“When you say anybody, are you talking about Oliver?”

“Anybody. Oliver, Dr. Terrance. Chris the doorman. You’ll be safest if you are the only person that knows about your security measures. I’m not saying Oliver’s not trustworthy, but he might tell his agent or his business partner, who might let it slip to someone else, and pretty soon everyone knows and there’s no use to having the security system.”

She mulls that over. “That makes sense, although I’m sure Oliver has nondisclosures with his people.”

“Better safe and all that. You won’t share, right?” I press. I want her assurance. It’s for her safety as much as it is for my peace of mind.

“I won’t share,” she repeats.

“Good, now let me tell you what I’m doing so you can visualize it.” I draw the bag over my head and start to pull out the sensors. “I’m placing these proximity sensors at the edges of the railing where they meet the brick of your building. There will be one on each side and two above your doors. These aren’t cameras, but ultrasonic sensors that detect objects based on the reflection of sound waves. They’re set to emit an alarm if waves reflected back create a significant mass. It won’t alert us if a feather or leaf drops in front of it, but a large rock or a body would set it off.”

“I sense a disturbance in the force, Luke,” she quotes.

I chuckle. “Yes, something like that. Although we have to use sensors instead of our Jedi powers.”

“The technology is basically making us Jedi-lite.”

I trowel on the adhesive to the back of the sensor as I respond, “I suppose, although Luke had more function in his prosthetic hand than anyone has currently.”

“How so?”

I affix the first camera with industrial-grade brick cement. It will take a chisel to dislodge. If she moves, I’ll come back and repair the exterior. “The signals that you can send from your brain to your prosthetic currently are only digital, not analog, meaning I can tell my hand to grip or release but not release more slowly. Think of a clock. Analog clock hands wind continuously around the face, whereas a digital clock simply flips the numbers. Those gradients can’t be achieved yet, which is why it’s hard to do fine motor tasks like draw, write, or even crack an egg. I can open a can of beer or unlock your car door or slip the token into the subway or apply adhesive cement to affix a sensor, but it’s harder to do things that require a fine or a delicate touch.”

She’s quiet, real quiet and I wonder if I’ve shared too much . . . if the idea of my prosthetic hand is too strange for her. I’ve dated women who were intellectually fine with the fact I had two stumps and two fake limbs, but at times when I touched them with one of my prosthetics, they’d recoil. It might be subtle, but it was there. Hard to get excited with a woman who didn’t want you to touch her a certain way.

I run a hand up my left arm, currently covered in the long sleeve of my knit shirt, and feel the industrial plastic underneath. Should I have waited to share with her? No. I walk determinedly to the other side. She either accepts me as I am or I’ll move on. I quickly finish installing the three other sensors.

Her soft voice breaks into my thoughts. “Is it really gauche of me to say I find that fascinating?”

No. Fuck no. I want to reject the feeling of relief, but it’s there. I like to think that I don’t give a fuck how people respond to me, because there’s nothing out there that I used to do in the past that I can’t do now, including bringing a woman to orgasm. Repeatedly. My dick’s not broken and I’ve got a damn strong tongue. But what Natalie thinks matters more than it should.

“Nope,” I answer, trying to keep my tone even and light.

“I think my brain works in digital too. Like I have problems opening the door when I don’t know who is on the other side, but when Chris or Jason, our doormen, let me know it’s them, I’m not afraid. As if they’ve cleared out the hallway of the infestation of people and all that is left is my food or package.”

“Sure. It’s the unknown that scares you. If you knew exactly what would happen, every minute of the future, then there’d be nothing to fear.” I finish up the install and continue explaining, “Now I’m placing the battery pack underneath your chair out here. The battery is the main power source, but if it’s turned off for any reason, the sensors have small solar panels and there will be enough residual juice to emit an alarm. The battery pack should be moved inside. The best thing that you could do, if possible, is to open your door after I leave and take the battery pack inside your house. Place it just to the left or right of your door and it should work perfectly.”

“I think that’s amazing. I think you’re amazing, and I’m trying really hard not to cry right now. I think crying is verboten on dates, right?”

“It can put a damper on things,” I reply dryly.

Inside, I hear her doorbell ring. “It’s Chris. He says he has a bag of something that smells awesome.”

“I left your food with him. Go get it.”

While she answers the door, I settle gingerly into the small chair. Thankfully, it holds my weight. From my bag, I pull out my own dinner. Three chicken breasts and plenty of veggies, courtesy of my sister. I pop off the plastic lid and dig in. It’s late and I’m hungry. I guess one of the advantages of not eating face-to-face is that she can’t see when I’m being rude. Even I know that starting to eat before the other person does isn’t well-mannered. Mom likes to say that I use being in the army as an excuse to forget everything she’s ever taught me. She’s only half wrong.

A long, loud screeching noise has me rising from the table and knocking on the glass door. “You okay in there?”

“Yes,” she says, slightly out of breath. “I was just pulling my coffee table over. I didn’t realize how heavy glass is.”

“Shit, you should have asked me, I’d have helped you move it.” My voice dies off at the end. That’d only happen if she could open the door. “Never mind.”

“I want to open the door. I really do.” Her voice catches on the last word.

I clench my jaw. “It’s nothing, sweetheart. Have a seat. Let’s enjoy our dinner.”

“This is bizarre.”

“Only if you want it to be.” I tear off a hunk of the chicken and shove it in my mouth. There are benefits to being out here. I don’t have to watch my manners and I can eat with my hands.

I hear the clink of a plate on the glass-topped table she has and then silence. I imagine she’s dumping her food out.

“God, this food smells great. Where did you get it?”

Bizarre or not, we’re having dinner. I smile with satisfaction and swallow another piece of chicken before answering.

“There’s a tiny little hole-in-the-wall near my place, with great Chinese food, reasonably priced. I think everyone in the four-block radius who knows about them keeps quiet so we can get in and out real fast.”

“Well, it’s delicious.”

“What’re you eating?” I told her, I’m a visual guy.

“My egg roll. Do you like them?”

“Don’t eat a lot of fried foods,” I admit.

“Everything tastes better when it’s fried,” she says. “I saw this one episode on television where they tested out all these different animals to see if they tasted like chicken. At first they fried all the stuff and admitted that the test wasn’t very challenging because everything that’s fried tastes good, even lizard. I suspect even poo would taste good fried.”

I nearly spit my chicken out when she says that. Laughing, I pause and take a long drink of water before I can catch my breath enough to answer. “Let’s just agree to assume, because I’m not willing to test it out.”

She chuckles. “What are you eating? Same Chinese?”

“A few chicken breasts. Some broccoli.”

“What? Why? Did being in the army kill your taste buds?” She sounds aghast. I hear her shift on the floor, the sound of fabric rubbing against wood as she finds a comfortable place for her ass on the big floor pillow I spotted sitting near the French doors.