“Well, I’d never be caught dead dating a finance bro, so…” I crossed and uncrossed my legs, which were still sweaty, under the table, kicking his shin in the process. “Sorry,” I said. “About kicking you just now. Not about the finance-bro comment.”
He waved my apology off with his hand, which was lean and muscular. Could hands be muscular? I’d never even considered this before, but his most definitely were. And again, I was remembering the feel of his hands on my back as he’d braced me on the train. Now it was my turn to blush.
“Do I come across like a bro?” He edged forward in his seat, his brow furrowed but not angry. He seemed genuinely curious that this was what I thought of him.
“I mean—you wear suits to work, you’re on some Forbes list, you have a last name for a first name. I’m just hypothesizing here, but you probably also played lacrosse in high school and graduated from an Ivy League college.”
“Soccer,” he replied, raising one of those beautifully lush brows. “And I definitely didn’t go to an Ivy.”
“Oh yeah? Where’d you go?”
“Stanford. And Cal for grad school.”
I raised my hands in defeat, flopping them in my lap. Those schools may not be in the Ivy League, but they sure as hell were just as hard to get into. Was he for real?
“Look, let’s just pretend this whole thing never happened, okay?” I poured a bit more coffee into my mug, and then another generous slug of cream. “I mean, you’re not wrong. This”—I gestured between us—“would never be a thing.”
He nodded in agreement, though there was a slight flush to his cheeks, and he looked away as he responded. “I think we can both agree that the girl who thought we were QTs was a total idiot.”
“Oh, completely. We are not QT material.” I leaned back in my chair and looked over to where a tween girl was modeling some sort of sundress for Pete and Jenna.
“I’m sorry you were let go from your job.” His voice was softer, almost kind. “But it’s great you’ve already started your own business.”
“Yeah, that’s me!” I said, mustering up some faux confidence. “Always on to the next risky thing. I’m excited to…go out on my own for a bit. See how it feels to work for myself.”
“So you decorate rooms, then? Buy furniture for people?”
“Not exactly,” I said, and for the first time today I could feel genuine excitement hitch in my chest. I loved talking about interior design. “That’s what everyone thinks, but it’s about more than just decorating. It’s about creating experiences. Capturing and expressing and inspiring emotions within an environment.”
He nodded. “My mom’s been trying to get me to hire someone to decorate my apartment for years now. She says it lacks personality.”
“Let me guess.” I studied him—looking at his face, his suit, the slight curl in his hair like I would a floor plan.
“Leather couch. Probably expensive. Coffee table. Modernist, sleek, black. No dresser in your bedroom. Neutral-color sheets. You keep meaning to hang art on your walls, but you haven’t yet, and—let’s be honest—you probably never will.”
He shrugged and took a sip from his mug and then raised it toward me, a toast to my skills. “You’re good,” he said. “I bet you’re already in high demand.”
I just nodded, pretending like he was right on the nose. “That’s why I do what I do, and you do…whatever it is you do.”
He cleared his throat. “Have you read any good books lately?”
I cocked my head to the side. “Why? Do you need a recommendation?”
He shrugged. “I was just curious about what you like to read.”
I thought for a moment and then perked up. “Ooooh, do you like cults?”
He appeared very confused by this question. “Why would anyone like cults?”
“Not, like, in a join ’em way,” I explained. “Reading about them.”
He shook his head, giving me another perplexed look.
“Okay, fine.” I let out a sigh, giving up on the cult-book recommendation. “What was the last thing you read?”
“A book called Getting Things Done,” he replied. “It’s about productivity. People are obsessed with it. There are all these meet-ups and classes you can go to for it. I had lunch with a client the other week who told me it changed his brain.”
“So it’s…” I motioned with my hand, trying to get him to finish my sentence, but he didn’t bite. Fine. “A cult.”