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Where does he come up with this shit, always telling me what I am with such beautiful words, as if he knows me at all? I’ve lived with myself for twenty-four years and I have no idea what I am. “That’s a metaphor,” I say finally, because I have to do something other than stare at him with my mouth open.
His face relaxes a little, and he lets go of me. “Good job.”
“I can be a quick learner when I want to.”
We’re not flirting. Think of it as a performance review.
I wanted to jog, but something tells me we shouldn’t be in the same room together much longer. He says my name when I’m in the doorway.
“On the way home from Oliver’s tomorrow, do you want to drive my car?”
I actually drop my phone, and it bounces off my toe and skitters across the room. “What? Do you mean it? Will you still mean it when you’re not feeling sorry for me? Please tell me you mean it.”
He picks up the phone, dusts it off with his sleeve, and frowns. “The screen cracked.”
“That was already there.”
“All four of them? You’re a walking disaster. How do you read anything?”
“Maybe you need new glasses.” I pull the phone out of his hand. We’re not flirting so hard. “How fast can that thing go from zero to sixty?” Knowing him, he drives it like a Honda Civic.
The corner of his mouth curls up. “Three point six seconds. Sadly, I’ve only ever hit four point five.” When my eyebrows shoot up, that little smirk widens, flashing his sinfully perfect teeth. “Everyone has one vice.”
“I bet I can get it under four.”
“I bet I’m going to take back my offer if you don’t drive like you’re taking your grandmother and her full casserole dish to the town potluck.”
I press my hand to my chest. “Is that some kind of Iowa diss? Because I don’t appreciate it.”
“I wanted to put it in terms you’d understand.” This time he’s the one who leaves, brushing past me and heading for the stairs. “Remember,” he calls over his shoulder. “Suits and professionalism. We’re leaving at eight.”
I kind of wanted to go upstairs and watch TV while pretending not to watch Gray read, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to banish myself down here until I remember that his name’s Mr. Freeman, not Gray. Until I take his damn photo out of my wallet and put it back in that box. Until I forget what a metaphor is.
I’m going to get awfully hungry.
