Page 4 of Entity

He smiles. “One Sazerac, coming right up.”

Whatever that is. “Perfect.”

He rummages around the bar, pulling out ingredients. “Katherine. Is that your preferred name?”

His voice curls around my name like thick smoke. I lick my lips. “Kit. If you’d rather use a nickname, my friends call me Kit.”

He returns to the bar with another bottle of liquor — something green — and a few other things. “Kit,” he says thoughtfully, pouring the green liquid into a glass and swirling it. “Call me Ian.”

“Okay. Ian.”

“I’m excited to have you here, Kit,” he says, muddling sugar and what I think is bitters in another glass. “I have so much to show you. We have so much to talk about.”

No fucking kidding. I bite my lip to hold back what I really want to say, which is an uninterrupted string of words and questions about the Eros model, what it means, how it could change our culture as a whole, the philosophical implications, thereligiousimplications… but we have three whole days for that. And I’m determined to play it cool, even though I’ve failed at it so far. I don’t want him to think I’m a stalker, never mind thatheinvitedmehere.

“Yeah, I’m excited, too,” I say. Understatement of the millennium. And then, because I just can’t help myself, “What you’re doing with the robotics field is honestly mind-blowing. No one’s ever—”

He holds up a finger, shaking his head. “Please, no flattery. You’re not here as a sycophant. I’ve got plenty of those. Plenty. We’re intellectuals, Kit. You and I. The world may not see it that way, but you haveideas. That blog of yours — ah, that reminds me.” He snaps a finger, holding out his hand, palm up. “Phone, please.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” I’ve been holding it in my sweaty hand this whole time. I wipe the phone surreptitiously on my skirt, and hand it over, his words circling giddily in my head:We’re intellectuals. You and I.

He grins, white teeth flashing, and drops the phone into his pants pocket. “Now, we’re free,” he says. “Nothing to distract, nothing to interfere.”

I’m not sure how to answer, so I just smile back.

I’m relieved when he finally finishes making our drinks and holds one out to me. I need to loosen up before he changes his mind about this whole thing and sends me packing.

“Tell me what you think,” Ian says, before sipping his own. He closes his eyes, adopting an expression of utter bliss. “Wow,” he murmurs. “Wow! Nothing better. Nothing better.”

I sip mine, hyper-aware of how heavy the glass is, how it must be crystal. The liquid slides easily down my throat, and I relish the warm burn. It has a strange licorice aftertaste, but it goes down smooth. “I like it, thank you.”

“Good,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m actually starving,” I admit. I’ve been too anxious to eat all day. But now that I’m here, sipping a Sazerac, the nerves are wearing off, and my appetite has come roaring back.

Ian grins. “You like steak?”

“Of course.”

He points at me. “Let me guess. Medium?”

“Rare, actually.”

He laughs. “Girl after my own heart. Two rare steaks, coming right up. We’ll talk while I cook.”

I follow Ian into the adjacent kitchen. I try to drink slowly, but every sip relaxes me. And I need to relax. I take a seat at a generous kitchen island with a black granite countertop and watch as Ian moves competently about the kitchen, pulling out ingredients.

“Do you cook often?” I ask.

“Hardly ever,” he says. “You like potatoes? Or salad?”

“I like both.”

He claps his hands together once. “Both! Good girl. So. The book. What’s your vision?”

“Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “I thought — I mean, I’m meant to be your ghostwriter, right? The vision should be yours. Do you need help with dinner?”

Ian, midway through chopping a head of garlic, pauses to shoot me a look over his shoulder. “I’m all good. I’m very particular about my food. And you’re not a ghostwriter. You’ll get full author credit. It’s a biography, not an autobiography. You read the contract, right?”

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