A Local Habitation

Rather than offering the expected greeting, Quentin frowned, saying, “Oh. It’s you.”


“Quentin!” I stared. “Don’t be rude.” Rude, and out of character.

“It’s okay, let him be,” said the man, laughing as he held up his hands. “I’m used to it. I’ve got the sort of face that just pisses some people off.”

“It’s not pissing me off,” I said, giving Quentin another sidelong look before turning to the man on the floor. “Quite the opposite, actually. Do you need help getting up?”

“That would be good of you, since you’re the reason I’m down here.” He reached up, and I grabbed his hands. He had a good grip; not too light, but not crushing. This was a man who didn’t feel the need to prove much of anything.

Smiling despite myself, I said, “I didn’t do it on purpose!”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “Oh, whatever.” Turning, he stalked back into the cafeteria.

I stared after him, confused, only to be distracted by the sound of the man next to me laughing. It was an unreservedly happy sound, and it warmed me to the toes.

“Wait—you mean it wasn’t calculated? I was just a victim of circumstance? I’m hurt.” He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to look wounded. “There I was, walking down the hall, minding my own business, when a mad-woman tries to kill me with a door.”

“Cut that out,” I said. It’s hard to stay grumpy when there’s a nameless six-foot-something surfer boy mugging for your amusement, even if your erstwhile assistant has just stalked off in an unexplained sulk. Besides, he was a cute surfer boy—not exactly handsome, but cute, with an angular face and freckles scattered across his nose. The cut of his sun-bleached hair was casual enough to look accidental, falling across his eyes in a rakish fringe. A small scar marred one cheek. It was the sort of face you don’t see in the movies, but you’d take home to mother without a second thought. Definitely not the sort of thing I thought of when I heard the phrase “computer programmer.”

“Why?” he asked, smile broadening. He had a nice smile. I upgraded my estimation from “cute” to “damn cute.” “Anyway, I’m Alex. Alex Olsen.” He held his hand out for me to shake, the other hand smoothing his bangs away from his eyes. His hands never seemed to stop moving. It was like they might get tired of our conversation and start performing sign language arias at any moment. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Finally?” I arched an eyebrow, shaking his hand. “I’ve been sitting in the cafeteria.” He was almost a foot taller than me, with the comfortable sort of solidity that only comes from too many years spent playing sports and doing a certain amount of heavy lifting. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a T-shirt that read “Nobody Does It Like Sara Lee” in bright red letters.

Alex laughed again. “Not quite that short term. When I start hearing stories about changelings coming back from the dead and tearing San Francisco apart, I start thinking, ‘Now there’s a lady I’d like to meet.’ ”

“That shows an interesting way of picking your friends.”

“At least you know it’s not going to be boring.”

“That’s true.” I reclaimed my hand, using it to tuck my own hair back behind my ears. “Still, I’m surprised you heard about all that.”