“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first.”

“Babe, I didn’t believe me at first.” In a natural gesture he reached across the table to take her hand. “Tell me, what do people do here on a date?”

“Well, they . . .” His thumb was skimming over her knuckles in a way that made her pulse unsteady. “They go to movies or restaurants.”

“I want to kiss you again.”

Her eyes darted up to his. “I don’t really think—”

“Don’t you want me to kiss you?”

“If she doesn’t,” the waitress said as she plopped their pizza in front of them, “I get off at five.”

Grinning, Cal slipped a slice of pizza onto a paper plate. “She’s very friendly,” he commented to Libby, “but I like you better.”

“Terrific.” She took a bite. “Are you always obnoxious?”

“Mostly. But I do like you, a lot.” He waited a beat. “Now you’re supposed to say you like me, too.”

Libby took another bite and chewed it thoroughly. “I’m thinking about it.” Taking her napkin, she dabbed at her mouth. “I like you better than anyone I’ve met from the twenty-third century.”

“Good. Are you going to take me to the movies?”

“I suppose I could.”

“Like a date.” He took her hand again.

“No.” Carefully she removed it. “Like an experiment. We’ll consider it part of your education.”

His smile spread, slow, easy and undoubtedly dangerous. “I’m still going to kiss you good-night.”

***

It was dark when they returned to the cabin. More than a little frazzled, Libby pushed open the door and tossed her purse aside.

“I did not make a scene,” Cal insisted.

“I don’t know what they call being asked to leave a theater where you come from, but around here we call it making a scene.”

“I simply made some small, practical comments about the film. Haven’t you heard about freedom of speech?”

“Hornblower—” Stopping herself she held up a hand and turned to the cupboard to get the brandy. “Talking throughout the picture about it being a crock of space waste is not exercising the Bill of Rights. It’s being rude.”

With a shrug, he plopped down on the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table. “Come on, Libby, all that bull about creatures from Galactica invading Earth. I have a cousin on Galactica, and he doesn’t have a face full of suction cups.”

“I should have known better than to take you to a science-fiction movie.” She sipped the brandy. Then, because she decided it was as much her fault as his, she poured another snifter. “It was fiction, Hornblower. Fantasy.”

“Rot.”

“All right.” She passed him the snifter. “But there were people in the theater who had paid to watch it.”