I step back, shoving both hands in my back pockets. "This feels invasive."
"Couples know these things. If Victoria asks about your childhood pet, I need to know the answer."
"I had a goldfish named Mr. Darcy. He died heroically saving me from ... absolutely nothing. He just died."
Adrian makes a note.
"Are you actually writing that down?"
"Mr. Darcy. Goldfish. Died heroically," he repeats, completely serious.
I can't tell if he's messing with me or actually this meticulous. Both options are equally disturbing.
"We should continue this over lunch. I'm hungry, and I assume you are too," Adrian says. "There's an Italian place nearby I've researched."
"You researched restaurants, too?"
"I research everything."
"That must be exhausting."
He considers this. "Sometimes."
The drive into the nearby town feels different from this morning's drive out. We've crossed some invisible threshold, and neither of us quite knows what that means yet.
The restaurant is small, a charming Italian place with exposed brick walls and tables tucked into intimate corners. Adrian made reservations. Of course he did.
The hostess leads us to a corner booth, candlelight flickering between us. So romantic, but then I notice that it is an LED candle. Fake. We sit facing each other, and the waiter brings water, takes our drink orders. When the wine arrives, it's actually perfect—rich and velvety, not too dry. I'm not even a wine person since I prefer my ciders and champagne, but I admit this is good.
Adrian pulls a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket. Oh my God. He really is writing everything down. I'm torn between amusement and horror. "Are you serious right now?"
"Completely." He clicks his pen. "We need to know the basics. Favorite color?"
"That specific green on old Penguin paperbacks," I answer without hesitation.
"Allergies?"
"Seafood, particularly lobster."
He writes this down in neat, controlled handwriting. "What did you want to be when you grew up?"
"A librarian." I watch him write, finding it oddly endearing how seriously he's taking this. I hate that I find it endearing. "Your turn. Tell me about growing up."
He looks up, surprised. "Aren't you going to write anything down?"
"I just will," I say with more confidence than I feel. "Tell me about growing up."
Something about my confidence in remembering seems to touch him. He sets down his pen.
"Upper East Side childhood. Private schools, then boarding school from fourteen to eighteen." He pauses. "My father is Judith's partner, semi-retired now."
"And your mom?"
A shadow crosses his face. "Caroline. She died when I was twelve."
My heart constricts. "I'm sorry about your mom."
"It was twenty years ago."
