“You want to make out on the couch?” I nodded my head toward the uncomfortable couch on the other side of the office and raised my eyebrows suggestively. Bette laughed and looked at me, brushing the hair out of my eyes.

“Maybe some other time,” she said and then looked back down at her desk. She shuffled the papers again, frowning.

“You’re not behind schedule or anything, are you?” I asked her.

“No, no…” She bit her lip and shook her head. “We’re not. That’s what worries me. If we’re going to have a crisis, it’d be nice to have it now instead of two or three days before the opening.”

“Well, what if you don’t have a crisis at all?”

She gave me the sort of look you’d give someone if they had suggested that procreation with alien species was not only a possibility, but in the near and foreseeable future. “It never works out that way, Alice.” She didn’t elaborate. I looked into her eyes and knew it was because she just assumed I wouldn’t understand.

I cleared my throat, pulling away from her and examining the floor. “Uh, what’d you order…”

“Oh.” She smiled apologetically at me. “I’m not going to be able to make it for dinner, either. I’m having dinner with a few artists and…” I must have looked offended because she added quickly, “I mean, you’re welcome to come along, but I think you’ll be bored, so…”

That was bullshit. I waved my hands to quiet her. “It’s okay.”

“Just tonight, though. And maybe tomorrow.”

“Ah.” I tried for levity. “Well, you could always come over after and we could… make out on the couch.”

Bette laughed again. “That I can do.”

“Okay.”

“We received a shipment of some artwork today. There’s nowhere to keep it, so we have it in storage.” She took my hand and gestured toward the crate in the corner of the office. “I asked them to put one in here.”

“Uh, why?” I asked, as she dragged me toward the crate. “Is it gonna be stolen or something?”

“Well, I think it’s pretty fantastic,” she said, pulling the top of the crate off, “so there’s always that risk.”