“You really think I’m that predictable?”
“I think you’re used to being the one pursued.”
“I think you’re projecting.”
She quirks an eyebrow, but the corners of her mouth lift. “Still charming.”
I wait for her to turn and leave, to give me a wave and disappear into the night.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she shifts her weight and tilts her head. “Are you hungry?”
I blink. “What?”
“There’s a bakery. Open all night. Their pastries will ruin you for all other pastries.”
It’s past midnight. I have a three-hour meeting block first thing tomorrow. And I’ve already had enough champagne to justify calling it a night. Also, I don’t eat baked goods.
“Yes,” I say.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a cramped vinyl booth across from her, watching her devour a pistachio-filled Danish like it’s a religious experience.
Her lipstick is smudged.
There’s a crumb in her hair.
She hasn’t looked at her phone once.
And I’ve never been more fucked.
I take a bite. And, okay, it’s objectively good. Maybe even phenomenal. Still—
“You’re aware that the ceiling in here is crumbling.”
She rolls her eyes. “It adds character.”
“And the lights are fluorescent.”
“So we see the pastries better.”
I lean back and watch her lick cream off her fingertip like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I can’t believe you eat here.”
“I don’t.” She shakes her head. “Not often. Only when something’s worth celebrating.”
“What are we celebrating?”
She looks up and gives me that smile of hers. I can’t quite decide whether she’s pitying me or just tired.
“I went out. I wore a dress. I danced. That’s worth a Danish.”
She is a puzzle to me. And that is infuriating and intriguing at the same time. “You’re hard to read.”
She grins. “You’re not.” She tears off another piece of pastry and pops it into her mouth.
The bell over the door chimes, and two college kids stumble in, laughing. The bakery hums with low conversation, and the scent of sugar and yeast and something deep-fried. Outside, a bus screeches by.
