Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(12)

“Ah, here she is,” Eric says, looking a little panicked. Even his glasses and the pens in his pocket protector are trembling.

Mr. Hale turns and x-rays me, lingering a fraction too long on my collarbones, peeking from my boat-neck sweater. His eyes change subtly from sapphire to turquoise. Why do they do that?

He saunters my way. I try to calm my heartbeat lest everyone from here to London hears it.

“Hello again, Miss Snow.” His voice is tuned to Alaskan spring, rather than Arctic tundra. Brilliant.

“Good morning, Mr. Hale. This is a surprise.”

“Yes, it is,” he says cryptically, as if he is talking to himself rather than me.

“Did you have any other questions about my project?” It’s the only reason I can think as to why he would be here.

“Not as such, but I’d like to speak with you for a few moments. I understand from Mr. Lee that your schedule is flexible.”

“Sure. Let me just leave a note for Professor Denton and show Eric the timer.”

He gives me a nod and the first full smile I have seen on him. The innocent dimple lifts higher in his sculpted cheek, flirting with his scar. I feel warmth on my cheeks and dart to Denton’s office, careful not to trip. I scrawl Denton a Post-it Note with shaking hands, show Eric the timer and skip back to Mr. Hale, trying not to look impatient.

He opens the lab door and I walk through, sensing him behind me like a homing beacon. He asks where I want to go and suggests places that Javier and I admire from the windows because their coffee alone would deplete the eighty-seven dollars I have to my name.

“They all sound lovely but I need to be back soon. Eric is still learning how to use the bioreactor. Maybe Reed’s Paradox Café?”

“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.