“You—you’ve just moved in. Just hung clothes in the closet.”
“Noticed that, did you?”
“Yes. We’ve known each other less than three months.” She got out a casserole—and busy, busy, busy—scooped and poured the coated potatoes into it. “We have a very difficult situation to address. If you feel strongly about the subject, and continue to feel strongly, I’d be willing to discuss our views on the matter at some more rational time.”
“Delay is an excuse.”
She slammed the casserole into the oven, whirled on him. “You think it’s clever to throw my own words back at me.”
“I think it’s apt.”
“And why do you make me lose my temper? I don’t like to lose my temper. Why don’t you lose yours?”
“I don’t mind getting pissed.” He shrugged, picked up his lemonade again. “I’m not right at the moment. I’m more interested in the way you’re twisting yourself into knots because I love you and I want to marry you.”
“I’m not twisting myself into knots. I’ve very clearly given you my opinion on marriage, and—”
“No, you very clearly gave me your mother’s opinion.”
Very carefully, she picked up a cloth towel, wiped her hands. “That was uncalled for.”
“I don’t think so, and it wasn’t said to hurt you. You’re giving me cold logic and statistics. That’s your mother’s way.”
“I’m a scientist.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re also a giving, caring woman. One who wants moonlight and wildflowers. Tell me what that part of you wants, what that part of you feels, not what your mother pushed into your head as long as she could.”
“How can this be so easy for you?”
“Because you’re the one. Because I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you. I want a lifetime with you, Abigail. I want a home with you, family with you. I want to make children with you, raise them with you. If you truly don’t want any of that with me, I’ll give you the best I’ve got, and hope you change your mind. I just need you to tell me you don’t want it.”
“I do want it! But I …”
“But?”
“I don’t know! How can anyone think when they feel so much?”
“You can. You’ve got that big brain to go along with that big heart. Marry me, Abigail.”
He was right, of course. She could think. She could think of what her life had been like without him, and what it would be if she shoved those feelings down and relied only on the flat chill of logic.
“I couldn’t put my real name on a marriage license.”
He cocked his brows. “Well, in that case, forget it.”
The laugh rushed out of her. “I don’t want to forget it. I want to say yes.”
“So say yes.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, felt dizzy with delight. “Yes,” and threw her arms around him.
“This is right,” he murmured, turned his lips to her damp cheek. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.” He drew her back to kiss her lips, her other cheek. “My mother says that women cry when they’re happy because they’re so filled with the feeling they want to let it out, share it. And teardrops spread that happiness.”
“It feels true. I hope the potatoes turn out well.”
On a laugh, he dropped his brow to hers. “You’re thinking about the potatoes? Now?”
“Because you asked me to marry you when I was creating the recipe. If it comes out well, it’ll be a very special one. We’ll pass the story to our children.”
“If they suck, we can still pass the story on.”
“But we won’t enjoy the potatoes.”
“Jesus, I really love you.” He squeezed her until she gasped.
“I never believed I would have this, any of this, and now I have so much. We’re going to make a life together, and create a family. We’re mates.” She stepped back, gripped his hands. “And more. We’re going to merge our lives. It’s amazing that people do. They remain individuals, with their own makeup, and still they become and function as a single unit. Yours, mine, but also, and most powerfully, ours.”
“It’s a good word, ‘ours.’ Let’s use it a lot.”
“I should go out and pick our lettuce for our salad so we can have our dinner.”
“We’s another good word. We’ll go out.”
“I like that better.” She started to turn for the door, went still as her thoughts aligned. “Mated. Merged.”
“If you want to mate and merge again, better turn down those potatoes.”
“Not piggybacked, not layered or attached. Integrated. Merged. Separate makeups—individual codes—but merged into one entity.”
“I don’t think you’re talking about us anymore.”
“It’s the answer. A blended threat, yes, I’d tried that, but it has to be more—different than combining. It has to be mated. Why didn’t I think of it before? I can do this. I believe I can do this. I need to try something.”
“Have at it. I can handle dinner. Except I don’t know when to take those potatoes out.”
“Oh.” She looked at the clock, calculated. “Mix and turn them in another fifteen minutes. They should be done thirty minutes after that.”
Within an hour she’d recalculated, rewritten codes, restructured the algorithm. She ran preliminary tests, noted the areas she’d need to adjust or enhance.
When she pulled her mind out of the work, she had no idea where Brooks and Bert were, but saw Brooks had left the oven on warm.
She found them both on the back porch, Brooks with a book, Bert with a rawhide.
“I’ve made you wait for dinner.”
“Just gotta throw the steaks on. How’d it go?”
“It needs work, and it’s far from perfect. Even when I complete it, I’ll need to Romulanize it.”
“Do what to it?”
“Oh, it’s a term I use in my programming language. The Romulans are a fictional alien race. From Star Trek. I enjoy Star Trek.”
“Every nerd does.”
The way he used the word “nerd” struck like an endearment, and never failed to make her smile. “I don’t know if that’s true, but I do. The Romulans had a cloaking device, one that made their starship invisible.”
“So you need to make your virus thing invisible. Romulanize it.”
“Yes. Disguising it as benign—like a Trojan horse, for instance—is an option, but cloaked is better. And it’s the right way. It’s going to work.”
“Then we have a lot to celebrate.”
They had sunset, and what Abigail thought of as their engagement dinner.
At moonrise, the phone in Brooks’s pocket rang. “That’s the captain.”
Abigail put her hands in her lap, linked her fingers, squeezed them. She made herself breathe slowly as she listened to Brooks’s end of the conversation and interpreted what Anson told him.
“He made contact,” she said, when Brooks ended the call.
“He did. She was skeptical, suspicious. I’d think less of her if she hadn’t been. She checked his credentials, asked a lot of questions. Grilled him, basically. She knows your case. I expect every agent and marshal in Chicago does. He can’t swear she believed he didn’t know where you are, but there’s not a lot she can do about that, as there’s no connection or communication between you.”
“But they’ll need me to come in. They’ll want to interview me, interview Elizabeth Fitch, in person.”
“You’re in control of that.” His eyes on hers, he laid a hand over her tensed ones. “You go when you’re ready. They talked over two hours, and agreed to meet tomorrow. We’ll know more then.”
“She’s contacted her superior by now.”
“Ten minutes after Anson left, she came out, got in her car. Again, he can’t swear she didn’t make the tail, but he followed her to the assistant director’s house. Anson called to let us know right after she went inside. He’s on the move. Didn’t figure it’d be smart to sit on the house.”
“They know I’m still alive now. They know I’m tvoi drug.”
“Both of those things are in your favor from their point of view.”
“Logically.” She breathed deep. “There’s no turning back now.”