“Why aren’t you going home for Thanksgiving?” I managed not to add, like a normal person. “Don’t you want to see your parents?”

Paul’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “Not particularly.”

“Oh.” If only I could have grabbed those words back, but I couldn’t. Very quietly I added, “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” After another moment of uneasy silence between us, he added, “My father—he’s not a good person. My mother doesn’t stand up to him. They don’t understand the life I’ve chosen to lead. They’re glad I have scholarships, so I don’t cost them any more money. There’s not much else to tell.”

Which was obviously a big fat lie—how is there not more to tell about that story?—but I wasn’t going to compound my rudeness by prying. I’d just have to wonder what kind of loser parents would have a problem with their son being a brilliant physicist. Or how much might lie behind the phrase “not a good person.”

I tried to figure out how to move the conversation on to a new subject. “So, um, what music is this?”

“Rachmaninoff. The 18th Variation of a Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini.” His gray eyes glanced toward me warily. “Not very current, I realize.”

“Theo’s the one who teases you about your classical music, not me.” Since Theo wasn’t around, I finally admitted, “I like it, actually. Classical music.”

“You do?”

“I’m not an expert on composers or anything like that. But I learned a little through my piano lessons,” I hastened to add. “Just—when I hear it, I think it’s pretty.” The Rachmaninoff was sort of amazing, actually, piano notes tumbling over and over in endless crescendos.

“You always apologize for things you don’t know.” Paul didn’t even look up from the bowl where he was stirring together mozzarella and cottage cheese. “You should stop.”

Stung, I shot back, “Excuse me for not being born already knowing everything.”

He stopped, took a deep breath, and looked up at me. “I meant that you shouldn’t feel ashamed of not knowing a subject. We can’t begin to learn until we admit how much we don’t know. It’s all right that you’re not familiar with classical music. I’m not familiar with the music you listen to, like Adele and the Machine.”

“It’s Florence and the Machine. Adele is a solo performer.” I gave him a sly glance. “But you knew that, didn’t you? You just wanted to make me feel better.”

“. . . okay,” Paul said, and I realized he’d gotten it wrong for real.

Before I could tease him about that, he frowned down at his pan of lasagna like it was a science experiment gone wrong. The noodles he’d layered at the bottom of the dish were curling up, as though trying to escape.

“You bought the no-cook pasta, didn’t you?” I said, jumping down from the counter. “It does that sometimes.”

“I thought it would be faster!”

“You can put the other noodles in there without cooking them anyway—oh, hang on.” I grabbed one of the aprons from its hook and quickly tied it on. “I’ll help.”

For the next several minutes, we worked side by side: Paul layering in cheese and noodles and sauce, me using wooden spoons to try and hold the curly noodles down flat until we got stuff layered on top of them. Steam frizzed my hair, and Paul swore in Russian, and we both laughed ourselves silly. Before that night, I hadn’t known Paul could laugh that much.

Just as we were getting done, we needed to cover the pan for baking, and we both reached for the tinfoil at the same moment. Our hands touched, only for a second. No big deal.

I’d been with him virtually every day for more than a year, but in that instant, I saw Paul as someone new. It was as though I’d never understood the clarity of his eyes, or the strong lines of his face. As though his body had instantly stopped being large and ungainly and become strong. Masculine.

Attractive.

No. Hot.

And what was he seeing when he looked at me? Whatever it was, it made him part his lips slightly, as if in surprise.

We glanced away from each other right away. Paul tore off the tinfoil, and once the lasagna was in the oven to bake, he said he had some equations he needed to work on. I went to my room to paint, which actually meant me staring down at my tubes of oils for several minutes as I tried to catch my breath.

What just happened? What does it mean? Does it mean anything?

Ever since my father’s death, I’ve wished I could take back that moment with Paul. But I can’t.

Paul Markov is dangerous. He killed your father. You know this. If you can’t hate him for that, what kind of weakling are you? Don’t waste another chance. The next time you see him, you don’t hesitate. You don’t think about cooking lasagna together, or listening to Rachmaninoff.

You act.

We manage to follow Paul out of the Tube station without him seeing us.

“That reaction you saw?” Theo mutters. “Probably a reminder. He’ll know us now. Stay behind him.”

Theo’s instinct was right; Paul is headed to the tech conference where Wyatt Conley is going to appear. For an event dedicated to the latest in cutting-edge technology, it’s held in an odd venue—a building that has to be a hundred years old, all Edwardian cornices and frills. The people filing in are an odd mix, too: some are sleek professionals in suits the color of gunmetal or ink, talking to multiple holographic screens in front of them the entire time they walk up the steps, while others look like college freshmen who just got out of bed but have even more tech gear on them than the CEO types.