He set down his pen, leaned back in his chair. "This won't work if you can't take it seriously."
"This won't work if you can't relax." I crossed my legs, watched his gaze drop then snap back up. "We started dating after you came in one morning and actually complimented my latte art. I was so shocked I said yes when you asked me to dinner."
"I would never compliment your latte art."
"Hence my shock."
"Willow—"
"Do you want a believable story or not? People who know you will find it strange that you grew a personality and asked me out. The compliment gives you a reason."
He watched me, those gray eyes seeing more than I wanted them to. "Fine. I complimented your work. You agreed to dinner. Where did I take you?"
"Somewhere expensive and pretentious where the menu doesn't have prices."
"I'm not pretentious."
"You wear cufflinks to a coffee shop."
"I wearcufflinks to work. The coffee shop is on my way."
"You order black coffee and judge people who add flavor."
"I order black coffee to appreciate quality beans. Your espresso blend doesn't need enhancement."
That stopped me. "You... appreciate my espresso blend?"
"It's excellent. Single-origin Ethiopian, if I'm not mistaken. Floral notes, medium acidity, clean finish." He picked up his pen again. "I took you to Marcello's. Italian, upscale but not ostentatious. We shared the burrata and you ordered the carbonara."
"How do you know what I'd order?"
"You always arrive at the shop smelling faintly of garlic and cheese on Wednesdays. I assume that's your day off and you cook Italian, but you still pop in to make sure things are running well."
I stared at him. "You notice what I smell like on my day off?"
"I notice details. It's part of my job."
"Noticing what your fake girlfriend smells on her day off is not part of your job."Also, if I smell like garlic and cheese, is that a good thing?
"It is now." He made another note. "What else do I need to know?"
"About what?"
"You. Your life. The things a boyfriend would know after six weeks."
Right. We'd spent a year trading barbs over a coffee counter but I didn't actually know anything real about him. Didn't know his favorite food or his middle name or about his marriage that ended.
"My favorite color is green," I said. "The specific shade of new leaves in spring. I'm allergic to shellfish but I lie about it whenever I can get away with it—admitting allergies embarrasses me. I panicked halfway through my physical therapy program and dropped out. My parents are disappointed but too polite to say so directly. I read romance novels and cry at parades. I believe in love for other people but not so much for myself because people suck and judging by my past boyfriends, my picker is broken.”
Honesty tumbled out, more raw than I'd intended. Callum wrote without looking up. "Keep going."
In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose.
“All right, let’s see, I’m terrified I'm wasting my life," I continued, unable to stop now that I'd started. "That Devon was right and I lack ambition. That managing a coffee shop is settling, not choosing. That I'm twenty-three and already behind everyone else my age. At the end of bad shifts, I eat my feelings in ice cream. Chocolate, specifically. And somedays,I bed-rot all day because I can’t bring myself to do anything else.”
Callum's pen stopped. He looked up, and I caught an unexpected softness crossing his face.
"Devon was an idiot," he said. "And you're not behind. You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
