
“If you want to finish this interview now.”
“I do.” She smiles, ever demurely. “I know…you still have some questions for me.”
“Indeed.”
She packs up and stands from her chair—to the delight of a young couple waiting eagerly for a table to clear—then slings her purse over her shoulder. “So where’re we going?”
I take her hand, she lets me, and I clasp my fingers over hers. I tug her toward me.
I dip my head to her ear to whisper, “My place.”
Three
Kristin
I’m in the craziest headspace right now. Jonathan Wells isn’t just smoldering, he’s got a way about him that makes all my walls come down around me. My restraint feels about as fragile as glass. My rational brain—gone.
He’s not anything like I expected. I’m not sure what I expected. Definitely not a man who would have this kind of effect on me. Since my divorce, I’ve been utterly unaffected—by all men. Partly by choice. Partly, I dunno…self-preservation. Now here’s a man who’s got me saying I’ll answer his questions, who’s got me wet to my toes, following his luxury car back to his place in the middle of the weekday.
Regardless his effect on me, I need to repress my desire for him. Focus, Kris. My career, my twin girls. That’s why I’m here.
My question: what is his reason for bringing me here? Why’d he agree to the interview in the first place?
Why not?
Jonathan lives in a midcentury, custom-upgraded single-story home uptown. Unassuming façade; gorgeous interior. The metaphor seeps into my heart as if I’m supposed to know what it means.
“How do you take your coffee?” he asks me.
“Dark. Strong,” I answer. Just like you are.
He grins as if he read that last part as it shot through my mind. He toes out of his shoes at the front door, so I take off my heels. “Study’s that way.” He ticks his chin. “Make yourself at home.”
Home—I used to live in a beautiful house, too. Now my girls and I share a cramped two-bedroom apartment way outside of town. It’s not ideal, but we survive. One day I’d like to feel home again. The feeling of it starts to form again in my mind. Someplace like this. With a man who makes me feel like—
Oh, what’s the use.
“Thanks.” I smile.
Jonathan’s study isn’t like the rest of his house. It’s small, cluttered and messy, but not unclean. It smells like the older bones of his house, along with his woodsy cologne and I find myself closing my eyes to shut out all other sensations, and inhale deep. All cedar and cinnamon. When I open my eyes I look around at all his diplomas.
Bachelor of Science in Biology.
Master’s Degree in Public Health.
Ph.D.—how old is this guy, anyway? I could’ve sworn he was about my age. Thirty, tops.
My stomach whirls. He’s accomplished so much. If he wants anything to do with me, it isn’t for my wits. I married young. I worked hard to please my husband…and what do I have to show for it now?
I swallow the lump in my throat, trying not to dwell on that. If Jon needs a little physical relief after we’re done with our questions, what’s the harm? So what if his IQ is almost double my own.
Maybe I should’ve at least hesitated coming here. I may be a professional, but I’m also a woman. I have physical needs, too—and he’s inspiring every single one of them. Including my curiosity.
I hear the coffee percolating and the fresh, oily bean scent fills my nose. I breathe it in. It does smell amazing.
Jonathan hasn’t mentioned his children, I assumed he didn’t have any, but there are photos of them on a shelf in his study—too-thin boys and girls wearing smiles and headscarves. None of them look as if they’re siblings.
“Who are these kids?” I ask when I hear him step into the study from behind me, the coffee aroma bright and strong. I spin toward him.