I wanted to reach across the table and rip the criminally pleased expression right off his face. Instead, I stabbed my finger toward the notebook. “Keep reading.”
“Fine.” He scanned down the list. “Guilty pleasure: going to the hospital nursery and planning a future for each baby.” His head snapped up, eyebrows raised so high I thought they might disappear into his hairline. “You should feelveryguilty about doing that.”
I blinked, affronted. “Why? It’s cute.”
“No,” he said slowly, weighing every syllable. “It’s not cute. It sounds like something psychopaths do to their victims before they kill them.”
“I’m imagining tiny humans growing up to be astronauts and ballerinas. That’s not psychopathic, that’s—optimistic.”
“It’s disturbing.” He leaned back in his chair, giving me that vexing, unreadable look. “Completely unhinged behavior. Which, I’m starting to discover, is pretty on-brand for you.”
“Unhinged?” I scoffed, folding my arms. “You’reunhinged. At least my guilty pleasure doesn’t involve—what—alphabetizing spices and staring broodingly out of windows?”
“Alphabetizing spices is efficient. And brooding is a lifestyle choice.” His eyes flicked down. “Favorite meal: pancakes at midnight. Soft spot for hospital vending machine coffee. Secret hobby: taking pictures of sunsets.”
“Don’t say it like that,” I snapped.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s stupid. Like I’m some open-book cliché you can analyze for fun. Like I’m some basic, shallow ditz who walks around with her head in the clouds, taking pictures of skies and pretending they mean something.”
He tilted his head at my outburst, the picture of peak judgment, and I instantly wished I could bite my tongue off. The words had slipped out before I could stop them, and now they hung there—awkward, pointed, idiotically revealing.
It was misdirected anger, landing squarely on the wrong person. If my brain was my greatest gift, then my heart was my most consistent liability—loud, impulsive, forever hijacking my mouth before my critical thinking skills could catch up. It was pathetic, really, how five seconds with my mother could rearrange my entire anatomy and turn logic into static. Turn emotion into defense. Turn me into someone who felt like a culmination of everything she’d taught me to hate about myself.
He studied me for a long moment, the teasing stripped from his expression. His eyes darkened, deepened—like they were sucking every detail I hadn’t meant to give away, every secret I’d left between the lines of that ridiculous, color-coded notebook. “You wrote it down, Lillian. Not me.”
I swallowed hard, the air suddenly too thick. For a second, I almost forgot why I didn’t like him.
Almost.
“Just...memorize it. That’s all I need from you.”
“This is surface-level stuff. Favorite color, coffee order, your vendetta against men under six feet.” He pushed the notebook back across the table. “It doesn’t prove that we know each other.”
“It proves enough. It proves we won’t get caught.”
“You mean it proves we’ll sound rehearsed.”
“That’s the point,” I shot back. “Sarah doesn’t need our souls. She needs bullet points.”
“You really think relationships can be boiled down to bullet points?”
“This isn’t a relationship,” I said, stabbing the menu with my finger for emphasis. “This is a business transaction with occasional dinners where you insult my wardrobe choices.”
“Then you should at least be grateful I’m putting in the effort to make our fake love story convincing.”
“Oh, believe me. I’m positively swooning.” Then I added, “You should give me some of yours, too.”
“There’s no need. No one’s going to be grilling you.”
I shook my head. “Of course. God forbid Khalifa stoop to the indignity of being known.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what youmeant. Honestly, it’s no wonder someone with a personality like yours doesn’t have any friends.”
Something flickered across his face—quick, like a match struck and blown out before it could catch. Then the waiter appeared at our table, pad in hand, saving him from answering.
