Page 40 of Que Será, Syrah

“What exactly do you think I’m talking about?”

“My sketchy past, what else?”

“Okay, then, no. That’s not it.”

“Look, we both agreed that barring any dead guys in Nevada—which, sorry to disappoint you, but there aren’t any—I’m in the clear. That was years ago; so, statute of limitations, or whatever it’s called. Whatever I did, or whatever you think I might have done, is in the past. Plus, I was a minor, at the time. So?—”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I ask, losing my temper just a little. “That’s not what I’m talking about either. Five years ago, I was also a minor. And probably getting into even more trouble than you were.” Although, come to think of it, that might not be true. I never stole a crate of wine, that’s for sure.

“Okay. Cool. Good for you,” she says with a shrug. “So, then what are you talking about? And make it fast. I want to go home.”

“There was a party. I think it was something to do with Midsummer? Down by the river. There were lights in the trees, and music playing, and you were dancing all by yourself, and?—”

“Yeah. I remember. So, what are you saying—that you had some kind of vision? Are you a psychic, or something?”

“Am I what? No! I’m saying I was there!”

“You were…” She trails off, and gazes at me searchingly. “You know, I actually don’t remember much about that night, but…” Her eyes widen abruptly. “Omigod. No way. You were the boy with the beer?”

“I was…what?” The boy with the beer? I stare at her in disbelief. “That’s how you’ve been thinking about me, all this time?” It’s safe to say I’m a little underwhelmed. “That’s what stuck in your memory—the fact that I was drinking beer?”

She laughs then, soft and warm. “I didn’t say that’s all I remembered about you.”

“I would hope not,” I say. And yes, it comes out sounding sulkier than I’d like. I’m feeling more like the hapless, blundering boy I’d been back then than I could ever have believed. Teetering on the edge of a serious crush, desperate to impress the pretty girl who’d come apart in my arms.

“How did you want me to remember you?” she asks. Then her smile falters. “Oh, shit. Now I get it. That’s why you got so mad when I called you Romeo. You thought that I knew who you were and was making fun of you.”

I nod, chagrined. “Something along those lines, I suppose.”

“I hurt your feelings,” she says—catching on a little more quickly than I’d have liked. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”

“It’s okay,” I mumble. “Like you said, it’s ancient history.”

“Hmm.” She shoots me a look. “More like unfinished business, if I’m remembering correctly.” And damned if my body doesn’t agree.

I clear my throat. “Listen, Legs—Allegra, I mean. I?—”

“Oh, no,” she says sliding closer, twining her arms around my neck. “No excuses—save those for someone else. You’ve just made it very clear that we did not meet ‘in the course of an investigation.’ You and I have been acquainted for years and years—just like Miles and my sisters. More so, in fact. Which means we’re golden. And like I said, I haven’t stepped foot on Belmonte property in years and I was in Europe when you began investigating Caparelli. So…”

“Yes, I know all of that. However, I doubt anyone else will see it that way. Especially since I’m guessing neither of us wants to explain the circumstances under which we met.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she says after giving the matter a second’s thought. “Statute of Limitations, remember?”

“Well, I’d mind. I am not going to tell my bosses that the reason dating you wouldn’t be a conflict of interests is because we met as teenagers during the course of breaking multiple laws.”

I try to sound firm, but I feel like the fact that my hands have settled—all too comfortably—around her waist somewhat diminishes the effect.

Legs smiles at me knowingly. “Yeah, no. That doesn’t sound good, does it? We’ll have to think of something else.”

“Or we could not. We could just forget it ever happened and go on with our lives.”

“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes, as though I’d been making a joke that was too stupid to even laugh at. But then I guess she realizes I’m being serious. She bites her lip and asks, “Is that really what you want to do?”

“Of course it’s not,” I say, trying not to focus on her mouth, on how much I want to kiss her, to taste her again. “But it is what it is.”

“Is it, though?” Her eyes are agleam with mischief. Her lips are curved in a knowing, secretive smile.

I know a challenge when I see one and I can’t keep from groaning. “Legs, c’mon.” Because yes; it is. It has to be. “Be reasonable.”

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