I walked back into my office focused on that image. I imagined them laughing and talking, even reading poetry. The longer I imagined, the quicker my misguided feelings dissipated. I didn’t feel anything for Simon. A spark maybe, sure. But sparks didn’t have to turn into flames. They could be squelched in a second, put out with nothing but a drop of water or a tiny puff of air. I took a deep, cleansing breath. It felt good to be in control.

I turned my thoughts to Jamie. Surprising him. Taking him food I knew he’d appreciate. Feeling his arms around me and his lips on mine . . . yeah. I was good. I had the right Hamilton brother—no doubt about that.

Simon: Nikki Giovanni. Billy Collins. Henry Longfellow.

Jamie: ??

Simon: Those are poets Lane likes. You know, you could have just looked at the books on her office shelf. No real sleuthing necessary.

Jamie: Excellent. Guess I should have thought of that.

Simon: Don’t name-drop Giovanni. Lane wouldn’t buy it. Collins you can probably get away with, but Longfellow has been around the longest, so he’s your safest bet.

Jamie: Got it.

Simon: Also. I did some research. Nikki Giovanni is on the faculty at Virginia Tech, and she’s doing a signing at the university book store in September. That’s not too far away.

Jamie: This is very good information. Lane’s birthday is in September.

Simon: Well, there you go.

Chapter 10

I pulled into the parking lot of Jamie’s office just past 7:00 p.m. Office being a relative term. It was more like a giant warehouse. One large room. Exposed pipes and large steel beams running across the ceiling. Giant windows. I stepped off the service elevator that had clanked and clunked up to the top floor and stood at the edge of the massive space. A cluster of desks sat in the middle of the room. They were all empty, desk lamps turned off and chairs pushed in, save two on the end, where Jamie and Dave sat. Dave had his feet up on the desk, his head leaning back in his hands, while Jamie leaned over his laptop, his face close to the screen.

At the sound of the elevator, they both looked up.

Jamie smiled. “Lane?” He stood and walked toward me, meeting me in the middle of the room. He leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought food. When you said you were working late, I figured, well, a guy has to eat, right?”

He looked at the bag, then looked back at me. “Do I smell . . .”

“Pho? Yeah. It’s this new place on Franklin Street. Have you tried it?”

“I haven’t. I could seriously kiss you right now,” he said. “You brought me pho.”