“Whataboutme?” I repeat.
“You said you’re from Tennessee?”
“Oh. Yeah, I’m from Nashville.”
“Are you a fan of country music?”
I tilt my head from side to side in consideration. “Middle of the road, I’d say. My dad’s a songwriter. He’s done some Billboard hits for a few big-name country artists, but lately he’s been into writing folk and bluegrass.”
“And your mom?”
“Died when I was six.”
His shoulders point toward me, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. His lips part in careful hesitation before he says, softly, “Mine too, when I was eleven.”
“Cancer?” I guess, my heart pinching for him.
“Yeah. Ovarian.”
“Lung.”
Alex smiles, just a little. “There it is.”
“What?”
“Our thing in common.”
I snort. “How maudlin.”
Alex shrugs. “So it goes.”
“Got any allergies?” I ask. “That’s a much less depressing thing to have in common.”
“None.”
“Must be nice,” I growl.
Alex smirks. “Tell me them.”
“You got three hours?”
“Then make me a copy of your spreadsheet,” Alex says. “I know you have one. It’s probably color coordinated, each allergen listed by category and subcategory, cross-referenced against level of severity.”
My mouth opens and closes like a guppy fish. “You’re… not wrong.”
He laughs deeply, tilting his head back. There are two buttons undone at the top of his shirt. (I’m pretty sure only one of them was unbuttoned when we left work, but anyway.) Beneath it, I catch a glimpse of his chest. “Come on. I need to know, or I might accidentally kill you, which would be a travesty, because then who would approve my expense reports?”
“I’m allergic to your expense reports.”
“Impossible. I annotate everything, follow protocol to the letter. All for you, Casey.”
The way Alex says my name, in that clear New England accent, is different than I grew up being used to. Most people from home lazily roll the vowels in my name, but Alex says them like he’s doing it on purpose.
“Yeah, well,” I grumble. “You once handed me a file folder that kind of smelled like peanut butter.”
His smile falters. “Seriously, have I ever triggered anything?”
I debate joking that his very presence gives me hives, but I spare him the played-out sarcasm and admit, “I’m allergic to most fragrances, but we’d have to be practically necking for your cologne to have any effect on me.”
