“No,” I say. “No, it’s just…there are certain, um, categories of people we like to have on the show, you know, to make sure it’s a well-rounded group. All our contestants have a type, even if they say they don’t, so we want to make sure there’s a good mix of people and personalities, and ‘Brains,’ well, they’re the academic type. Smart and well read, and maybe a little nerdy. An intellectual, confident in their area of expertise.” I lift a shoulder. “It’s not a bad thing. Not at all. And it’s not the only way we look at casting, but it’s part of it.”
“Ah,” he says, a short, soft sound. He goes quiet again for a moment. “And you think that’s me? That I’m a ‘Brains’?”
“Oh.” The heat on my face spreads down my neck to my chest, covering every inch of my skin. “That’s what I thought, yes. The night we met.” I pause. “But if I’m honest, it was mostly because of the sweater.”
He laughs, and his voice is warm as he says, “It all comes back to that sweater.”
And I’m giddy, floating, when I respond, “I guess it does.”
We’re silent again, walking side by side, the inn coming into sight.
“You must be good at it,” he says. “Casting.”
“I don’t—I mean, I hope I am. I’ve been working on the show for a while now.”
“No,” he says. “You’re good at it.” The corner of his mouth rises. “Look how well you figured me out.” He pauses. “Is it always that quick? You just look at someone and know exactly who they are?”
“No, it’s—it’s not that I actually know them. It’s more of a…category, a type, a general sense of who they might be, but I’m not always right.”
He hums, then steps in front of me, opening the door to the inn, and I walk under his outstretched arm.
“And what about you?” he asks.
I turn as he follows me into the lobby.
“What about me?”
He watches me, his face open and gentle. “What category do you fit under?”
My body goes still.
Has anyone ever asked me that before?
“I—I don’t know.”
He takes a step closer to me, and his eyes are focused, intense, as they settle on mine. “Mind if I take a stab at it?”
I shake my head, my heart thudding in my chest.
“You’re kind,” he says. “Thoughtful. Even when others haven’t always been that way to you. You’re observant, picking up on things, drawing conclusions.” The corner of his mouth climbs up. “Your intuition is right most of the time, and that makes you a little stubborn, convinced that you’re right, because you so rarely turn out to be wrong.”
I inhale sharply, but he keeps going, not yet done dismantling me brick by brick.
“You see the world extremely clearly, fitting everything into neatboxes, but when you encounter something outside of that…it’s distressing. But you still try to puzzle it out, endlessly curious, wanting to explore, to decode the things you don’t understand. You’re adventurous, not scared of anything new, and fiercely independent, though maybe some of that’s intentional, a choice you’ve made, because the alternative is, well, frightening.” He pauses. “At least, it frightens me.”
“I—” My mouth parts, my blood racing. I want to run—back outside into the bracing cold, or upstairs where I can be alone, but also toward him, towardthis. This terrifying, exhilarating feeling that comes with being seen in this way.
Jacob’s hand rises to cup my cheek, and he’s sowarm. So soft that I can’t help but lean into him, lean into the way he’s holding me, gently, as if I’m something precious. Breakable.
He’s so careful, his movements deliberate as he ducks his head slowly until he’s my height, his bright eyes meeting mine.
“You’re aNeelu,” he says. “Complicated, and brilliant, and vulnerable, and so incredibly beautiful it hurts.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, and a wave of warmth goes throughme.
I want to reach out to him, want to hold him the way he’s holding me, but I can sense he’s not done, and I don’t want to stop him. I want to hear everything. I don’t want this to end.
“And maybe it’s not smart,” he says, his eyes flying back open, tender and full of fire at the same time. “But I’m so tired of pretending I think otherwise. I’m so tired of fighting this. So tired of pretending I don’t want you, that I don’t want to know every little thing about you. And I tell myself you’re leaving, that things are a mess, that I can’t—that we shouldn’t—but—”
