Page 26 of Intersect

“Rose said you may be time traveling in your sleep without even realizing it.”

She shakes her head quickly. Too quickly. For some reason her default position is to deny that there might be anything supernatural going on, no matter how bizarre the circumstances. “My friend Caroline dreamed her missing passport was under her toaster once and found it there. Does she time travel too? Sometimes we just forget stuff, tuck it away some place we can’t reach it when we’re awake.”

I’ll table this for now but we’re coming back to it later. I have a feeling her mom did a number on her where this stuff is concerned, and I need to rectify that immediately.

We arrive at the next house, a single-family Cape Cod on Q street. “The owners have spent the whole year redoing the interior,” the agent tells us as she opens the door.

Given how many “redone interiors” we’ve seen that have fallen short today, it doesn’t mean all that much, but I’m more willing to keep an open mind once we get inside. It’s in better shape than a lot of the places we’ve seen, and the owners have put in wide-plank hardwood floors and a new kitchen. Quinn’s unwilling to tell me she likes anything simply because she’s worried about the money, but I see the way her eyes soften when we enter, and once we pass through the kitchen I know for certain. The back of the house is a wall of windows, looking out on a private garden. It reminds me of my flat in London. Quinn stands at the French doors with this look of wonder on her face, taking it all in. And that’s the look I’ve been waiting for from her.

“This is it, eh?” I ask, smiling.

She forces her mouth into a straight line. “How do you know that?” she asks. “I haven’t said a word.”

I twine my fingers through hers. “How do I know anything?”

“Yes,” she replies with a small laugh. “This is it.”

* * *

Our celebration dinner takes place at an Italian bistro two blocks away from our new home. Seeing her across from me—incandescent, pink-cheeked with the excitement of what we are doing—makes any consequence I suffer at work worthwhile.

Beneath the table her legs cross, brushing mine by accident. I try to ignore the images that flash through my head. This afternoon in my office took the edge off but that edge is back, and it’s multiplied. What we’re doing was supposed to quench the fire but instead it just seems to spread and spread. I’ve been picturing her bent over this table at least once a minute since we sat down. I was picturing her bent over my desk until we got here.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, tilting her head, brow furrowed. “Are you worried about moving in together? Please be honest.”

“I was thinking about how badly I wanted to fuck you on my desk this afternoon,” I reply, watching the pink in her cheeks deepen. She’s a little shocked but there’s a gleam in her eye that tells me she likes it too. “How I wanted to bend you over and push that dress around your hips and pound you loud enough for the whole fucking floor to hear. Honest enough for you?”

She tucks her head, smiling. “That was pretty honest.”

“Sorry,” I reply. “To use your diet analogy, anything I do with you is like eating a single potato chip. All it does is remind me how much I love potato chips.”

“And then you want to fuck them over your desk.”

I laugh. “Exactly. I want to fuck the potato chips into oblivion.”

“Is it weird that this conversation is turning me on?” she asks. “I’m picturing your dick in a bag of Ruffles and I’m a little wet.”

And all she has to do is use the phrase I’m a little wet and I’ve got an erection that will make leaving the restaurant impossible. I shift in my seat. Adjust myself. It doesn’t help. “We need to talk about something else,” I plead. “Something that will not make me think about what you just said.”

“You mean that I’m wet?” she teases. “So wet you could slide right—”

“Stop,” I say with a low groan. “Please.”

She laughs. “Fine. Then we can talk about logistics. That’s a boner killer if there ever was one. What happens when the hospital finds out we share an address? I could just have my mail sent to Caroline’s, I guess.”

It’s occurred to me too, but I refuse. I get one chance at this life with her and I’m going to do it right. “No. We aren’t half-assing this. Look, I’ve told the few people I’ve discussed this with that we dated in college. If push comes to shove, it’s what I’ll tell the administration too. We’ll just hope for the best.”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to argue. I can see the struggle in her face. She wants to remind me it might not last that long. It feels like she’s always trying to remind me of that, as if I could possibly forget it. “God, I wish we could find Rose and just ask her a few more questions,” she says instead.

“You know,” I venture. “There is one way we could talk to her.”

Her brows raise nearly to her hairline. “There is?”

“You could time travel back to her.”

A laugh escapes, and then she sees my face. “Oh my God, you weren’t joking.”

I don’t know why she persists in acting like this is some crazy impossibility. Haven’t we had enough proof she’s capable of doing something? “Rose said you could do it. She said you’ve been doing it.”