“I doubt that.”
“Okay, I own a bookstore,” I say defensively. “I alphabetize chaos for a living.”
A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Nate mentioned that. Sounds cool.”
I look away first.
Because if I don’t?
I might forget myself.
The dishwasher clicks shut with a decisive snap.
I straighten, wipe my hands on a dish towel, and immediately regret it because now I don’t know what to do with them.
He’s still leaning against the counter.
Still watching me.
Not in the way men usually look at women.
Not scanning.
Not calculating.
Just looking. As if I’m something that might interest him. But I’m not foolish enough to really believe that.
“So, you really built that shop up from nothing by yourself?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though it absolutely is. “Took a while. A lot of spreadsheets. A lot of ramen.”
His mouth twitches.
“I like that. We got that in common.”
“Ramen?”
“The building something from nothing part.”
Oh.
That lands somewhere deep.
“Yeah, so I kind of Googled you,” I confess. “Are you really from the Bronx?”
“I am.”
“That’s awesome then. How you built your career.”
“Like I said, we got that in common,” he murmurs.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I reply. “I mean, you got world famous and I’m happy to make ends meet.”
“Not everything has to be flashy,” he says softly. “Some things are better when they’re steady.”
The word hangs between us.