“Their history is so rich with the rituals and gods, the monuments and the romance. All good stories have a romance. Love. Without love, what’s the point?”
“Not my area of expertise,” I said slowly.
“No?” Her grin widened. “Not a romantic? Are you sure? You look like Marc Antony to me. Lots of armor on the outside, but on the inside…” She made a face. “Yikes. There I go again. I have zero filter, if you haven’t noticed. My sister is always telling me to tone it down, but I call it like I see it. Life is short, no?”
So short, Thea. Five minutes.
“You don’t say much do you, Jim?”
“Not much.”
“Am I talking your ear off?”
“No, it’s fine.”
It’s fine. Jesus.
“Jim, Jim, Jim.” Thea cocked her head. “Short for James, right? But you look more like a Jimmy to me. Jimmy with the kind eyes. Do you mind if I call you Jimmy?”
Why the hell that simple request sent my heart crashing, I didn’t know, but it felt as if she drew us together across years instead of minutes.
Be professional. Tell her to use Jim.
“N-N-No,” I said. “I d-don’t mind.”
Thea leaned over the table, compassion softening her features. “Do you have a stutter, Jimmy?”
I almost told her it only showed up when I was nervous or pissed off. Then she could ask if she made me nervous. She’d give that flirtatious laugh of hers, then tell me she didn’t mind that I stuttered, but to keep talking to her, and that my stutter wasn’t the most interesting thing about me…
God, this is fucked up.
It occurred to me that I could change the script. I could tell her anything. I could fuck with her, and in a few minutes, she’d have forgotten all about it.
The notion made my stomach roil.
A cruel person, a bully—a Toby—would fuck with her. He’d laugh at her confusion and fear and justify it for the same reason—she wouldn’t remember.
But I’d remember.
Someone needs to watch out for her.
“I stutter only sometimes now,” I said. “It was worse when I was a kid.”
“Did you get bullied for it?”
“Yeah, I did.”
Her lips curled in a scowl. “Fucking bullies,” she said. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. All bullies are cowards trying to hide their own weakness by directing attention to someone else.” She glanced at me. “That doesn’t make what you endured easier, does it?”
“It happened. Nothing can change it now.”
“Tough guy, are you? Like Marc Antony. A stoic soldier, but your eyes give you away.”
I coughed. Redirect.
“Marc Antony,” I said and nodded at her drawing. “Part of your Egyptian studies?”
Thea leaned her cheek on her folded hands like she was warming herself before a fire. “Marc Antony is part of the romance. A love story with Cleopatra. He went to war for her. Died for her. When they told her he was dead, she put her hand in a basket with an asp. Can you imagine? Loving someone so much that the thought of life without them is too unbearable?”
“No,” I said. “I can’t.”
Her gaze dropped to my hand on the table and her fingers reached to trace the scars on my knuckles.
“These tell a story, don’t they?” She traced one of the fine lines on my first knuckle. “You put your hand in with the snakes, too.”
I nodded slowly, savoring the feel of her warm skin on mine. “So they’d leave me alone.”
“And did they?”
“Eventually.”
“I’m glad.” She put her hand in mine completely, her fingers wrapping around and holding tight. “I’m being too… something. Personal. Delia would throw a fit, but I feel like…”
“Like what, Thea?”
“Like I have to hold on to this moment, you know? Or you… I don’t even know you and yet I don’t want to stop talking to you.” Her hand squeezed mine. “I don’t care if you have a stutter, but please keep talking to me, Jimmy. Okay?”
My mouth went dry at the nameless desperation in her eyes.
Jesus, does she know she’s trapped? She can’t. Impossible…
“I won’t,” I said. “I’ll talk to you every day. I promise.”
Thea breathed a small sigh of relief and released my hand. “Thank you. That makes me feel better.”
With a final smile—a parting smile, I realized—she took up her pen and then froze.
She’s resetting.
Confusion passed over her features. She looked up at me, flinching a little to see a big man in close proximity. I instantly leaned back to give her space.
“How long has it been?” she asked.
“Two years,” I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper. “But the doctors are