“We’re getting closer, Mary.”
Kindred
Blakely
The eerie sensation of someone watching me prickles the back of my neck. I peer around to find the asshole from the club standing a few feet away.
“Were you just, like…watching me?”
“That’s an inherent instinct,” he says. He starts toward the table I selected in the middle of the sidewalk bistro. “To detect when you’re being watched. Thousands of years of evolution, and we still retain a primal characteristic from the days when we were prey to a larger species of hunters. Though some possess this skill more than others.”
I arch an eyebrow. I suppose he’s referring to me.
As he sits down in the metal chair across from me, I prop my arms on the table. “You’re just full of stimulating information.”
He smirks. Outside of the darkly lit atmosphere of the club, I can better access him. He’s attractive. Vibrant blue eyes—the kind women get lost in. Although today, he’s sporting thin, wire-rimmed glasses. The glasses don’t detract from that pretty-boy smile with the pop of dimples, but rather enhance his overall likeability. His dark hair flops haphazard, as if he spends a lot of time driving his fingers through it. Probably while sitting at his lab desk.
Yes, just as I know he’s done to me, I did some digging into him before I came here. According to a few academic sites, Dr. Alex Chambers is a biomedical scientist. This particular field of science analyzes how the human body works to discover innovative ways to cure or treat diseases. Apparently, Dr. Chambers helped developed some miracle vaccine for rotavirus that earned him an academic award.
I’m not even sure what that disease is, but he’s obviously the real deal. I wonder what he thinks of me.
“I do happen to be very full of information. It’s a side effect of having an isolating career,” he explains. “I lack the ability to do small talk.”
“You seem to be doing just fine.” Truthfully, I despise small talk. It’s a waste of time, and makes my head hurt.
As the waitress sets two cups of cappuccino on the table, I say, “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Hope you’re not allergic to dairy.”
“Not at all. Thank you.”
Dairy’s not his kryptonite. Check.
I swirl a spoon into the foam as I watch him. “So what do you do for a living that makes you so good—and not at all creepy—at tracking down random women from clubs?”
A test. I want to see just how honest he is…or perhaps how delusional. This guy could be into cloning people into robots for all I know. I did happen to read that biologists are doing that now.
He glances down at the coffee, bashful. He runs his hand into his hair before he meets my eyes. “I’m a scientist,” he says. “As I admitted, I’m not great with people, talking. I spend most of my time looking at the world through a microscope. Venturing to a club was an act of desperation.”
As it is for most people, really. “What do you mean?”
“For human contact,” he says. At this, he looks away, to the people crossing the street.
&n
bsp; It could be the truth. His confession has just enough self-deprecation to be believable, and his blunt demeanor last night did suggest he’s socially inept. You wouldn’t think that about him by his outward appearance. Still, it’s not enough for me.
“And the hacking my phone?” I prompt.
“Yes, that.” He blows out a breath. “I really was testing an app that I developed. I wasn’t trying to obtain access to your phone in particular. I was testing how many networks the app could crack in a heavily populated area.” He shrugs, unapologetic. “Maybe I used it as a way to talk myself into going to a club in the first place. But it did get me there, and it did bring me to you.”
“You’re not going to say this is kismet…”
Head canted, he smiles. I like the way his smile meets his eyes, squinting the creases in an adorable, boyish way. “If you knew me, you’d know I’d never say that.” He leans in from across the table. “The truth is, I never would’ve hacked your phone had you not stolen my pocket watch. Ultimately, that is why we’re here, isn’t it?”
Maybe the truth, or he’s just well-practiced. I could keep probing, but now I’m curious about this app. Sounds like a program that I would attempt to code myself.
Still, something feels off. If he’s not lying, he’s omitting some important truth. “And the whole trying to buy me for the night…?” I prod.
At this, his mouth flattens into a thin line. “That was pretty lame.” He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Look, I’ve admitted I’m not versed in the art of social etiquette. Think of last night as a social science experiment. I was trying out a few variations, testing theories, looking for—”