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while it booted up. Thankfully, Jared hadn’t left the speakers on, so the process completed soundlessly. She eased onto the sleek leather and steel chair.
    Great monitor . It was about twice as large as her laptop—he probably kept multiple programs open and shifted back and forth. She scanned through the list of programs. Impressive stuff, but beyond her capabilities—currently, anyway.
    Mmm, here’s one . Two clicks, and it launched. After playing with the various options, her hands-on way of learning software, she tested it in earnest. Internet searches provided stills of breakup scenes from classic movies. She then downloaded shots from films depicting wastelands, or devastation.
    The perfect juxtaposition—heartache and war. Hope his sense of humor’s as weird as mine . Easy enough to place them in sequence, and she figured out how to fade each image in and out for a smooth transition. The pièce de résistance—the clip of Lauren Bacall walking away from Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. Instead of end credits, she added a text overlay: Don’t let this happen .
    The run-through of the crude video lacked something. A soundtrack . A quick search, and she found a site offering copyright-free music. Another few minutes, and she downloaded a melodramatic piece, then inserted it into the audio section of the mini-movie she’d created.
    After it played, elation lifted her up from the chair. Fists pumping in the air became a full-on chicken dance of victory. “Oh yes! This will do it.”
    “Do what?” Jared asked from the doorway.
    She whirled and froze, wisps of hair caught in her open mouth. She flicked them away. “Hey. I thought you were sleeping.”
    He shuffled toward her. “I woke up. You were gone.”
    “I was here.” She moved in front of the computer screen. Now its large size didn’t seem such a good thing.
    “Getting a jump on your first project?” He craned to peer past her.
    She shifted to block his view. “Not exactly.”
    “I see, a secret.”
    “No, sit down. I think it’s ready.” God, he’s going to think I’m a maniac . Her excitement bubbled up anyway.
    Eyes narrowed, he cocked his head. “Are you sure you want me to see it?”
    “Yes, I made it for you. Sit.” She patted the chair. “But close your eyes until I set it up, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    A few clicks and the homemade clip was ready to play. “All set?”
    “Fire away.”
    A glance back made her pause. Hair rumpled, wearing only boxers, he looked so sexy, she almost drooled. Oy . “Here goes nothing.” Another tap of the mouse launched the video, and she stepped behind him.
    Stock still, he watched the full three minutes without a word. Whoever said the suspense was killing them could have described Susan’s agony, waiting for a reaction from him. Why isn’t he laughing? It’s ridiculous. It’s funny.
    Or merely laughable .
    At the end, when Bacall tearily pleaded with Bogart not to send her away, he flinched once, and sat up a little straighter. The text ending floated onto the monitor, then faded.
    She braced and winced, still waiting.
    He scratched his cheek. “You just made this?”
    “Yes. For you.”
    “For me.” He gave a kind of a choked huff.
    He hates it . “I know it’s awful. It was supposed to be a joke. My sense of humor’s a little off.”
    “I love it.”
    Did his voice break? “You do?” Then why won’t he look at me?
    “How could I not? The end of Gone with the Wind spliced with Godzilla destroying Tokyo? Brilliant.”
    She plopped onto his lap. “Don’t tease…hey.”
    He turned his head, but not before she glimpsed the wetness around his eyes.
    “That bad, huh?”
    “It’s seriously the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
    “I had to make it up to you for upsetting you earlier. For bringing up,” she shrugged. “you know.” When he began to argue, she added, “Let me explain, Jared. For the past two years, since Brett left me, no matter what I did or where I went,