A man steps in—mid-thirties maybe, about five-ten, warm eyes, easy smile.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m Jake. I come bearing sustenance.”
He lifts a large cardboard box.
I sniff and I sigh—yessss.
Chinese takeout.
What could be better?
I smile automatically.
“Great! I’m Hilary. Are they taking a break soon?”
“Should be,” he says, setting the box down on the table. “They’ve been grinding hard.”
We fall into an easy rhythm as we unpack cartons—lo mein, spare ribs, broccoli and tofu swimming in garlic sauce, sesame chicken, dumplings, fried rice.
The holy trinity of late-night studio fuel.
Jake moves around the conference table like he’s done this a thousand times.
He’s friendly. Easy. I feel comfortable with him there in a way that doesn’t require effort.
He’s polished in that music-industry way that says he knows how to read a room, close a deal, smooth an ego. But he’s personable, too.
Quick smile. Quick wit. No edge.
“So,” he says, popping open the dumplings, “how do you know David?”
Casual. But curious.
“Um, he’s visiting a friend in my hometown,” I reply, setting out plates. “I own a bookstore.”
His brows lift. “A bookstore?”
“Last time I checked.”
“Ooooh,” he says, pointing a chopstick at me. “So you’re one of those book girls.”
I pause mid-reach.
“One of those book girls?”
“You know. Quiet. Mysterious. Probably into morally questionable fictional men and smut.”
I snort. “I am an avid reader and lover of books, yes. But I can assure you I am not a girl, thank you very much. I’m all woman.”
His eyes flick down and back up—quick, appreciative, but not gross about it.
“Noted,” he says with a grin.
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
He’s nice. Truly.
Warm eyes. Good smile. The kind of man you’d happily sit next to at a wedding and split a dessert with.