Page 46 of Love & Rockets

“Right. Pearl Jam and U2,” she said, turning back to her paper.

“More like Nine Inch Nails and Korn,” he retorted.

“I’m relieved you didn’t say Maroon 5 or something.”

“I strike you as a big fan of pop music?”

“For all I know, you might have stolen Mick Jagger’s moves, too.”

He smirked. “You know who Mick Jagger is?”

Grace rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the page in front of her, a flush turning her cheeks the color of spring roses. “I know a lot of things.”

“Thank heavens for Wiki,” he teased. “It gives us everything we need.”

Her head shot up and the blushed deepened. Dark eyes flashed with scorn. “I don’t get my information from Wikipedia.”

“No?”

Untamed dark hair flew as she gave her head a violent shake, then she returned her attention to the notebook. “Actually, I read an article in a magazine called Rolling Stone.”

He nodded sagely, fighting back the urge to laugh. “Where better to get information on the lead singer of the Rolling Stones?”

“What’s your favorite food?”

The question came at him like a bullet, so he swallowed his laughter and gave the first answer that sprang to mind. “Ribs.”

“Good thing Mom works at The Pit.”

“It might be Kismet.”

He’d been teasing, but something about his flippant remark struck Gracie.

She looked up again. “Do you believe in that?”

“What? Fate? Kismet?” he asked, cocking his head as he pondered her question. “I guess I do a little.”

“Not very scientific. I mean, there’s no proof.” She stammered to a stop, clearly unable to find the words she wanted. “It’s not logical,” she concluded at last.

Jake smiled. “And we’re not Vulcans.”

The urge to touch her was almost unbearable. Nothing big. A pat on the hand, maybe brush that mass of dark hair back so he could see those startlingly incisive eyes. But he didn’t dare. This wasn’t his child to soothe and pet. And their time together was drawing to an end. No, better to keep a little distance between them. Even if he wished things were different.

Sitting back in his chair, he laced his fingers together to keep from doing something stupid. “You know, Grace, whether people on either side of the table like to admit it, almost all hard sciences are based in faith.”

She turned to look at him, those sober, serious eyes boring holes straight into his heart. “We don’t really go to church. Mom says most churches should be consolidated into a chain called the International House of Hypocrites.”

He nodded as if digesting the glimpse into their inner workings. Well aware of the pseudo-piety Darla’s parents hid behind when they turned their young, pregnant daughter out of their house, Jake completely understood the reasoning behind her disdain for organized religion. But he wasn’t about to get into the details with her kid. Leaning in, he gave his head a slight shake.

“I didn’t mean the religious kind of faith, per se. I mean the belief in your theory. Faith is what allows a true person of science to believe in possibilities.” He smiled at her. “Then we go looking for probabilities, and finally proof. But all science starts with having faith in what you think may be true. Sometimes, you’ll be disappointed. But sometimes you won’t.”

He paused, distracted by a movement in the hallway. He caught a glimpse of Darla’s shadow lurking beyond the edge of the wall. She was eavesdropping on her daughter’s attempts at super-sleuthing. She wanted to know more about him than whatever she was hypothesizing in her mind. And if that didn’t make a man of faith and science smile, nothing would. “When you’re right about something, there’s nothing more thrilling.”

He reached over, plucked the pencil from Grace’s hand, and pulled the notebook toward him. In neat block print he added: dogs, salt water, and the sound of a pneumatic nail gun to her list of his favorite things.

“A nail gun?” Grace asked, peering over his arm as he wrote.

He flipped the page back to the draft of her essay, then slid the notebook back. “I pretend it’s a photon gun.”

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