"How would you know?"
"You show up every morning at five-thirty to open a shop that barely breaks even. You remember every regular's order and ask about their families. You create art in foam that lasts thirty seconds because you believe those thirty seconds matter. That's not settling. That's choosing to care about what most people consider disposable."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't process Callum Hayes—the man who'd spent more time criticizing my work than being pleasant—defending my choices with more conviction than I'd ever managed. Who was this guy and where was the stiff, zero-joy, black coffee drinker that bullied me every morning?
"Your turn," I said, voice rough. "Tell me things a girlfriend would know."
He set down his pen with deliberate care. "I'm forty years old. Divorced—my marriage ended eight years ago. I have a daughter, Elena, who's twenty and lives in California. My middle name is James. I grew up in Boston, went to MIT, moved here fifteenyears ago to start this firm with my business partner, Graham. I work seventy-hour weeks since I don't know how to do anything else. My apartment is in the same building as my office—commuting feels wasteful."
“You never leave this building? That’s depressing.”
"It's efficient."
"It's sad. When do you see friends? Have hobbies? Live?"
"I have dinner with Graham once a week. I run every morning. I read architectural journals."
"Architectural journals don't count as hobbies."
"They do if you enjoy them."
I leaned forward. "What do you do forfun, Callum? Real fun, not work disguised as recreation."
He met my stare, and for a moment I caught uncertainty shifting behind his control. Or loneliness.
"It's been a while since I thought about fun," he admitted.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Says the woman who just confessed she's terrified of wasting her life."
"At least I have fun while allegedly wasting it."
"Is that what you call working yourself to exhaustion at a job that doesn't appreciate you?"
"Mika appreciates me."
"Mika is your coworker. When was the last time you took a vacation?"
"When was the last time you smiled?"
"I smile."
"That thing you do with your mouth doesn't count."
"What thing?"
"That." I pointed at his face, where the corner of his mouth had curved up. "That's not smiling. That's your face malfunctioning."
"This is why our arrangement will work. We already know how to push each other's buttons."
I shook my head with a wry grin. "That's not romantic."
"It's not supposed to be. Besides, most couples lie to each other constantly."
"That's a terribly pessimistic view on love."
He quipped with a sardonic lift of his brow. "I think it's pretty accurate."
