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  "Were you ever tested by the ESRB for talent?" he asked.

  I shook my head quickly. "There was a screening at my high school one year, but as far as I know, nobody was picked up. I think they ended up testing one kid, but nothing came of that." I shrugged. I'd been so jealous at the time. Of course teenage-me had wanted some reason to be special, some skill or talent I hadn't had to earn the hard way. Who wouldn't, at that age?

  It was still kind of a fun thought, even though I should have outgrown that sort of daydream. But let's be honest: I hadn't outgrown very much in life so far. Certainly not the "awkward boyfriend-less stage with little sexual experience."

  And I needed to stop thinking about sexual experience when I was sitting right next to him. Thank you very much, awkward erection. Please, not now...

  "Let's see, you're, what, in your early twenties?"

  "Twenty-five," I told him, which I thought was quite mature enough for anyone. Even, say, a handsome bodyguard who was probably about thirty. That wasn't too much of an age gap, was it?

  "So, that's almost ten years ago that they evaluated the students in your school?" he guessed.

  I counted it up in my head. "Eight."

  "That's a long time in the history of the ESRB. They've improved a lot of stuff since then. It would have been easy for them to miss a latent talent in a huge pool of teens back then."

  "Would it now?" I asked, diverted by my curiosity about how all of this worked.

  He took his time answering, taking my question seriously, and, by extension, me. "I suspect the screening techniques will keep improving, but everything I've heard on the subject agrees about how much better they are now than they were a few years ago."

  He took a deep breath and settled back more comfortably on the couch, one ankle crossed on his knee, then stretched one arm out along the back of the couch. Almost like he — but, no. It wasn't around me, just stretched out. Tantalizing me with his hotness, so all other thoughts were trying to run from my head. I stared at him, mouth gone dry, as he continued to speak.

  "Of course it used to be that someone could be locked up in a mental hospital for 'delusions of seeing the future,' and they still might not be evaluated for talent. It's improved quite a bit since then, but the odder or more unusual abilities — no, I'm not sure they'd catch them now, either, especially in such a huge pool of young people."

  I fell silent, remembering the rushed and harried evaluations, the excitement and breath-holding feeling of being on the verge of something great — and then telling myself it didn't matter, I wasn't disappointed, because of course I hadn't really expected to be special.

  I stayed on the couch comfortably next to him, thinking. If I dared move a little nearer, I would be almost snuggling on the couch with a hot guy. But then he'd probably jump up and leave altogether, and I didn't really want to make him uncomfortable. If he didn't leave, it might almost be worse. He was stuck with me for now, and I shouldn't try to take advantage of that. I'd just have to deal with my feelings by myself in a more appropriate and mature manner. Not the best part of being an adult, but at least I was less likely to have my voice crack while talking to someone I found attractive now. There's something to be said for that. Even if being an adult also involves paying my own rent and not nearly as many job opening for spies, actors, authors, and astronauts as I'd thought there were when I was young.

  "Do you think I'll be tested after all of this is settled?" I meant the death risk and being guarded, but I didn't actually want to talk about that part of it right now.

  "I suppose you could be tested again, if you want to be," he said neutrally. "But it would help if you had some clue about anything special you can do or sense. Do you, for instance, have a lot of unnecessary fires start around you?"

  I laughed. "Pyrokinesis? Really?"

  He smiled. "I take it that's a 'no,' then."

  "Yes. I mean, that's a no. Are there really people who can start fires with their minds?" It sounded like a dangerous and not terribly fun ability.

  "As far as I know, but I don't think it's common."

  "That sounds really unpleasant. And me with all these books." I drew my legs up under me on the couch, shuddering a little at the thought.

  "Well, you said you were going to replace them with digital copies," he retorted far too reasonably. "So, it might not be such a terrible hardship."

  "Yes, but I'm just saying that, aren't I? I'm not actually going to get rid of my books." I huffed. "Anyway, it's not as though you couldn't accidentally set fire to an e-reader or a phone, too."

  "Gives new meaning to 'burning up the pages.'"

  I scoffed. "Nobody says that! Anyway, don't you mean 'a hot and spicy read'?"

  He did me the honor of laughing. "Well, maybe you'd have something good, like being able to read minds. Telepathy."

  "Would that be good? I'm not sure I'd want to know what everyone's thinking of me, or their dark and nasty secrets." I gave a theatrical shudder. "I suppose that, at least, might be worth killing over, if you knew someone had found out your darkest secret." I sounded doubtful even to my own ears, though.

  It was hard to imagine anyone caring what I knew, or that I might be around anyone with a horrible secret, which they'd just happen to think about in my presence. "I mean, if this was set in the English countryside and Poirot was present, I suppose, but even so, killing someone because they might mentally know you're a murderer or something..." I shook my head. "It's a little thin. Besides, I don't think I've ever been able to guess that sort of thing."

  My mind went back to several humiliating situations that I would have totally avoided if I'd realized sooner what was actually going on. Like being "asked out" but just in a mocking way, or set up for a "joke." "I'm pretty sure I haven't had any gifts in that way."

  "Well, you seem skilled at customer service," he pointed out.

  "Yes, but that's a learned skill, not some innate ability to read what people need help with."

  He made a noncommittal sound. We were silent a moment, pondering. I was just about ready to let the movie continue so we didn't reach one of those awkward silences when he said, "I don't suppose you've ever turned invisible?"

  "Is that real, too?" I was amazed. "Boy, you don't read about half this stuff! That would be very cool. Unless you actually had to be naked to use it. That would get seriously uncomfortable pretty quickly."

  "Another no, then."

  "I mean, I've felt invisible lots of times, but that's sort of the human condition, isn't it? I haven't ever actually been invisible. I'm pretty sure I'd know." I turned to look at him full-on. "Anything else I should consider?" It sounded like I was picking a power out of a catalogue — which would be pretty cool — but that wasn't how I meant it. I was enjoying this conversation and wanted it to keep going.

  "Hm. Any unusual healing abilities? You ever break a leg and have it heal in a week?"

  I shook my head, making a face.

  "Or are you the sort of person who never gets sick? There are degrees of that, of course, but if you're never sick, that could be something ESRB-related."

  "No, I catch the flu every year like clockwork, whether I get the shots or not." I made a face. "Hey, do you think immortality is real?"

  "Not so far as I've ever heard."

  "Maybe they like keeping it a secret?"

  "Maybe." He reached over and patted my knee. "I'm not really qualified for these sorts of questions, you know. I'm just spitballing with you."

  And touching my knee in a way that makes me uncomfortably turned on, I thought. Not that I'm keeping track of the things about you that turn me on. Damn, I needed to get laid.

  "That's fine," I managed. "It's an interesting conversation, and you know more than I do."

  "I'm still just a bodyguard."

  I shrugged and put the film back on so he didn't feel pressured to keep talking to me. The reminder was like a splash of cold water in the face. Here I was, treating him like a friend (a crush, my though
ts helpfully supplied; You're treating him like a crush, because that's what he is), when actually he was being paid to be here, no choice in the matter at all.

  We finished the movie, and I was yawning my head off, so I excused myself to the tiny bathroom, took a quick shower and changed into my pajamas, and then scuttled off to bed behind my bamboo privacy screen, feeling like an idiot. I really was trying, but probably not being very effective about hiding my crush. Hopefully, he could handle the cow eyes I was no doubt giving him every time I looked at him. He certainly seemed sturdy enough to take such things in stride.

  I wished I didn't have to feel that way about my attractions, as if I was inflicting myself on someone when I fell helplessly in crush with them. It was all right about actors and celebrities; they didn't have to know. But anyone in my real life I felt that way about, I always felt guilty on top of the soul-crushing pain of unrequited feelings. I knew I wasn't a catch, but I hated the thought of grossing out someone with my internal sighing over them.

  I'd been hoping that getting older would mean an easing of some of these sorts of things, not to mention a better financial position in life. But getting older without finding anyone who liked me back would also mean I was more likely to die alone, wouldn't it? So far, I hadn't had a lot of dates, experience, or excitement — and I kept getting older. Okay, so twenty-five wasn't the end of the road. It was just that my luck didn't seem to be improving any with time. If anybody had ever been in love with me, they'd sure as hell kept it quiet. Tossed into a well and cemented-over quiet.

  I couldn't imagine I'd get better-looking with age. It just didn't seem like my luck, or the way I was built. I was already pretty ordinary and a bit desperate; what would another ten years or so do to me? Thinking like this always made me unbearably sad. Maybe I should give in and get a pet — though, to be honest, I couldn't afford the rise in rent I'd have to pay.

  Sometimes I wished I'd been born really hot. There's only so much you can do about that, without lots of money or time to spend at the gym. I was, I reflected sadly, far too ordinary to stand out in any way. Except, apparently, for a risk of death related to the ESRB. But even that, not a very big one.

  #

  The next day, we were back at it again: rampant speculation about abilities. For all that this was his job, he certainly acted like he was interested in the discussion. Nothing about me seemed to bother him, or else that was just how his expressions worked. Anyway, over breakfast we discussed empaths, and on the drive in to the bookstore, we discussed memory manipulation.

  "I wish," I said with a snort. "Imagine all the embarrassing things about me I could make people forget!"

  "I imagine it would be used for more important things than that."

  "Never underestimate the power of embarrassment. Have you ever met anyone who could manipulate your memories or...or your thoughts?"

  "Not that I know of. But then, I wouldn't, would I?"

  This led to another round of profitably intriguing speculation and conversation, and by the time we got there, it seemed as though the drive hadn't lasted long enough.

  "I'll pick lunch today, and it's my treat," he told me as I parked.

  I made a face. "Ugh. You don't have to pity-treat me."

  "It's an expense," he parried. "Part of taking care of you."

  I grinned, liking that take on it. "Well, I wouldn't want to look cheap and easy."

  "Exactly." He shut the door and smiled at me over the top of my tiny car. "That's more like it."

  "Can I ask you a question?" I said as we headed in together.

  "I don't think you've stopped, have you?"

  "Funny." I scrunched my face at him. "What I mean is, why aren't you being, well, more circumspect about this? Anyone watching me would figure out you're hanging around an awful lot."

  "That's because I'm trying to protect you, not entrap someone. You aren't bait. If my presence scares off someone without my having to do anything, all the better." He cast me a careful look. "Unless you're wrong about the jealous ex, and my presence is exacerbating it."

  I do like a man who can use "exacerbating" in a sentence. "Bet you say that to all the boys," I said flippantly, and then felt myself flush. "Er, no, I don't — nothing like that."

  He smiled in a way I couldn't quite interpret, clapped me gently on the back, and headed off to the shopper side of the store, while I headed to the wrong side of the counter.

  It was a long day and I was on my feet for most of it, but I hardly noticed. I had so much to think about! I really wished there was more information out there about extrasensory abilities, but I could sort of understand why the ESRB might not want to bandy about too much information on people who could alter memories or turn invisible.

  It was scary to think of people like that wandering around, poking into other people's minds and lives. Creepy. And the last thing they'd want was some kind of witch hunt. After all, even people with weird and creepy powers had a right to life, and perhaps could do something really useful. Not that I'd want them doing it to me, you understand, but maybe there was a place in the world for mind control or invisible spies.

  I was just coming up with a pretty creative narrative (if I do say so myself) about a dashingly handsome man with mind-controlling abilities (who looked an awful lot like Neal, come to think of it, with his short stubble and strong chin and gray eyes, oh my), and how he used his powers for good, putting a stop to people breaking the law, reforming evil politicians, and basically inciting world peace, when lunchtime came around.

  Neal seemed cheerfully calm when he met me in the back room. "I've found an Italian place down the road. Gino's. Ever been?"

  I shook my head, taking off my green apron with the store's logo on it, there to make me look more professional. Gino's was out of my price range. If he was paying, it was fine with me whatever he chose. I hoped he hadn't forgotten about paying.

  "Let's go. Want me to drive?"

  "You don't mind being seen driving my car?" I asked, a little surprised.

  "If I don't mind being seen in the passenger seat, why would I mind driving? Besides, it's kind of...cute, for a little car. A little bit on the bumper car scale, but—"

  "Hey!"

  "But I'll still enjoy taking it for a test drive."

  "Well, what do you drive? A big, manly Jeep? No, wait, I know: you drive a Hummer, don't you?" I snorted, insulted on behalf of my car. "I'll have you know this doesn't use much gas, and it's a perfectly good car." That was about all that could be said for it, because it did have some issues: not great with potholes (practically fell in, to be honest), and less than great on icy roads. Also, repair bills tended to be expensive, because the parts were hard to find.

  "I drive a perfectly reasonable Toyota," said Neal, his grin showing he was getting a kick out of me.

  I'd probably drive one too, if I could afford it, but I'd gotten a good deal on this car used, and I had it now. It was definitely cheaper to keep driving it than replace it, at least until the next repair bill came around.

  "You just watch yourself," I told him. "Nobody gets away with mocking my car."

  "Ooh, sounds like we've found your hidden ability. Murdering car critics."

  I couldn't help myself; I burst out laughing. "Funny. You think you're funny," I said when I could contain myself.

  "You do, too. Obviously."

  There wasn't much to say about that. But I wished I could wipe that (hot) smirk off his mouth. Maybe by kissing him passionately. Or, you know, thinking of something witty to say in return. But preferably the first.

  At the restaurant, we chatted almost the whole way through the meal (which was amazing), ate all the bread sticks they gave us, and took sample bites off each other's main courses so we could try everything. In a word, it was far too much like a date for me not to get my stupid hopes up. I really had fun with him, and he certainly did a good impression of enjoying my company.

  But, then, that was probably all it was. This was a job to h
im, and having a nice lunch probably made it more tolerable (much better than yesterday's), but it didn't make it any less work for him, not really. But my hormones and my admittedly athletic imagination were having a field day. A very confused, confusing, and heart-throbbing field day.

  I needed to work on that, because, let's face it, my love life (or lack thereof) shouldn't really be my priority right now. The whole "not getting dead" and "maybe discovering a paranormal ability" should be a lot, and I mean a lot, higher up on my list of important stuff.

  I needed to get my head in the game, get my act together, and all the stuff people tell you to do when they mean well and you're acting like an idiot. Well, I could tell myself: I knew I was.

  Anyway, after lunch, I tried really hard to create some mental distance, throwing myself into work, telling myself sternly that there could never be anything between me and Neal, and to just stop thinking about it. Of course, that worked about as well as telling yourself not to think about something usually works, but it must have had some effect, because by the time I was ready to go home for the night, Neal actually asked me if something was wrong.

  "Nope," I said as firmly and distinctly as I could, ending the conversation there — or so I thought.

  "You were a lot more cheerful at lunch," he observed casually from the driver's seat. He'd enjoyed driving so much earlier that it seemed cruel not to let him again. Besides, he knew the way, and unlike me, he hadn't been on his feet all day dealing with the public.

  "I'm fine," I told him.

  "Nothing suspicious happened I should know about?" he prodded. "Obviously, I had to stay in the background, but it seemed like a couple of those customers were getting rather difficult."

  "That's retail for you." I looked out the window so I wouldn't focus on his hands on my steering wheel. And you know it's bad if watching someone drive can be a turn-on.

  "Okay, well, you let me know if there's something I should be let in on," he said, and finally let the conversation grind to a halt.

  Yeah, how would 'I have a super gay crush on you and I don't know how to deal with it' sound? You really want to hear that?