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He sits down, and for the first few seconds, neither of us seem to know what to say.
“You’re headed to work?” I ask.
He nods.
“What do you do?”
He scratches the back of his head.
“I’m an accountant.” He scrunches his nose. “Boring, I know.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s boring. Do you like it?”
“Yeah. I do forensic accounting, so it’s not that bad.”
“Forensic accounting?”
“We investigate fraud and bribery, money laundering—things like that. We look at financial records and transactions and trace assets. It’s like a puzzle. And it’s not just looking at tax records. Sometimes you have to interview somebody or analyze spending patterns.” He stops talking and licks his lips. “Sorry. I get defensive. My brothers make a lot of accountant jokes, so whenever a stranger asks me what I do, I just jump in with the assumption that they’ll do the same. Anyway, yeah, I like it. I get to see different sides of people. There was this one guy—he was going through a divorce, so we did a full analysis of his and his soon-to-be ex-wife’s assets—see, the guy thought he was a multimillionaire, but it turned out he was millions in debt.”
I raise my brows. “That can happen?”
He nods. “He was not pleased.”
“I can imagine.”
We both laugh as August continues telling stories of some of his more colorful clients. My stop comes way too quickly and I get up.
“Your stop?” he asks.
“Yeah, that was quick. Time just flew today.”
August nods seriously.
“I get that a lot. My accounting stories really are that amazing.”
He chuckles. It’s low and awesome and makes heat travel all through my body.
“See you later?” I ask before I’m forced to get off the train to go to a job I fucking hate.
His smile is brilliant. “Definitely.”
“Here,” I say two days later as I hand August a lunch container.
“What’s this?”
“I made scones. Chocolate and cherry. I went a bit overboard, so every surface at home is covered with them now. It’s an invasion. Save me from some of them?”
August laughs as he lifts the lid and inhales.
“Shit, this is what heaven must smell like.”
“I’m not sure I’d go that far, but they turned out okay. I’m not much of a baker, but scones are hard to screw up.”
“What caused the huge scone-baking operation?” August asks.
“I cook when I’m stressed. You should see my freezer. It’s filled to the brim.”
