“So I owe my presence here to a dead satirist? I’ll take it.” I take a sip of my own water, trying to get rid of the dryfeeling in my mouth before I continue, “I sometimes feel like there should be a support group. ‘Hi, I’m Devin, and I’ve readSlaughterhouse-Fivefifteen times.’”
“Fifteen?” His gorgeous green eyes light up behind his glasses. “Amateur. I’ve read it at least twenty-three times.”
“Twenty-three?”
“I had a phase in university where I read it every time I had an existential crisis, which was…frequently.”
“Kurt Vonnegut is a great choice for an existential crisis,” I say.
“I know.”
He meets my gaze.
“So it goes,” we both say at the same time.
His smile starts slow, but spreads across his face like honey on warm toast. Gradual but inevitable.
I’m pretty sure mine is more instantaneous but just as intense.
Oh my god, oh my god.
This is happening. It’s really happening.
I feel almost giddy.
I swallow my excitement and try to get my voice to sound normal.
“So, Travis, who reads Kurt Vonnegot an unhealthy amount—because in my opinion, fifteen times is normal, but twenty-three is just extreme—what else should I know about you? What do you do for a job?”
“I’m a structural engineer.”
I nod. “I can see that.”
His eyebrow rises. “Do I give out engineering vibes?”
“Well, the way you’ve rearranged your cutlery and napkin around your plate like they’re in military service does make me think you have a deep need for order.”
He looks down at his place setting and gives a small chuckle.
He raises his gaze to mine, and we grin foolishly at each other again. My heart does something that would probably concern a cardiologist.
“Let me guess,” I say, “you were the kid who built elaborate LEGO cities with working traffic patterns.”
“Close. I built model bridges and tested their weight capacity with my mom’s books. What about you? What do you do for a job?”
“I’m a graphic designer.”
He gives me a slow once-over, and it causes my skin to tingle.
“I can see that.” He repeats my own words with a small smirk.
“You can see that I’m a graphic designer from my outfit?”
“Yes. Well, there are clues. Your watch is the exact shade of teal that Pantone named Color of the Year last year. You’re wearing four colors that technically clash but somehow work together, and you’ve cuffed each of your sleeves exactly twice, perfectly even on both arms.”
I blink. “Wow. You pay close attention to details.”
“I’m a details guy.” He fidgets with his fork. “Does that bother you?” He raises those green eyes to mine with a small frown, like that personality trait has been a problem for him in the past.
