Free Hard Silence by Mia Kay Page B

trained.”
    “I have dozens of boxes,” he countered as he turned her toward the house. He kept pushing her, gently but consistently, until she was curled into an oversized chair in his living room, next to a box full of kittens and holding a cup of coffee. He sat opposite her.
    “You work for Carter, right? He said something about it that first Sunday.”
    She frowned. “Carter works for me.”
    It was his turn to be confused. “Doing what?”
    “Web design and. Programming. He’s my. Salesman.”
    “And you’re the designer,” he concluded. “Where did you learn to do that?”
    “College.” She shook her head. “See? This is why we shouldn’t date.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “You think I’m a moron,” she said. “I have dual degrees in Computer Science and Fine Art, and more software certifications than you can count. And I finished my MFA last year.” She frowned again. “What?”
    “I should’ve pissed you off months ago,” he teased, hoping she wouldn’t clam up on him and trying to alleviate his embarrassment. “And I never said you were a moron.”
    “You didn’t have to say it.”
    He had to give her that one. He’d seen her in work boots, listened to her stammer, and assumed she struggled to make ends meet. “I’m sorry. But I wish you’d said something.”
    “Why?” She unfolded her legs and put her feet on the floor. “You don’t say, ‘Hi, I’m Jeff Crandall and I’m a forensic scientist with a Masters in Criminalistics and a PhD in Criminology and I work for the FBI.’”
    “How did you know all that?” How did you say it without tripping over the words?
    “You said it when you testified at the trial.”
    Once. Almost a year ago. And she’d just recited it like she was reading his CV.
    “Ed Geary was on the jury, and until you said PhD he’d been more interested in trying to clean the spot in his tie.” She sat her coffee cup on the table. “I can’t—”
    No. She wasn’t going to back out. He wasn’t going to let her. “How’s Butcher coming along?”
    “Better. Jeff. I can’t—”
    He liked the way she said his name. “Let me walk you home.”
    She gathered her kittens and shook her head. “I can get there.”
    “Hem will pull you into the river and those kittens will claw out your intestines trying to stay dry.” He held the door for her.
    “Jeff,” she wheedled.
    “Abby.” He kept the door open and glared at her from under his brows.
    Shaking her head, she stalked past him, down the steps and across the yard. He caught up with her and opened the gate, just in time to see her blush. When Hem crossed the river on his own, Abby scowled over her shoulder.
    Jeff hopped across on the stones, intent on reaching the paddock. By the time he got there, Abby was already in the stable, settling the kittens into a straw bed. He carried Hem’s halter to the back and hung it with the rest of her tack. Then he stood next to her and waited.
    “I’ll be right there with you,” he finally said. “Just some little roadside place. Nothing fancy. You have to eat anyway.”
    “Fine. Will you go home now?”
    “Yep.” He dropped his forehead to her hair, still warm from the sunshine. “See you for dinner on Friday. At seven.”
    * * *
    Jeff left the stable and strode up the hill and home to his office. After flopping into his chair, he stared at the ceiling. He’d never worked this hard for a date.
    She never stopped surprising him, never stopped pushing him, and it was exhausting. But her smile, her voice, seeing her think, made it worth it.
    Knowing she’d paid such close attention to him was a bonus.
    Facing his computer, he typed in the one word he’d kept at the front of his mind since she’d recited his credentials and told the jury story without hesitating once. Hyperthymesia : exceptional, uncontrollable, autobiographical memory. Every day spent dealing with the present and reliving the past. If she had it, no wonder she’d isolated herself