Page 37 of The Mouse and the Maestro

“No, it’s called being smart. And if I don’t like what a woman’s credit rating or medical history has to say, I don’t show up for the date,” he said.

Her jaw dropped. “That’s horrible.”

He tapped his temple. “That’s smart; that’s safe. You can’t go by what someone says. People lie all the time. The only truth is what’s online where people are real and reveal themselves.”

“Really? Like how people are real on Instagram and Facebook? You know what Nick’s profile says? That he has a PhD, an interest in vintage cars, and holds material possessions loosely. You know what the reality is? That he’s been in school for ten years, works as a valet on the weekends, and sleeps on my couch. Don’t tell me people are real online. That’s what avatars are for, to keep people from being real.”

“Leave avatars out of it. They’ve done nothing to you,” he said.

“Are you trying to joke with me when we’re in the middle of an argument?”

“I can’t help it. You’re so stinking cute. It’s like trying to stay mad at a chipmunk,” he said.

“Strange, I’m having no trouble maintaining my anger at you,” she said.

“Come on, Jane, we might as well be friends. We’re stuck with each other for the foreseeable future,” he cajoled. She didn’t respond, but neither did she throw the paperweight she kept eyeing. Blue took a step closer. “Tell me why I can’t find you online.”

Jane took a step closer. “If I drank poison, and the only way to get the antidote was to tell you the reason I’m not online, I would gladly perish. I would rather have my wisdom teeth put back in and taken out again with no anesthetic than ever clear up this mystery for you.”

“I’m going to take that as a maybe,” Blue said.

“Here’s what I’ll give you: You can ask me anything else, anything that doesn’t pertain to my lack of online presence, and I’ll tell you. I’m an open book for people who seek answers.”

“What does your father do?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Do you still think I’m cute?” he tried.

“It’s waning,” she said.

“That’s weird because I think you’re definitely getting cuter,” he said.

“Now that you’re certain I’m not a terrorist, you mean?”

“Who says I’m certain? Maybe I like to live dangerously.” He rested his right hand on her shoulder, his thumb caressing her neck.

“I can’t do this with you.”

“Because I called you a terrorist? That was hours ago. Are you ever going to let it go and move on?” His left hand settled on her hip.

“When you unceremoniously broke into my apartment—by the way, guy who’s into modern technology, we have these things called doorbells now—I was in the middle of being proposed to.”

“By the hobo who sleeps on your couch? Do homeless men often ask you to marry them? Is that some type of payment plan you’ve worked out? He gets to live in your apartment on the condition that he makes an honest woman of you?”

“Nick and I dated off and on for ten years,” she said.

“Ten years and he’s only now trying to seal the deal? Heisa catch. You’d better run back there right now and put the ring on before another decade goes by.”

“I don’t remember asking for your input on my love life.”

“Baby, for the last couple of weeks, Iamyour love life,” he reminded her, leaning in for a kiss she returned with interest, standing on her toes and gripping his shirt to tug him closer.

The kiss ended and he rested his forehead on hers. “Jane,” he whispered.

“Mm,” she said.

“How did you get back to DC?”

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