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She squinted at me, pressing her lips into a hard pink line. I resisted the urge to run my thumb over those rosy lips, to pull that full lower lip down and push my thumb into her soft mouth. My dick was straining painfully against the seam of my jeans at the thought.
“You worked in development.” She placed disbelieving emphasis on the word “you.”
“Hard to believe, huh?” I shrugged, put on my best puppy dog innocent face.
“What’s your name?” she asked, still not willing to give an inch.
“Hale,” I said without thinking. I wasn’t lying, really. That’s what everyone called me. She’d figure out who I was soon enough. And then I’d get either the misplaced awe or the sympathy—neither of which I could stomach from this girl.
“That’s a strange name.”
“Says the girl named after a country.”
“My mother was a moron,” she said quickly, dropping her eyes. She was silent then, and I got the feeling I’d hit on some buried bruise.
“Hey,” I said, my voice soft. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Hale is a nickname, actually.”
Holland gave me a squinty-eyed look for a moment, probably trying to figure out what “Hale” was short for, but didn’t ask. She glanced around, but the coffeehouse remained mostly empty, save for a couple women at a far table. “I still have no idea why I’m even talking to you.”
“Because you need help,” I suggested.
She sighed and one hand raked through her hair unconsciously. I followed its path with my eyes, wishing I could bury my hands in that thick glossy mane, wondering what it would look like spread across my pillow. “I do need help.” It sounded like defeat, but a fire quickly relit in her eyes. “But not from you.” She shook her head, as if to clear it.
“What if you just try me?” I asked. “Can’t hurt, right?”
“I think that’s the same line drug dealers use when they’re trying to get kids to try crack for the first time.”
“You’re comparing me to crack?” I felt a grin creep across my lips. “Worried you’ll get hooked?” I lowered my voice and leaned across the table as I said this last part, and I’d swear I saw that same flicker of interest dance through her fierce gaze once again.
“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “How would you modify StrokeStat for something like a stroke—but at a much higher velocity, with a sudden end to the motion? Out of the water?”
“Baseball?” I asked. We’d messed around with trying to mod the technology for other sports, but one of the developers had come up with another device that was a natural fit for football, and the money had started rolling in. We grew so fast in those early days that StrokeStat was all but abandoned.
She pressed her lips together again, confirming my suspicion even without speaking.
I leaned back, crossed my arms as my mind raced. “It could be done,” I said. “The interface would have to change significantly…” My mind spun as I thought about the application. “It’s a good idea,” I said. “But why aren’t you focusing on selling the tech we’re working on now? You’re in sales, right?”
She nodded slowly, and it apparently dawned on her that she hadn’t told me that. “How’d you know that?” Her voice was thin now, suspicious.
“Just a guess.”
“Well, thanks for the help. And the sandwich.” Her voice was icy as she gathered her things and prepared to leave.
My heart sank as I thought of her walking away, of never seeing her again. “Here’s my number,” I said, picking up a pen she’d left on the table and scrawling my name and number on a napkin. “If you do decide you need help.”
She shoved the napkin in her bag and turned without another word. As she walked away and out through the door, it was as if the only glowing candle in the world had just been carried away. The light receded gradually and I found myself in the dark, alone once again.
