Love on the Brain(64)

My phone rings. I groan in frustration and relief and scramble to pick up. “Hello?”

“Bee, this is Boris Covington.” Huh? “Are you and Levi back?”

I glance at Google Maps. “We’re about ten minutes out.”

“Could you both come to the Discovery Building as soon as you get in?”

“Sure.” I frown, switching to speakerphone. “Does this have to do with BLINK?”

“No. Well, yes. But only indirectly.” Boris sounds tired and almost . . . embarrassed? Levi and I exchange a long glance.

“What’s this about?”

Boris sighs. “It’s about Ms. Jackson and Ms. Cortoreal. Please, come in as soon as you can.”

Levi presses on the gas pedal.



* * *



? ? ?

I LOOK AROUND Boris’s office and blink at least four times before asking, “What do you mean, ‘sexual intercourse is forbidden in work areas’?”

Boris’s skin’s even redder than usual, and he retreats farther into his desk. “Exactly what I said. It’s—”

“Bee’s not my mother and I’m not a minor,” Rocío proclaims from one of the guest chairs. “This conversation is a HIPAA violation.”

Boris pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s clearly been at this for a while. “HIPAA rules apply to medical records, not to you being caught having sex in your office. Which, just like every other space in the building, is video-surveilled twenty-four-seven because of the high-security projects it houses. Now, no need to worry about that, Guy is a security admin and has agreed to delete all footage. But Bee is your direct supervisor, just like Levi is Ms. Jackson’s, and because of the disciplinary actions required when NASA employees engage in activities such as . . . intercourse in work spaces, they need to be informed.”

I glance at Levi. His face is a blank void. I’m positive that inside he’s rolling with laughter like a pork in mud. Positive.

“Sorry.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Just to be clear, you two were having intercourse with . . .”

“With each other,” Rocío tells me proudly.

I nod. Next to Rocío, Kaylee appears enraptured by her own pink nail polish. She hasn’t looked up since we came in.

“Um . . .” I have no idea what to say. Zero. Nada. Maybe Dr. Curie left behind helpful tips to handle similar situations? If only her notes weren’t too radioactive to be touched before the year 3500. Maybe I can go to the Bibliothèque Nationale with a hazmat suit and—

“I won’t write up a complaint,” Boris says, “and I trust Bee and Levi will take care of . . .” He gestures vaguely at two of the smartest women I’ve ever met, who must be going through a spell of nymphomania. “But I beg you on my knees. Don’t do anything similar ever again.”

“Thank you, Boris,” I say, hoping I sound as grateful as I feel.

The walk to the outside of the building is deadly silent—until we form a circle and stare at one another with varying levels of hostility (Rocío), mortification (Kaylee), and poorly hidden amusement (Levi). I hope I look neutral. I probably don’t.

“So . . . that happened,” I start.

Rocío nods. “Sure did.”

“How did Boris even . . . find you?”

“Guy came into our office looking for something, found us on your desk, ratted us out.”

“On my—why did you have to do it on my—” I stop. Take a deep breath. “To be clear.” I look between them. “This was . . . consensual?”

“Very,” they answer in unison, locking eyes and smiling like idiots.

I clear my throat. “Is there anything you’d like to add?” I ask Levi, meaning please help, but he shakes his head, biting his lip to avoid smiling. He fails.

“Okay. Well. It’s none of our business what you guys do.”

“For the first time in my life I agree with you,” Rocío says.

“Really? For the first time?” She nods. Ungrateful little gremlin. “If you’re happy about this, so are we. But please, don’t, um, have intercourse in front of cameras. Unless you’re making a sex tape,” I rush to add, “in which case just . . . don’t do it in public places?”

Kaylee nods silently, looking a smidge less mortified. Rocío rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” She takes Kaylee’s hand and drags her away. “You’re not my real mother, Bee!” she yells without turning around.

Levi and I watch them walk away in the late afternoon sunlight. When they’re just little dots on the street, he tells me, “That was excellent practice for when we’ll have teenage daughters.”

My heart skips. He doesn’t mean together, idiot. “They’re young. Their frontal lobes are not fully developed yet.”

He takes the car keys out of his pocket and dangles them in front of my face. “Want to process the trauma of our twenty-three-year-olds role-playing on top of your Marie Curie mouse pad while I take you home?”

“They better be going to Kaylee’s place.”

“Why?”

“The walls between my apartment and Rocío’s are very thin.”

“You should invest in noise-canceling headphones.” He tugs me toward the car. “Order online while I drive.”