12. Human Genetics
HUMAN GENETICS
*Samantha*
I choked, actually choked, on the nothing I was breathing and stared at him with shocked, wide eyes. “I’m sorry, what?”
Andreas simply looked at me, unblinking, totally serious. “We are having dinner at Maison Lavande. It is a favorite spot of my family’s, and they will expect something significant to occur.”
“But—but why so fast? Couldn’t we?—”
“My brothers will imminently know about the addendum to my father’s will. It is possible they already know. If I wait, it will look suspicious. If we hurry, it will seem real.”
“Then can’t we just say we’re engaged?”
“I added a public engagement to the list as my final condition.” He gestured to the folded paper on my lap. “The more public the proposal, the more difficult it will be for anyone to question it later.”
My brain fought to find fault in his statements. Unfortunately, all his points were good ones.
But discomfort also meant I felt compelled to tell a joke. “Okay, I agree, but only if there’s an obscenely ostentatious ring involved.”
“Yes, I have it here”—he patted his side pocket, clearly not comprehending my attempt at humor—“but you do not have to wear it unless you wish to. The size of the spectacle tonight will be in accordance with your comfort level.”
I couldn’t seem to form words as I watched Andreas reach into his pocket and produce a small, navy blue velvet box. He set it on the seat between us.
I stared at it, then at him, then back at the box. “Uh, well. I guess . . .” I scratched my neck. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
His eyes narrowed, but he sounded infinitely patient as he spoke.
“What level of PDA, and spectacle, are you comfortable with tonight? I have reserved the entire restaurant. Flowers, a cake, champagne, candles, rose petals, and musicians are planned. The waitstaff will be our witnesses and our table is near a window. If Tobias has sent someone to photograph us, they will have a clear view. But scaling back the spectacle will be easy, everything except the flowers. Those have already been delivered and placed.”
“But ... are you absolutely sure a public proposal is necessary?” I croaked.
“It is necessary.” He nodded at this statement. “Tobias will have someone there to observe from outside, certainly, but also likely a member of the waitstaff. It would be suspicious if I did not take the opportunity to move our relationship forward.”
I inhaled a shaky breath, then reached for the box. I opened it. Inside was a simple, but beautiful and huge, square solitaire diamond set in a delicate platinum-colored band. It looked antique and expensive. Like, it could pay my rent for five years maybe.
“Is this real?” I croaked, peering up at him.
“Yes. The appraisal is in the safe of my apartment if you would like to see it.”
“That won’t be necessary.” I tried to smile but wasn’t sure I pulled it off.
Closing the box, I placed it back on the seat between us and rubbed my forehead, speaking in a stream of consciousness.
“Regarding the level of ostentatiousness, I think you should go with whatever you—as yourself—would typically do. If you put on a big show but you’re not a showy person, it would look fake. Right?”
Andreas’s eyes lost focus for a second, ostensibly in deliberation, then he nodded. “A fair point. I will tell the ma?tre d’ to scale it back to candlelight and champagne.”
Ugh. That sounds so nice.
“And for the, um, PDA . . .” I found I had to exhale past the strange tightness in my chest and reaffix my eyes to the interior of the car—so, not Andreas—in order to approach this question with the appropriate amount of detachment.
You’re a scientist, for God’s sake. Be analytical!
Without giving it too much thought, I added, “We should hug and kiss for sure. If we don’t, after a proposal, that would seem bizarre. And like, an actual kiss. Not a peck.” I peeked at him. “Is that okay with you?”
He smiled, just a little. “I concur.”
Oh. You concur, do you? Based on his tone of voice and his word usage, I suspected he didn’t quite understand what I meant.
Facing him fully, I spoke to both him and myself as I said resolutely, “I’m serious. If there is one time we should go overboard with the PDA, it’s tonight. Okay? So, gird your loins. I’ll probably kiss your face off.”
Andreas’s smile seemed to flatten even as his lips twitched. “Noted.”
“I’m trying to prepare you.” I lifted my index finger and pointed at him. “Expect tongue. Lots of it. And my hands will be grabby. I’m a grabby kisser.”
He gave me a single, slow blink.
But I wasn’t finished. “I also bite.”
All traces of his smile vanished.
“That’s right, I’m a biter.”
He faced forward and cleared his throat.
“And a licker. And?—”
“I understand. No need to continue.” He interrupted me, shifting in his seat, his tone flat.
“But—”
“Please stop.”
“But—”
He held up a hand. “I consider myself duly prepared. I assure you, no further descriptions are required.”
I was just about to push the issue when I noticed the car had slowed.
Glancing out the window beyond Andreas, I realized Tara had pulled alongside the restaurant and I bit the inside of my bottom lip.
The lights within—mostly candlelight—were golden and warm, and vases and baskets of red roses had been packed into the space.
The interior appeared free of customers, but I spotted a few servers.
Andreas cleared his throat again, bringing my attention back to him. “Ready?”
It took me a second, but I nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
He opened the door, paused as though thinking, then turned back to me. “You should hold my hand, as you exit. Let me help you out.”
I nodded, steeling myself for the feel of his hand in mine again. That decided, Andreas then fully exited the car and stood just outside, hand extended.
I hesitated, then accepted his fingers, ignoring the spike of warmth jolting up my arm, and let him lead me out onto the sidewalk. The air was cold, but I didn’t feel it.
Silly me was already flushed, thinking ten steps ahead to the moment when I’d have to kiss him.
* * *
Andreas and I were deep into a passionate argument about which era of Star Trek movies was superior when the server, clearly not wanting to interrupt, hovered at the edge of the table like a shadow. I ignored him. I was on a roll.
“How can you argue with the whales?” I leaned forward, pressing my palm to the top of the table. “ Star Trek four has the whales! And it takes place in the eighties. Oh! And! And! Time travel. Huh? Right? I’m right, right?” Crossing my arms, I nodded.
Andreas, who’d maintained the facial expression of an automaton—granted, a sexy, smoldering automaton—during most of our meetings since our renewed acquaintance was now actually showing signs of life tonight.
His new repertoire of facial expressions this evening had been revelation: eyebrow flickering, a faint crease at the corners of his mouth, even a real smirk of amusement when I described The Original Series crew as “a fleet of accidental gay icons.”
Presently, he also crossed his arms, dangerously close to a smile that would show teeth, and shook his head. “You can’t tell me Star Trek four is better than the 2009 reboot.”
I gasped, even though I already knew this was his position on the subject since he’d said so minutes ago. “It’s like I don’t even know you. Tell me the truth, were you taken over by the Zetar? Lieutenant Romaine, are you in there? Do you have Zetarian spirits inside you now?”
We’d already finished our main courses—mine, a fillet of perfectly rare steak with truffled brussels sprouts; his, a warm French lentil salad followed by a seitan bourguignon—and we were working our way through a bottle of C?tes du Rh?ne AOC rosé that I would never be able afford under any circumstances.
But Andreas didn’t seem to notice the prices.
Dessert was somewhere in our future. For now, our little round table was a battlefield of quips, pop-culture references, and the occasional flicker of what felt like dangerous chemistry.
If I were to provide an objective, scientific analysis of the evening thus far, I’d say it started stiff and mannered, with both of us trying to perform normally in front of an audience that, as far as I could tell, consisted solely of the manager, a friendly sommelier, and a rotating cast of waiters so discreet thus far, they might’ve been deployed by the CIA.
And then, about halfway through the first glass of wine, I’d asked Andreas whether he still built pillow forts. And just like that, the ice had cracked.
I’d forgotten how intensely he could focus when talking about something that mattered to him.
It was honestly intoxicating. For a long time, I let him monologue about the internal politics of the chess tournaments, the way social media had commodified all the top players, and why he’d decided to stop allowing comments on his posts and photos after strange conspiracy theories and shipping wars broke out between his fandom and another grand master’s.
That’s right. Members of Andreas’s legions of fans had started shipping him with another grand master, another nonfiction human. And, apparently, there were fanfics.
Mental note. Look those up later. For reasons.
His face, usually a monument to European stoicism, had become animated as he explained the different flavors of cheating, mostly having to do with vibration devices planted in shoes or— ahem —shoved up buttholes.
This portion of our conversation had me laughing so hard, I’d almost snorted rosé out of my nose. Good times.
But the best part? He actually laughed. Not once, but twice.
And each time it startled him so much he immediately tried to cover it up by taking a sip of wine or running a hand through his already-mussed hair or dipping his chin down.
Watching him try to hold it together was maybe the best thing I’d experienced in months.