Page 113 of Flirting with Forever

“Yes, because I like to do all of my reading in Romanian.”

“This isn’t a laughing matter.”

“Do you see me laughing? I would think the Guild has bigger fish to fry.”

Mertons frowned.

She said, “It means having more important—”

“I know what it means, Miss Stratford. I was thinking about where else you might keep your books. I’ve been to your apartment.”

“I do a lot of research at Chuck E. Cheese’s as well. I find the quiet helps me concentrate.”

He narrowed his eyes, sensing a jest, but dutifully wrote the name down in his notebook.

“I recommend the pizza,” she added. “Close your eyes. You’ll swear you’re in Naples.”

He flipped the pen over, clicked a button, and it started to flicker, like a small computer monitor. He ran it across the note he’d just taken. Then he held it up like a thermometer and read, “‘Cheese, Chuck E. Indoor playground-slash-restaurant designed for kid parties. Best known for humanlike rat mascot and terrifying animatronic theater performers. Issues own coinage. Key words: headache, noise, heartburn, juvenile ululation.’” He gave Cam a look.

“I didn’t say it was for everyone.”

He clicked the pen again and the display went dark. “Miss Stratford, I’m about to lose my patience.”

“Hey, it’s not my job to assist you every time you decide to go on a fishing expedition. Yes, I know,” she said, realizing she was beginning to sound like a one-trick pony as far as metaphors were concerned, “we’re big on fish here.”

“Would you be interested to know that the Guild has finally decided to invoke the O’Janpa Convention? Yes, Peter is about to be jerked back like a bad dog on a very short leash.”

“Even if I knew what the O’Janpa Convention is, which I don’t, why would I be interested?” As far as Mertons knew, she was still at odds with Peter.

He waved the pen up and back across the plane in front of her face, then held it up and read. “Stratford, Campbell. Author, curator, art historian, time-tube criminal, subject of a series of paintings entitled Wednesday Afternoons. Former life partner: Jacket Sprague. Nurtures a deep and nearly overwhelming love for Restoration-era painter Peter Lely, despite a several-century difference in time spans and her petty jealousy over his long-dead—”

“I am not jealous!” She flushed so hard her ears seemed to crackle with the intensity of deep-fried bologna.

He continued to read. “—a feeling Lely returns.”

The bologna reached flash point. “I-I—He returns it?”

Mertons lifted a brow and smiled.

“Yes, fine,” she said. “I have feelings for him. He returns it?”

“‘Feelings’? Feelings one might refer to as love?”

“Yes, love, dammit. Mertons!”

He nodded. “He returns it. I believe I practically spelled it out for you when I came to visit.”

“Is that pen up-to-date? I mean, like, as of this minute?”

He cleared his throat awkwardly and held up the object in question for her to observe. No lights. He hadn’t turned it back on.

“Bastard.”

He shrugged. “We can’t do mind reading. Not even in the Afterlife.” He slipped the pen back in his pocket. “Does this knowledge by any chance change your answer? Do you know where Peter is?”

She shook her head. She never, ever wanted Mertons to find him.

“Whether you tell me or not, the Guild will find him, and if I can bring him back before they do, he’ll face better odds.”