Underdead Read Free Page A

everywhere but at him. We were practically alone out there, and with this man I definitely needed a chaperone. I snuck a glance at Will from under my lashes. He seemed far away, an odd look on his face I couldn’t interpret.
    The silence became too much for me and I had to say something, anything—so long as it was witty, clever and engaging.
    “I’m afraid I’m not very good at small talk,” I said.
    Jeez.
    “That’s all right, we don’t need to talk.” He gave me a lazy, slightly wicked smile that made me clutch the railing for support.
    For some reason I couldn’t explain—maybe I was on auto-stupid-pilot—I did the only thing that could make it worse. I launched into a long, unnecessary explanation.
    “I’ve never been good at small talk; I never know what to say. That’s why I usually avoid this sort of place. You’re not supposed to discuss anything controversial, intellectual, or personal. Pretty much anything worth discussing is taboo. Why can’t people talk about something interesting when they meet, like…” I threw up my hands. “I don’t know, what book they’re reading? Instead you’re stuck with insipid and inane topics like the weather and that hardly varies in Southern California. Oh, never mind,” I said, a little confused myself at how it had come out.
    Will regarded me narrowly, as if I were a kitten that had suddenly sprouted horns, and took a step back. Great. Maybe, if I was lucky, the Earth would open up and swallow me whole.
    When he finally spoke, it was the last thing I would have expected.
    “If you cannot think of anything appropriate to say you will please restrict your remarks to the weather.” Then he smiled, a genuine full-blown grin. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and relaxed back against the railing.
    “I see you know your Jane Austen. I suppose you saw the movie.”
    “I read the book, too.”
    “You’re kidding, right?” I’d never met a man—a straight man anyway—outside the occasional English teacher forced to include Austen in his curriculum, who had read Sense and Sensibility , much less was willing to admit to it.
    “Had sisters, growing up.” He shrugged and lean muscles moved under his shirt.
    “Tell me then, Jo, who finds small talk inane, have you read anything interesting lately?” He spoke nonchalantly but watched me keenly, as if my answer mattered.
    All I could think of was the half-finished mystery on my nightstand and the pile of Regency romance novels I bought for a quarter at the library and hoarded in a pile under my bed for particularly nasty days. Judge me when you start teaching thirteen-year-olds.
    “What genre?” I asked, stalling shamelessly.
    His eyes took on a challenging glint. “I’ve been reading some intriguing works by Rousseau on the nature of society. But we can discuss whatever genre you like.”
    French philosophy? Great. That’s what you get for being such a babbling prude , I told myself. No doubt it was karmic payback for my stupid theory about his intelligence. “Why don’t we start with Jane Austen and work our way up to solving the world’s problems.”
    I half expected him to turn away in disgust, but he laughed good-naturedly and we proceeded to discuss books. As he appeared to have read everything ever written, the conversation drifted all over the place. The enclosed porch filled and emptied several times, though I barely noticed the other people. We might have talked for ten minutes or ten hours.
    I was lightly lampooning his theory that Utopia could exist outside the pages of literature when the conversation took an abrupt right turn.
    “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked.
    It was the worst pick-up line since “Hey, baby, what’s your sign”.
    I didn’t realize I’d said the words out loud until he gave a small shake of his head and said, “You misunderstand me. I’m asking whether you believe our lives are governed by fate or free will.”
    I let out a breath of