Quinn’s eyes moved back to mine; he seemed to be attempting to gauge my reaction. He half smiled but it was tinged with bitterness. “How the first program worked was that when any attempt was made to access data in the absence of an RFID transmitter, a background script would run which wiped the hard drive clean rendering it inoperable. Later, as my customer base grew and for larger data systems, I built a degausser. I had to add on a battery backup, just in case the system was powered down. As you can imagine, the battery backup had a nasty habit of catching on fire.”

I cleared my throat and swallowed, wanting to add that the risk of fire could have been tempered by insulating and cooling the degauseer. Instead I asked, “Why do you think you were the reason your brother died?”

His mouth curved into a frown and he sighed, “Because one of the guys, one of your ‘bad guys’, who I worked for, shot my brother.”

I blinked, “I don’t- I don’t understand.”

“Months before Des- my brother- was killed, the police had a search warrant and took all of this guy’s computers, backups, everything. The program I built worked perfectly and the police came up empty. If I hadn’t put the program on his computer, if I hadn’t helped him keep his information safe from the police then he would have been in jail instead of-”

I closed my hand around his not wanting him to finish the sentence. It was a horrible story. I wanted to say that it wasn’t his fault but I felt like that statement would come across as pandering and patronizing.

Instead I said, “I understand why you blame yourself.”

He blinked at me then narrowed his gaze a fraction as though trying to see me better. This time both his eyes and his smile were sad, “Do you blame me?”

“I blame the bad guy who actually killed him, who pulled the trigger. In this situation you sound like a person who has recognized the error of his ways and made an attempt to change. If you recall, that is the difference between a good guy and a bad guy.”

He released a breath I didn’t know he was holding. His eyes were still sad but his troubled expression seemed to clear. He gazed at me with something that felt like wonder and said, his voice a quiet rumble, “I don’t think I’ll keep score with you.”

We fought over the bill when it came. By fought I mean: I insisted loudly on paying half and he responded with beleaguered silence.

Instead of discussing it or attempting to engage in my one-sided conversation, he wordlessly put his credit card in the holder; he kept it carefully out of my reach as I continued to list all the reasons we should split the check, not the least of which was that we’d agreed earlier that this was not a date, then handed it stealthily to the waiter as he passed. I was still oblivious, making my case, when Quinn signed the receipt.

“Wait- what are you doing?” I looked from him to the paper slip.

Silence. Scribble. Silence.

“Did you just sign that? Was that the check?” My voiced hitched, my eyes wide with pseudo-outrage.

He glanced up at me, something like mock innocence lighting his features, and said, “I’m sorry. Did you want to split that?”

I scowled at him but couldn’t hold onto my feeling of annoyance when he started to smile. I had memories attached to his smile now and all of them served to increase my warm-fuzzies. I was drunk on good wine, delicious food, and fantastic conversation.

We talked. We talked and we laughed and we had an amazing time. Conversation flowed like a beautiful waterfall, my senses were saturated. Food came and went. Wine was poured and appeared out of nowhere. Time passed and I had no recollection or consciousness of anyone but Quinn being in that restaurant. And, at some point, the butterflies in my stomach truly ceased being at all about Handsome McHotpants and started being all about Quinn Sullivan.

He told me stories about his family. He was the youngest and spent his youth raising hell. His sister, Shelly, was three years older and something of a reclusive free spirit who preferred to fix up classic cars and create welded metal sculptures than interact with society. His brother- Desmond, Des for short- was the oldest and very responsible.

My favorite story detailed how, at the ages of thirteen and sixteen, Quinn and Shelly welded the doors shut on twenty year-old Des’s car, all but the passenger side back seat. Des was forced to enter and exit the car via the back seat for two weeks and never told their parents. At some point Quinn’s father asked to use the car and Des tried to convince their dad that the doors had rusted shut rather than rat out his siblings.

He spoke with such affection for his brother, sister, and his parents it made me like Quinn even more. His eyes would glaze over with memory and he would begin to laugh before he reached the punch line of his story- which made me laugh, which made him laugh.

However, every so often, he would pause and a cloud of sadness or regret, I couldn’t decipher which, would darken his features. I found myself wanting to know the specific causes for each of those episodes. I also found myself wanting to be a source of support and comfort to him.

These were not thoughts to which I was accustomed and they would have been disconcerting if I’d spent any time allowing myself to debate them. Instead, I let the thoughts wash over me and I owned the sentiments, held them close.

And then there was the touching.

Oh. God. The. Touching.

He appeared to find any and every reason to touch me. It was maddeningly marvelous. From time to time he would lean close and whisper something in my ear; his cheek would brush against the smooth skin of my face and neck; my toes would curl in my shoes. During most of the meal his leg rested against mine. He touched my arm or my knee when I said something he thought was funny or interesting or just because I hadn’t tried the wine yet.

All of these simple touches seemed harmless, if not meaningless, on their own; nevertheless, the reaction they solicited from my stomach was akin to descending the steepest plunging drop of a rollercoaster.

Then, when we ate dessert, he absentmindedly licked whip cream off my finger; for several seconds afterward I forgot my name and place of birth.

My level of interest in Quinn, wanting to be with Quinn, wanting to touch and be touched by Quinn, wanting to prolong our conversation and, therefore, our time together took me by surprise. I thought about having to say goodnight at some point and it left me feeling sad, anxious, and mournful.

I did dwell on these feeling and they were unsettling. The strength of my preference, of wanting to be with Quinn rather than solitude, was a sensation I’d never experienced. In the past, I generally preferred solitude to company but recognized the importance of relationships and human contact.

When we finished dinner I felt uninhibited. Between the before dinner cocktail and the during dinner wine I felt a buzzing warmth of cozy comfortableness. I knew it was caused by that elusive, just the right amount of alcohol window, where you’ve had just a little too much in terms of pushing the limits of your inhibitions but not enough to make you feel ill or groggy.

He shifted his attention to his wallet; a small, secretive smile was still dancing over his lips as he put his credit card away. My glower dissolved and I indulged myself by staring at him, unabashedly. I really looked at him.

He wasn’t actually physically perfect but he came close. He had a scar cutting through the center of his right eyebrow; I made a mental note to ask him about the story behind that. One of his ears was slightly larger than the other and his nose bent, just a whisper, to the left. His hairline wasn’t even and his hair was too thick; it needed to be cut and thinned. His bottom teeth were slightly crooked but you didn’t notice or see them unless he really smiled, like a one-thousand watt smile.

I loved that, when I looked at him, I didn’t see the blinding McHotpants façade of perfection any more. I saw a frustratingly bossy, hilariously funny, irritatingly teasing, captivatingly intelligent, seriously sexy good guy.

“What’s that smile for?”

I blinked at him, shook my head just slightly to clear it, his voice pulling me from my musings. I realized that I’d been staring but, in my cozy comfortable uninhibited state, I didn’t feel particularly embarrassed. I responded, “I was just thinking about my first impressions of you and how you’re actually a real person.”

“As opposed to…?” He lifted his eyebrows.

“As opposed to a handsome robot.”

He dipped his chin and narrowed his eyes at me, “You think I’m handsome?”

“Come on. You know you’re handsome.” I rolled my eyes and poked him in his rib, behaving uncharacteristically touchy-feely.

“I’m just surprised that you do. When we went to Giavani’s I thought you were going to make me put a paper bag over my head.”

“What? Why? What are you talking about?” I sputtered, poking him again.

“When Viki asked if we were there together you-”

“That’s because she looked at me like I was the love child between Cerberus and a Cyclops when you said I was there with you.” I went to poke him a third time but he grabbed my wrist and laced his fingers through mine. Our hands settled on his knee.

He shrugged and glanced at our hands, frowning a little, “I suppose she was surprised.”

I asked my next question uncertain if I wanted an answer, “Because I’m not your type?”

*** Copyright: Novel12.Com