12. Human Genetics #2
“Okay,” I said, topping off my own glass and leaning across the table, “but if you had to choose: Next Generation or Deep Space Nine ?”
Andreas’s eyes narrowed in mock seriousness. “An unfair question. They are fundamentally different.”
“Coward.” I pretended to be disgusted. “Cop-out. You have to pick one. Gun to your head.”
He considered this, his expression serious and unfocused, as though giving it intense deliberation. Abruptly, his eyes sharpened on me. “ Deep Space Nine .”
I put a hand over my heart. “God, that’s a power move. They’re not even on a ship.”
He grinned, the smile quick and real, like my praise pleased him immensely. Andreas opened his mouth, then shut it again, lips pressed together to hold back another smile. “You are,” he said after a beat, “just as fun to be around as I remembered.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” I winked and drained the last of my wine.
We fell into a silence, not awkward, just comfortable.
I glanced down and realized my hand was resting on the edge of the table, fingers curled in a way that practically begged to be held.
It wasn’t intentional, but it also wasn’t not intentional.
Andreas’s hand—long fingers, knuckles like marble—lay close enough that if I reached just an inch or two, I could bridge the gap.
For a second, I considered moving my hand away, but then I remembered the rules. Rules which we’d drafted together and which stated quite clearly that hand holding was not only permitted, but expected.
Good thing he doesn’t know about my hand kink.
Giving in, I reached over and put my hand on top of his, soft and casual, like it was no big deal. Like I’d done it a million times before.
He immediately turned his palm up, catching my fingers in a loose but inescapable hold.
Then he pulled my hand closer, into the narrow space between our wineglasses, and for the next few moments, he absentmindedly traced circles on the back of my hand with his thumb while we debated the finer points of the time loop movies.
If I’d been a spectator, I would’ve bet money that we were very much in like—and lust—and not, as was actually the case, running a long con against a cabal of corporate sociopaths.
I wanted to give myself a high five for my acting prowess.
Except none of this felt like acting. It was just easy. Fun. Comfortable and exhilarating.
More than that, I thoroughly enjoyed trying to make Andreas lose his composure.
Not just because it was a challenge—it absolutely was—but because every time he let his guard down, even a little, the world got about twenty percent less bleak and I felt, for a few precious seconds, like I wasn’t just someone orbiting in his gravity well, but an equal. A true partner. Perhaps even a friend.
The waiter appeared with a miniature lake of vegan crème br?lée and set it between us, necessitating that we stop holding hands. Alas.
I picked up my spoon and broke the sugar-crust top. “Tell me something.” I scooped out a spoonful, eyes on Andreas. “What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done to impress a girl?”
Andreas set down the spoon he’d just picked up and studied me for a moment, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “This. Right now.”
I made a noise, half laugh, half snort, and nearly inhaled a mouthful of burnt sugar. “You realize you’re supposed to say something like, ‘Bought a sports team’ or ‘Fought a bear.’”
“I have never fought a bear,” he said, straight-faced.
“That’s too bad,” I replied. “Women love a bear fighter.”
He laughed. It was a real one, low and gravelly and full-bodied, and I felt it like a jolt down my spine. Almost immediately, he tried to stifle it, shaking his head. “You are ridiculous.”
I beamed at him, enjoying the victory. “Why do you do that? Why do you try to stop yourself from laughing?”
He blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I do not stop myself.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You literally just did. Three times.”
He looked away, as if the wall of Bordeaux bottles behind me could provide an answer. “I suppose I am not used to it.”
“That’s tragic,” I said, shaking my head in mock sympathy. “You used to laugh all the time, back when we were kids.”
Andreas picked up his wineglass, swirling the pink liquid before taking a measured sip.
He seemed to really consider my statement, perhaps parsing it for subtext.
When he finally answered, his voice was softer.
“Maybe. I think I laugh now, too, just not . . .” He trailed off, maybe searching for how to best explain. “Just not with everyone.”
“Just with people who are funny?”
Andreas nodded, not looking at me.
“Is this your way of saying I’m funny?”
He glanced up then, and for the first time all night, his expression seemed to open. His eyes moved over my face, then my neck, then the neckline of my dress, which—let’s be honest—didn’t leave a ton to the imagination.
“Very,” he said, gaze sliding up from my chest to my neck, my lips, and eventually tangling with my eyes. “Among other things.”
The words landed somewhere between my heart and my stomach and lit a little fuse. I had to fight a blush. Blushing was for people who didn’t know better. Yet, the look he gave me, the directness of his stare and the obvious meaning behind his words, made my head spin a little.
He’s a good actor.
As if on cue, a member of the waitstaff approached, moving with a careful, almost reverent gait.
“Is everything to your liking?” he asked Andreas, but his gaze flicked to me for a split second, as if checking for signs of distress.
Andreas never took his eyes from mine. “Yes,” he said, voice low. “I believe we are ready.”
The waiter gave a tiny, satisfied bow and retreated.
I placed both elbows on the table, chin in my palm, and regarded Andreas over the rim of my glass. “So,” I said in a conspiratorial whisper, “is it happening now? Are you going to propose?”
He stared back at me with those mesmerizing green eyes and gave the tiniest nod.
I grinned even though this was a farce and we both knew it.
But there was something thrilling about it, too.
Like being on a rollercoaster you knew was perfectly safe.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it was real and risky.
That someone would actually propose to me, here, in this beautiful restaurant, and that I would say yes, and that we’d live a perfectly normal, boring life together, free of drama and academic warfare and corporate sabotage.
But then I remembered that the only thing I’d ever wanted less than academic warfare was marriage. If anyone ever proposed to me in real life, I’d probably change my phone number and move to a different state. And if I ever saw them walking down the street, I’d walk the other way.
Still. I understood why people did it. I understood the desire to be seen and known, to claim and be claimed, to say, “This is my person. This is the one I want forever.”
But I also understood, maybe more than anyone, that nothing actually lasted forever. And I’d rather be alone and unbroken than risk loving someone so much it would eventually destroy me when they died, or left, or lost interest.
Andreas reached across the table and plucked my hand from beneath my chin, holding it between both of his. His grip was warm and firm. I could see his jaw flex with tension, yet his touch was gentle.
He leaned forward, so only I could hear, and whispered, “Ready?”
I swallowed, my throat tight because this man used to be my best friend as a kid, and my first real crush as a preteen. And now he was going to fake propose to me and I was going to fake accept. How absurd was that?
I nodded anyway.
Andreas stood. He took a breath. He didn’t look at anyone but me.
Then he got down on one knee.
My eyes widened and I felt a hush fall over the room, probably born of my own imagination. But I hadn’t expected him to kneel. Not in a million years. I was supposed to be acting, but my surprise at his gesture was genuine.
Andreas, still kneeling, took the small velvet box he’d shown me in the car earlier from his pocket and opened it. The diamond sparkled and looked like a fantasy.
He gazed at me, features deadly serious, and said, “Samantha, I think I have loved you from the first moment I saw you. It is one of my earliest memories, branded in my mind and on my soul. You wore burgundy, like tonight, and pigtails, and I recall thinking you were the most amazing, brilliant, interesting, fascinating person in the world, and every moment spent with you since has only reinforced this belief. I cannot believe I am lucky enough to ask you this question.”
Heat erupted in my chest and stinging liquid emotion rushed to my eyes. I found I had to blink to keep Andreas in focus.
He paused, only for a second, then asked, “Will you marry me?”
The room was silent. I felt eyes on us. And then I did the stupidest thing I’d done in a decade. I started crying real tears.
It wasn’t a sob, not at first. My chin wobbled. One single, traitorous drop rolled down my face. I tried to laugh it off, but the laugh cracked and shattered and became a gasp.
Andreas’s face, usually so unreadable, changed. He stared at me, visibly uncertain, his lips parted. There was a flash of alarm, and I realized he was afraid he’d upset me, even though this was all a game.
I forced myself to nod, once, then again, harder, so everyone in the room could see.
“Yes,” I said, voice barely a whisper.
Exhaling like he’d been worried I might say no, Andreas stood, slipped the ring onto my finger, and before I could think about it, I also stood and threw my arms around his neck.
I hugged him with everything I had. He hugged me back, tight and close, like he meant it.
And for a second, my cheek pressed against his neck, I let myself believe he did.
The room erupted in applause, presumably from the waitstaff, and I tangentially wondered if they’d been paid to clap.