“What’s your name?”
I must have blinked, remembering what she’d said about “transactional intimacy” and “professional boundaries,” and not getting too comfortable with one another. “Preston,” I said—tentatively, hesitantly, and swallowed. “Preston Stokes.”
“Preston Stokes,” she repeated, and seemed to think about it. “No—no, that’s not you. It’s too ... Preston’s a soldier’s name—or a wealthy industrialist’s. You’re more of a ...”
I raised an eyebrow, like Mr. Spock. I thought it might make her laugh.
“Lucas. I’m going to call you Lucas.” She kissed me suddenly. “And you can call me Lana; which may or may not be my real name.” She kissed me again—just a peck, but it may as well have been the world. “Lucas and Lana.”
“Lucas and Lana,” I repeated—and smiled. “There it is.”
And we chuck
