Page 2 of Edge of Secrets

“Norma, I’ve got news for you. I am bookish! To the marrow of my bones! It’s my most defining personality trait!”

“Aww, now, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Your eyes are so big and brown and pretty, I just want the world to see them.” Norma tucked a hank of curly black hair from behind my ear so that it dangled ticklishly around my chin, then tugged down the front of my apron to show a little more of my chest. “For God’s sake, Nelly. Youth is wasted on the young. Go on, scram! Get the man’s order!”

I poured the cup of black coffee he always wanted and scurried out with my order pad, self-consciously tugging my sunset-tinted apron bib back up over my cleavage, annoyed and agitated. Norma was very old school when it came to directives on mating behavior. She was also an immensely kind woman and a really good boss. I was lucky to have found her, and I knew she meant well, so I couldn’t get huffy with her for crossing the line. Besides, I got too fluttery to stay mad when I took Mr. Hyper-Focused’s order anyway. God alone knew why—we’d never so much as made eye contact. I could take his lunch order stark naked, and he’d never notice.

I placed his coffee on the table. Without shifting his eyes from the screen, he reached for it and took a sip. “Thanks,” he said, in that deep, resonant voice that made me go all shivery and stupid. “The usual, please.”

“Okay.” I concentrated fiercely on keeping my voice from going breathy and high-pitched. “We have three soups today: chicken noodle, French onion, and three-bean. Which would you prefer?”

A small frown furrowed his forehead, but he didn’t look up. “I don’t care. You pick.”

“Okay. One bowl of I-don’t-care, coming right up.” I stared, almost transfixed, at the cowlick at the crown of his head—a wild, spiky vortex. There was raffish stubble on his tense-looking jaw. His starch-stiffened cuffs were turned up, revealing tough, ropy muscles and black hair that lay flat and silky against the golden skin of his forearms.

“Is there a problem?” His voice was distant, but his fingers still tapping that constant, rapid-fire staccato.

“Um, no. Of course not.” I fled, flustered, jamming my hip into a nearby table edge.

Ouch. I suppressed yelp of pain. Crap. The bruise that would show up tomorrow would serve as a stern reminder of what happened when one gave in to adolescent urges. Cripes, even Norma had noticed my condition. I’d let this silly crush get way out of hand.

I put the order in and began assembling his lunch. Norma glanced over with professional interest. “The usual, I assume?” she asked.

“Unsurprisingly.” I popped a roll into the toaster grill, and scooped an enormous serving of Knorma’s Knockout Coleslaw onto a small plate.

“You’re ruining me with those portions, hon. Trust me. The fella’s not worth it.”

“Give it a rest, Norma,” I snapped, arranging thick slices of tomato, radish rosebuds, and carrot curlicues onto his plate. I tossed on a handful of alfalfa sprouts, hesitated for the barest instant, and cut a substantial slice of sweet onion. I added it with a flourish—his breath was neither my responsibility nor my problem. I scooped some oven-roasted rosemary potatoes onto the plate, then added a few more.

The toaster pinged, and I pulled out the roll, still avoiding Norma’s gaze.

“What soup did he want?” Norma inquired.

“He doesn’t care. I’ll give him the three-bean. It’s good today.”

“Really? I don’t know, hon. Chicken might be safer. You know … gas?”

I snorted as I ladled his bowl full of soup. “He can learn to express a goddamn preference if he doesn’t like it.” I hefted the tray, and the soup slopped dangerously close to the edges of the bowl.

“Easy does it, Nelly. He’s not going anywhere without his lunch.”

I gave her a withering look and carried out his soup.

When I brought out the rest of Mr. Hyper-Focused’s lunch, the only place to put the sandwich plate was the extreme edge of the table, which looked precarious. He hadn’t even touched the soup yet. His big hands chattered ceaselessly on the keyboard. I had to hand it to the guy. Nothing distracted him. It seemed almost pathological.

“That’ll be all.” His voice was cool and distant.

I backed away, still staring. I’d been summarily dismissed. Now that I’d brought his sustenance, like a silent and dutiful handmaiden, the time had come to melt silently and unobtrusively into the walls. God forbid I disturb the grand master at his important work.

His refusal to look at me was really bugging me today. I was getting genuinely pissy about it. I headed back to the kitchen, mentally ticking off the various issues I meant to cover in tonight’s discussion section on Emily Dickinson’s poetry. The plight of women in nineteenth-century America. Powerlessness. Arid celibacy. Secret, unrequited love. Constraint. Corsets. The life of the imagination. Agonizing sexual frustration.

Things could always be worse. But this reflection did not comfort me.

“Did everything go smoothly?” The smile in Norma’s voice drove me nuts.

“Smooth as silk.” I loaded ice water onto a tray, marched past Norma with my chin up, and tripped over the edge of the plastic mat.

Crash. Glass broke, heads turned, water sloshed and spread, ice cubes rolled.

I took a breath to contemplate the extent of the damage, then grabbed the dustpan and started picking up glass shards and ice cubes. Eyes down, mouth tight.

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