“Sure. Although if a reactor is about to go off, Tour Eiffel may be safer.” He smiles. I try to calm my ridiculous pulse at the realization that he has a sense of humor. I smile back, searching my brain for something witty to say. But the only things that come to mind are geeky scientist jokes. A virus and a chromosome walk into a bar—no, I better keep my mouth shut.
We walk to Paradox mostly in silence. Some distance away, his bodyguard follows us discreetly even though the campus is almost empty now that school is over. Mr. Hale makes small talk about my finals, but I have the feeling he is only warming up or perhaps studying my reactions. Like they do with polygraph tests, ask you simple questions first, and then drop the bombs.
The moment we enter Paradox, Mr. Hale scans the room, much like he did yesterday. He probably runs into people he knows all the time. Except his high-alert posture seems too vigilant for expecting an acquaintance. It’s more like he expects a threat. Probably women tackling him to the floor.
We sit at a small table in the corner, with a half-finished chess game and squashy orange-velvet chairs. Only Aiden Hale could look the way he does against orange. The rest of us probably look like prison inmates. I glance at the chessboard to distract myself from his mouth, which he is currently caressing with his thumb.
“Do you play?” he asks.
“I used to. Not anymore though.” I rely on years of practice to conceal the sadness in my voice. Chess was something I did with my father.
“Why not?” I notice real interest in his eyes. No matter how disarming that interest is, I cannot indulge it.
“It’s a long story. What did you want to discuss, Mr. Hale?” I’m not in a rush with him, but I don’t want the giddiness I feel in his presence to fade at my memories.
“I have time,” he says, searching my face. I beg him with my eyes to drop it as I did during my presentation. He nods but his jaw flexes and his eyes harden. Ah yes, he doesn’t like my secrecy. We are interrupted by Paradox’s waitress, Megan, who ogles my Mr. Hale shamelessly for thirty seconds before snapping to her senses at the rather harsh clearing of his throat. After some blushing and stammering—much like yours truly—Megan comes back to earth.
“Hi! My name is Megan. What can I get you folks?”
Mr. Hale looks really annoyed. Whether it’s her ogling or stammering, or the fact that she addressed him as “folks”, I have no idea. Suddenly, it dawns on me that it must be quite exhausting to have women gawking all the time like he is an exotic beast at a zoo. I can’t fault him. But I can’t stop my own ogling either. I realize belatedly that he is waiting for me to order.
“A hot chocolate, please.”
Megan smiles. She knows my chocolate dependency and has enabled it gladly for the last four years.
“And for you, sir?”
“An espresso doppio and a Pellegrino, no ice, no lemon,” he reels off quickly. Megan almost breaks her sparkly pen, trying to write it all down. She stumbles away, tripping once. Tripping seems to be an environmental hazard of being around Mr. Hale.
“Something amusing?” he asks me. It must have shown on my face.
“I was just contemplating selling you some of my secret-formula skunk spray so you can repel all your admirers.”
He chuckles and the dimple puckers in his carved cheek. It’s such a simple gesture but the effect on me is out of proportion. Almost like an instant addiction, this idea of making him laugh.
“And what is the going rate for this defensive weapon?” he asks.
“One million dollars.”
“Of course it is.” He chuckles again. The throaty sound is so beautiful that oddly, it fills me with a sense of loss. I look away from his face, unwilling to examine my reaction too closely.
Megan brings out our order then. Her hands shake a little when she sets the espresso before Mr. Hale. She leaves, this time looking carefully at her steps. Good idea.
“So, what did you want to discuss, Mr. Hale?” I ask the question that is buzzing in my brain to prevent myself from tripping while sitting down.
His smile vanishes as he sips his espresso. He sets down his cup and looks at me with probing intensity. “Are you the woman in my paintings?”
Bollocks! The question settles in front of me like a coiled beast. Blood rushes to my feet and my stomach twists. My mouth parts to let in some air. I notice with horror that he has seen all my reactions, which must be confirmation enough. I have to get it together. No matter my flights of fancy, what Javier and I are doing is illegal. I’m a goner already, but Javier could get deported. I have to help him, even if it takes me down.
“Why would you think that?” I try to keep my voice as composed as possible but don’t do a great job of it.
“I’m a man of means, Miss Snow.”