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“What?”

“Hobbies.”

She blinked. “Are you asking about my hobbies?”

“Yes.”

“Knox Graves, are you trying to have a normal conversation?”

I stared.

She giggled. “Sorry. Continue.”

I sat across from her now on the floor, waiting for her to divulge her secrets.

“I like old books,” she said. “I like cooking. I like old movies.”

“Old movies?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

She smiled. “The dramatic ones. Seasonal love confessions. Romantic. They just do romance best.”

“Why?”

“Because people actually talk to them. I love the way they make me feel. So much tension, yearning, and angst. You hardly get that these days.”

I frowned.

“That makes no sense.”

“It does.”

She held up the book.

“Everything now is about rushing. Nobody sits with feelings anymore.”

I looked at her. That was probably why I understood her because I liked quiet things too. Things that didn’t demand anything.

“I restore old motorcycles.”

The words surprised both of us.

Her eyes widened. “You do?”

I nodded. “Sometimes.”

“That’s actually really cool.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“It’s fixing machines.”

“It’s bringing something broken back to life.”