“I know, I know. That’s one I should remember going forward.” I shoot him a look. “But I’m telling you right now, I refuse to say skooshy cream.”
“Come on,” he rumbles, his accent thicker than usual. “At least it’s better than squirty cream.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Is it?”
He laughs again, taking my bag out of the trunk.
Jacob’s apartment—flat—is simple and lived-in. Dark neutrals, grays and browns, and wooden bookcases. Everything is neat, organized, put in its place, except for a desk in the corner that is covered with a haphazard stack of papers.
“Don’t ask,” he says, pushing me away from it when he catches me looking.
“But what is—”
“Shhh.”
He settles his hands around my waist, leading me into the kitchen, where he says he’ll show me the culinary prowess he was bragging about in the car, but we didn’t grocery shop and we’re tired, so we end up settling on the couch, scrolling for delivery instead.
I look back at the desk. “Is it really some big secret?”
He sighs, stretching his feet out on the ottoman. “You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?”
“Nope.” I grin. I scoot closer, and he stretches out an arm, pulling me against him.
It’s nice. Domestic. Like we’ve been doing this for years.
“I’m working on a collection,” he says. “Of poetry. And it’s—it’s a mess right now. I printed everything I ever wrote and I’m trying to sort through all of it before the semester starts, but I’m—I was—having a hard time with it.”
“Anything I can help with?” I ask, and he looks at me like I’ve said something funny.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He leans down, kissing me on the tip of my nose, and then he picks his phone back up. “Anything you’re in the mood for? Food-wise?”
I narrow my eyes. “I may not be as…cultured as you are, and I don’t really read much poetry, but I could still help. Somehow.”
“I know,” he says, and he’s smiling, but it’s odd. Not unkind, but as if he knows something I don’t.
We decide on Thai and turn on the television, both of us a little talked-out after the drive. We start with the competitive baking show we watched together once, but when it’s over, Jacob reaches for the remote. I don’t know what he’s doing until I see him spelling out the letters L-O-V…
“Love in the Sun?” I ask as he presses it, starting with season one.
“Is that all right?”
“Uh, sure.” I haven’t rewatched the show since…ever, really. I do some work with editing, and I always watch the final cut, but I don’t usually see it when it’s on the air. And outside of the clips that have gone viral, I’ve never rewatched any of it. “I didn’t start working on it until season four, though. Not that you have to—”
But he’s already back to the main screen, switching the season.
“Maggie said I’ve watched some of it before with them, but I barely remember it,” he says.
The theme song plays, light and fun and nostalgic, and then there’s a montage of the first contestants I ever worked with. Rachel and Carlton—married now, with two kids. Becky, who ended up in a love triangle with Jason and Nia, but walked away with neither because she was still in love with her ex. And Shreya and Eric, who got married, then divorced, then appeared on our all-star season and fell back in love.
“What was Costa Rica like?” Jacob asks as we watch the first ensemble date, contestants pairing up for a zip line through the trees.
“Beautiful,” I say. “I’d love to go back.”
“And did you do that?” He points at the screen.
“Oh yeah.” I tuck my feet under me and lean against him. “Have you ever tried it?”
