As we spoke, I felt the tension ease from his muscles, and I noted that Alex’s omnipresent guarded and menacing aura began to melt away. Yes—he had donned his typical all black, this time paired with a silver wallet chain that hooked to his belt loop; the jagged scar on his chin was still sinister; his dark hair was still cut in a semi-mohawk that yelled subversive and yodeled dangerous.

But his eyes relaxed behind the horn-rimmed glasses, and the set of his jaw belied a reluctant smile rather than a grimace.

“He did not.”

“He did.”

“No. He wouldn’t have.”

“You know those French impressionists; all they did was fornicate, drink absinthe, and play dominoes.”

Alex’s smile finally broke free and he laughed. My stomach performed a quadruple cartwheel and wobbled on the dismount. Even though I’d only heard his laugh during our date weeks ago, I’d missed it.

His arm slipped around my shoulders and he kissed my forehead. My hand hugged his waist briefly; then, I thought better of the opportunity and slipped my fingers into the back pocket of his jeans over his well-sculpted bottom.

Score!

We continued in this way—being nauseatingly adorable—for the next four-ish hours. Periodically, he’d surprise me by demonstrating a thorough working knowledge of basically everything about the collections in the Institute as well as art history, art theory, and the lives of the artists. He’d parse facts, ration them, and pique my curiosity, which led to me question him further.

He turned out to be my tour guide.

Even more surprising was how he was able to share knowledge without coming across as a know-it-all blowhard—again with the stealth smarts. He astonished me.

But mostly we spoke of nothing of consequence. I insisted on phantom boobs where none existed, and Alex alternately argued with me, pinched me, or kissed me. Eventually I maneuvered to his left so that I could be sure to witness the dimple when it made an appearance.

It was the best ever.

The…best…ever.

At one point, I forgot that everything we were saying was probably being recorded. According to Alex, there was a very real possibility that lip reading experts would later be translating our conversation; coding experts might try to decrypt our real intent, look for a pattern, and decipher our conversation’s hidden meaning—even if it didn’t have one.

Instead, like the smitten idiot that I obviously was, I relished our time together after being apart for two weeks. I reveled in the silly. I rejoiced in our shared desire to forget—at least for a little while—that we were anything but normal.

***

Reality made an appearance during dinner.

Before leaving the gallery, we gathered my things and Alex’s pitiful windbreaker from the locker room. A conveyer belt sushi restaurant three blocks from my apartment was our plan for dinner. It was so cold outside that neither of us tried to speak as we walked. I did, however, insist that Alex wear my cowl.

“To add a splash of color,” I asserted.

Knit in a chunky grey yarn, the neck warmer was a unisex pattern. Thick Celtic cables wound around a Mobius design. Though it could have easily been a man’s cowl, I expected him to reject the idea. He surprised me. After Alex ascertained that I’d knit it, he accepted it without argument.

I was glad he did, because I felt better knowing he was warmer. That he wore and even admired something I’d created may also have contributed to my happiness feels.

We entered the restaurant with me tucked under his arm. Once inside, I gave the hostess my name. I couldn’t help but note how her gaze lingered both appreciatively and warily on Alex. I knew how she felt.

“Take off your gloves and hat.” Alex said as he unzipped me, his voice barely above a whisper. “Put them in the pockets of your coat.”

I did as instructed and relinquished my jacket to his care. He, in turn and as soon as we were shown our table, passed it to the hostess.

“Hey, I need you to hold this for us. Do you have a coat room?”

The girl gave him a shy smile, her lashes fluttered. “No coat room, but I can keep it safe for you.” She indicated to the large hostess stand at the front and presumably a shelf or cubby where my bulky jacket could be stored.

Alex nodded at her, mumbled the word good, then—as though dismissing her—turned back to me.

I surveyed him, wondered why he was so stingy with his thank yous, considered the possibility that he may never have been taught. But the girl quickly departed and his next words drove all Miss Manners’s lessons from my mind.

“I’ve never had sushi before.”

I allowed my expression to demonstrate the fact that I found his words to be suspect. “Never? How is that possible?”

“I don’t get out much.” He split his attention between me and an approaching plate of eel. “What is that?”

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh. “That is eel.”

“Eel?” He looked and sounded horrified, and he leaned away from the conveyor belt as it moved past.

“Yes. It’s actually sweet. You’ll like it.”

“I don’t think so. It looks disgusting.”

“Do you like honey?”

His eyes lifted to mine with a suddenness and intensity that made my insides flare, burn, and smolder.

“You know I do.”

Zing.

I liked the way his voice sounded at that moment maybe more than I liked oxygen.

“Then you’ll like eel.”

Alex studied me for a beat; his eyes narrowed and moved to my lips. “I’ll grab it the next time the plate comes around.”

I smiled. His gaze moved back to mine. He smiled. His gaze seemed to lose focus. He frowned.

Actually, he scowled.

It took me a full three seconds to realize he was no longer looking at me, but rather his glare was affixed to some point over my shoulder.

I pressed my foot against his leg to gain his attention then lifted my eyebrows in a silent question. Alex’s dark look lightened only slightly, his fury now tinged with regret. He buried his chin, mouth, and the tip of his nose into the fabric of my cowl.

“Agent Bell is here,” he mumbled into the thick knit, his voice barely an audible whisper.

I didn’t turn to confirm his statement. I did, however, recognize that her presence was akin to a castration cart at a slaughterhouse. Carefree Alex was likely gone for good as long as we stayed at the restaurant.

My mouth twisted to the side and I considered our predicament.

“Are you cold?” I said, because I had to say something. While I spoke, I pressed my finger to the condensation on my water glass. I furtively wrote on the wooden table with the liquid while saying, “The yarn is a blend of cashmere and merino wool.”

With my fingers, I wrote, My apartment? Then, once I was certain he’d read it, I wiped it away with my napkin.

“I actually knit it when I was in undergrad. The yarn cost so much I didn’t eat for a month after purchasing it.”

Alex, his lips still hidden, whispered, “No. It’s probably bugged by now.”

I wrote, So? No talking needed, as I leaned toward the conveyer belt and pretended to inspect a passing spicy tuna roll.

“I had to rely on the kindness of strangers. But it was completely worth starvation. Knitters are insane that way.” I continued the inane conversation while I set the tuna and the aforementioned eel on the table.

I detected plain irritation in his tone when he replied, “No.”

I wrote, YES! But all I said was, “Here is the eel. I promise you, you’ll like it.”

Alex pulled the cowl from the lower half of his face, eyes glaring, jaw ticking. I brought a piece of eel to my mouth and chewed. It was good, sweet.

Everything about him was the opposite of five minutes ago. He was somber. The menacing aura had returned. His eyes were shielded behind giant walls of ice.

This was extremely exasperating.

We would most likely encounter this type of situation with a great deal of frequency over the next few months. I refused to cower, or sulk, or feel irritated by Agent Bell’s presence. After all, she was only doing her job. No reason we should let it interfere with our happy fun times.

In retaliation for his frown, I licked my index finger, slowly…and with feeling.

“Mmm,” I moaned, glancing at him through my lashes, and I lowered the timbre of my voice until it reached sex-phone-operator sultry. “You know you want to.”

His eyes flashed and he swallowed; otherwise, my antics elicited no visible response. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“You need to eat sometime; may as well be now.”

“I don’t want to eat with an audience.”

“Alex, rodeos have clowns, and restaurants have audiences.”

“Then I guess I’ll starve.”

We stared at each other. His jaw flexed.

I broke the silence and said, “You starving means that we both starve.”

He flinched at that, and something behind his glare shifted. I ate another bite of eel then followed it with two slices of spicy tuna. Alex seemed to consider the double meaning behind my words. After a protracted moment, he pressed his fingers to the condensation of his water glass and wrote on the table.

Instead of filling the silence with chatter, he opted to sample the last piece of eel.