“Fine. In that case, give me all the gritty, nasty details.” He holds out the plate, waiting for me to grab an arancino. “You know, the way nobody does on a date. Really let me see what I’mnotmissing out on.”
“The worst I have to offer?”
“Exactly.” His hair, a dark brown so deep it almost looks black if it isn’t hit by direct light, keeps falling over his eyes, but he doesn’t seem bothered. My hand itches to tuck it back. “Why should I be glad this isn’t a date? The floor’s yours.”
I fill my plate with bruschetta, realizing I am really and truly starving.
“I’m a mess,” I say, though I probably give it away by speaking with my mouth full. “There isn’t one corner of my house that isn’t constantly infested with socks. I forget to eat and drink, have never ironed a single shirt in my life, and my fridge looks like it hasn’t been cleaned out since the last ice age. Because I also don’t know how to cook.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Life’s messy. No point in being put-together.”
“Right.” I bite into the arancino, barely stifling a moan. Am I having afoodgasm? “And I have a weird cat that I’ll always love more than any man.”
He shrugs. “I’ll never love anyone more than my pet tarantula.”
My eyes bulge. “Petwhat? You’re kidding, right?”
“Hairy Houdini—may he rest in peace.”
I exhale in relief. “Oh, it’s dead.”
He sets his fork down, his lips pressed into a flat line as he playfully glares. “Insensitivity. Another quality people don’t exactly elbow their way through crowds for.”
“I’m also broke. I have a job that Iadorebut that will never make me rich.”
“Hmm. You must be an artist.”
I’ve never thought of myself as one, but I guess I am. “Yes.”
“The messy bit makes sense, then. Artists can’t tolerate reality.”
“Or survive it.”
He seems to be hanging on my every word, holding a bruschetta but not eating it, as if he can’t afford the distraction.
“I’m a bookworm. Parties aren’t for me. Conversations aren’t exactly my strong suit, either. I work alone, live alone, and function bestalone.”
He leans back, setting the platter down. “So, your ideal night is spent in a nest of socks, avoiding human interaction, reading until you forget to eat?”
“Exactly,” I say, shoving the remaining half of my arancino into my mouth. “If that’s not the dream, I don’t know what is.”
He laughs and, noticing my plate is empty, holds out the arancini platter again.
“Your turn,” I say.
“Hm? Oh. I believe everyone with good taste should date me.” Watching my unimpressed gaze, he drinks a sip of wine, then sets down his glass. “Fine. Let’s see, uh… I’m stubborn. I’ve been told I could argue with a brick wall and come out convinced I won.” He shrugs like it’s a point of pride. “And I have no patience for fluff. I’d take blunt honesty over polite nonsense any day.”
“Would you?” I ask. Then, with an overly polite tone, I add, “Spiders are gross, and I’m glad your tarantula is dead.”
His eyelashes flutter dramatically. “I’m lovestruck.”
“Come on,” I insist. “Give me something good.”
“Okay, okay. Let me think.” He leans in, drumming his fingers against the table. “You really don’t want to talk to me before my coffee.”
“So, part-time grumpy and stubborn. Anything actually terrible?”
“I hog the blankets. And I’m not sorry about it. It’s a survival instinct.”
