comfortable office at the expense of facing the questions you’re raising.”
I swallowed—loudly. “Where does that leave us?”
He dropped his hand and looked at me. “You heard what Lex said about you today?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve wanted to believe you were sent here to manipulate me. It fits in with all my beliefs about you—about the aliens. It makes everything much easier. But I’m watching you in this very personal, very committed struggle to understand your own existence, and it would be sheer arrogance to go on thinking it’s somehow all about me .”
Murphy had been paying attention. More than I’d ever imagined.
“What happened earlier,” I began, flushing again, “were you just fed up, or was it some kind of test?”
He laughed bleakly. “Possibly both. Or neither. I’m not sure I’m that sophisticated in my thinking when it comes to you.”
Our eyes locked as the thin smile faded from his face. My heart abandoned both fight and flight and just froze like a floodlit deer.
“So what do we do now?” I asked softly.
His gaze settled on the tabletop. He fidgeted with his empty cup. “Are you hungry?”
I raised my eyebrows, glancing at the darkened windows. We had opened a discussion that could change my life, could change his life—had the potential to change life on the planet. Yet we’d sat drinking tea. The world had kept spinning. The sun had gone down. And now he wanted to know if I was hungry.
“Well, yes.”
“I could make us dinner.”
I smiled. “Like every night.”
“We could eat it together.”
“Interesting idea. How would that work, exactly?”
A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he continued to stare into his cup. “Much like we’re doing now.”
“But with food.”
“Ah, you’re quick.”
“Top of my class.”
“So I understand.”
“All right, sounds like fun. Can I help you?”
Murphy sat up, resting his elbows on the table. “You tell me.”
I winced inwardly. No way he could have missed all those burnt toast scrapings in the sink. Or that sponge I’d shredded cleaning a scalded skillet.
“Are you the sort of man who takes a risk now and then?”
“Not generally. But people can change.”
“Maybe I should set the table.”
Murphy grinned. “Can’t be as bad as all that. Come on.”
* * *
“No, no—you’ll cut your fingers off, love. Let me show you.”
Love? I knew it was an Irish thing, but his hand grazed mine as he said it, and my stomach flipped like a pancake.
I surrendered the knife and he deftly halved the onion, then pressed one half onto its flat side. He curved his fingers in and let the knife fly, and seconds later the thing was neatly diced into a million translucent pieces. He scraped them into a skillet coated with hot oil, where they began to sizzle. He shoved the pan forward, giving it a quick jerk, and all the pieces flew up a couple inches before landing right back in the oil.
Murphy pushed the cutting board, with the remaining half of the onion, toward me. “You try.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m supposed to follow that?”
He handed me the knife. “You can go slower.”
I struggled under his gaze, feeling very much like I was back in school, compiling lab data with a professor looking over my shoulder. I was making decent progress (I thought), though with painfully less uniform results, when the knife slipped and nicked the index finger of the same hand I had injured wielding the tea mug.
With a sympathetic groan, he took the knife from me and handed me a dishtowel for my finger. “How bad?”
I stuck the wounded finger in my mouth. “I’ve had much worse.”
“Hmm,” he murmured. I was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh.
Murphy made quick work of the remaining bits, including repairing my ragged efforts, and tossed them into the skillet. “Want to do the pasta?”
I scowled at him. “You’re bumping me down to the remedial class.”
“Not at all. You can boil
I swallowed—loudly. “Where does that leave us?”
He dropped his hand and looked at me. “You heard what Lex said about you today?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve wanted to believe you were sent here to manipulate me. It fits in with all my beliefs about you—about the aliens. It makes everything much easier. But I’m watching you in this very personal, very committed struggle to understand your own existence, and it would be sheer arrogance to go on thinking it’s somehow all about me .”
Murphy had been paying attention. More than I’d ever imagined.
“What happened earlier,” I began, flushing again, “were you just fed up, or was it some kind of test?”
He laughed bleakly. “Possibly both. Or neither. I’m not sure I’m that sophisticated in my thinking when it comes to you.”
Our eyes locked as the thin smile faded from his face. My heart abandoned both fight and flight and just froze like a floodlit deer.
“So what do we do now?” I asked softly.
His gaze settled on the tabletop. He fidgeted with his empty cup. “Are you hungry?”
I raised my eyebrows, glancing at the darkened windows. We had opened a discussion that could change my life, could change his life—had the potential to change life on the planet. Yet we’d sat drinking tea. The world had kept spinning. The sun had gone down. And now he wanted to know if I was hungry.
“Well, yes.”
“I could make us dinner.”
I smiled. “Like every night.”
“We could eat it together.”
“Interesting idea. How would that work, exactly?”
A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he continued to stare into his cup. “Much like we’re doing now.”
“But with food.”
“Ah, you’re quick.”
“Top of my class.”
“So I understand.”
“All right, sounds like fun. Can I help you?”
Murphy sat up, resting his elbows on the table. “You tell me.”
I winced inwardly. No way he could have missed all those burnt toast scrapings in the sink. Or that sponge I’d shredded cleaning a scalded skillet.
“Are you the sort of man who takes a risk now and then?”
“Not generally. But people can change.”
“Maybe I should set the table.”
Murphy grinned. “Can’t be as bad as all that. Come on.”
* * *
“No, no—you’ll cut your fingers off, love. Let me show you.”
Love? I knew it was an Irish thing, but his hand grazed mine as he said it, and my stomach flipped like a pancake.
I surrendered the knife and he deftly halved the onion, then pressed one half onto its flat side. He curved his fingers in and let the knife fly, and seconds later the thing was neatly diced into a million translucent pieces. He scraped them into a skillet coated with hot oil, where they began to sizzle. He shoved the pan forward, giving it a quick jerk, and all the pieces flew up a couple inches before landing right back in the oil.
Murphy pushed the cutting board, with the remaining half of the onion, toward me. “You try.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m supposed to follow that?”
He handed me the knife. “You can go slower.”
I struggled under his gaze, feeling very much like I was back in school, compiling lab data with a professor looking over my shoulder. I was making decent progress (I thought), though with painfully less uniform results, when the knife slipped and nicked the index finger of the same hand I had injured wielding the tea mug.
With a sympathetic groan, he took the knife from me and handed me a dishtowel for my finger. “How bad?”
I stuck the wounded finger in my mouth. “I’ve had much worse.”
“Hmm,” he murmured. I was pretty sure he was trying not to laugh.
Murphy made quick work of the remaining bits, including repairing my ragged efforts, and tossed them into the skillet. “Want to do the pasta?”
I scowled at him. “You’re bumping me down to the remedial class.”
“Not at all. You can boil
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