Claire was certain she’d made a terrible mistake. She could argue that asking Andor Hjalmarson for translation help had simply been a request rooted in the pursuit of professional efficiency.

A louder, more honest part of herself called bullshit on that.

And it was. While Andor’s fluency in Armenian certainly came in handy in helping her with some of her provenance research, it had been a far more convenient way for her to spend time with and get to know him without ever mentioning the dreaded, painfully awkward word “date.”

A good plan, but it didn’t take long for her to see the major flaw—Andor himself. Handsome, intelligent, well-read and charming without the arrogance and hubris that often came along with the positive traits, he seemed too good to be true. Claire entertained more than a few stray thoughts that she was meeting a serial killer for lunch or a man who harbored a secret, unnatural affection for livestock.

A week of lunch meetings every day blunted her paranoia but did a fine job of escalating the gossip among her co-workers. She shrugged off the sly glances and smiles that followed them anytime she and Andor met, whether for lunch, in a meeting or just passing in the halls. Once the rumor mill cranked up, it was hard to stop it. Trying to stop it just fueled the speculations, and she refused to feed that monster.

She succumbed to her own suspicious curiosity today. It was their fifth consecutive lunch meeting (she refused to call it a date), and Andor had driven her to a Vietnamese noodle house perched on the edge of downtown Houston that locals praised as having the best pho and banh mi sandwiches in the city. Andor placed their order in Vietnamese, surprising the woman behind the counter.

Unlike her, Claire no longer gaped at Andor. She had learned from their previous outings that he was fluent in several languages beyond Armenian. They placed their order, found seats at a table and settled into one of the easy conversations that had Claire trying not to check her phone or the clock on her PC every five seconds before lunch time.

At least that’s what happened before this lunch. This time, Claire strangled two napkins into mangled wads of paper under Andor’s curious gaze. “Can I ask you a question?”

His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Of course.” He sipped from his water glass.

“Have you ever killed anyone for fun or had an affair with a sheep?”

Andor sputtered and choked. His glass hit the table surface at the same time his knees knocked the underside in reflexive shock. The action rocketed the glass across the slick surface. Claire caught it in one hand, her quick reflexes the only things that saved her lap from an ice water dousing. She thrust one of the crumpled napkins at him. He snatched it and coughed into the crinkled folds until his eyes streamed tears and a flush reddened his face and neck. He motioned for his glass. She handed it back to him, wincing as he struggled for enough breath to sip the water and calm the cough. If he walked out right now and stranded her at the restaurant, she wouldn’t blame him.

Instead, he wiped his eyes and leveled a baffled look on her. “No to both questions,” he said between shallow gasps.

Claire didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the heat blooming on her face turned her as red as Andor. She didn’t know which was the worse blush—hers for mortification or his for near-asphyxiation of which she was the culprit.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “That came out wrong.”

“That came out odd.” Andor took a cautious swallow of water. “I don’t think I can imagine a way such a question might come out right.”

He had a point. Claire sighed and prayed her effort to dig her way out of this self-created awkwardness didn’t end up digging her deeper. “Gossip is flying left and right at work. Everything from us having wild monkey sex in one of the supply closets...” If her cheeks grew any hotter, she’d combust. “To you being a psychopath living the double life of a nice, handsome museum preparator while keeping your mom’s mummified corpse in your attic.”

Andor’s eyebrows had slowly ratcheted up his forehead during her recitation, accompanied by an ever-widening smile. By the time she finished, he wore a full grin. “And where does the sheep come in?”

“That’s just the icing on the cupcake.” No way would she admit to the sheep conjecture.

The server’s arrival with their food delayed his response. They spent the next few minutes in silence, Claire doctoring her pho, Andor taking bites of his sandwich.

“What do you think of the pho?” he asked her after she took a few sips and ate some of her noodles.

“Excellent.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “You have amazing radar for places that serve good food.” She didn’t flatter. While they took turns picking up the bill—at her insistence—he chose the restaurant, and he chose well every time. Greek dolmades in lemon sauce, grilled tuna steak sandwiches with wasabi mayonnaise, ropa vieja with white rice smothered in black beans accompanied by a side of sweet plantains. Andor knew where to eat well and not break the bank for the indulgence. Accustomed to a quick lunch of a sandwich from home or a bag of chips from one of the vending machines near her cube, Claire had eaten better this week than in the past year.

She twirled a bundle of noodles from her soup bowl onto her chopsticks. Andor paused in wolfing down the second half of his sandwich and wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Don’t tell me you pay attention to office gossip?”

Claire squeezed more sriracha sauce into her broth and stirred vigorously. “Not usually, but I’ve never been the center of it before, and it’s driving me crazy.” She looked up at him, her spoon halfway to her mouth, and paused.

A shaft of sunlight, partially guillotined by the aluminum blinds covering the windows, bathed the side of Andor’s face, casting his profile in high relief. His was an aesthetic visage, beautifully constructed but unyielding, as if he’d been created from marble instead of clay, his creator a sculptor instead of a potter. The only nod to softness in his features was his mouth, with an upper lip as wide and generous as his lower one. A mouth that smiled easily and often. Surely, whoever first wrote the definition for sensual kissing was inspired to do so after they kissed someone with a mouth like that.

“Such deep thoughts, Claire. What’s going on in there?”

She blushed and spooned soup into her mouth to keep from answering right away. “Sorry to startle you with my weird questions.”

Andor grinned. “To answer both, I’ve never killed anyone for fun, nor have I harbored an unhealthy fascination for anything remotely ovine.”

Claire waved her spoon at him. “That’s good. You don’t live in your mom’s basement and keep her mummified corpse in a rocking chair, do you?”

“No. I live in a garage apartment that I rent from a landlord named Sal Hopkins. He looks nothing like my mother, who, as far as I know, is alive and well. And while I’ve experimented in different professions, mummification hasn’t made it to the list yet.”

His levity faded. “If the gossip disturbs you that much, Claire, we don’t have to meet. I’m at the Carmichael temporarily. You work with these people long-term. I don’t want to cause you problems.”

The thought of no more outings with this lovely man soured the soup in her stomach. She put down her spoon. “Don’t be silly. Just because I’m not used to being the focus of gossip, doesn’t mean I’m going to let it dictate what I do. Besides, this is fun.” She gave him an uncertain look. “Are you enjoying it?”

Tiny flames kindled in Andor’s eyes. “Very much. I want to keep meeting, even if you have nothing for me to translate.”

She’d have to be thick as a brick not to read his not-so-professional interest. Dread and anticipation brewed a roiling potion inside her. It had been a long time since she even considered courting a man’s interest. She didn’t want to get her hopes up and have them shattered later, and she had her son to consider in every dating equation. In her experience, few men were willing to entertain more than a couple of dates or a one-night stand with a woman who parented a special needs child.

She liked Andor—a lot—but lunch was all she’d be willing to risk, no matter how tempting the company.

They finished their lunch with a much more mundane but enjoyable conversation between them. Claire waited by the door while Andor left the tip. His hand on her back as he guided her out of the restaurant sent a pleasurable wave of heat through her body.

On their way back to the museum, Andor turned down the radio and asked the one question Claire hoped he wouldn’t. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

She groaned inside, sick with disappointment. “I’m sorry. I must decline.”