“You are so strange,” she says quietly.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

She’s quiet, and it’s loud in this place from all the people—plus the sound of myself eating chips certainly does not help—so I concentrate on what she’s about to say. What was it my mom calls it? Active listening?

“It’s a…it’s…” She seems hesitant to answer, and a knot forms in the pit of my stomach. I thought we were making headway here. I thought— “It’s a good thing.”

I slouch in my chair, tortilla chip dangling from my lips like a limp cigarette. “Thank fucking Christ.”

“Pardon me?”

Pretty sure I mumbled that under my breath, but apparently not. “I said, Thank god.” I’m going to hell for lying. “I’m glad you think it’s a good thing that I’m strange.” Wait… “How is that a good thing, exactly?”

I pound a few more chips down my gullet while she deliberates.

“It’s good because it’s unexpected. Not to fuel your ego, but you’re not what I was expecting. At all.” She takes a chip, dips it in salsa, and pops it in her mouth. I wish she’d stop eating because I want to hear what she has to say.

About me, ha ha.

“What were you expecting?”

“You to be more of a douchebag.”

You and every other decent female on the planet. “No, tell me how you really feel, Hollis.”

Am I imagining it, or did she just shiver when I said her name? She can’t be cold; she’s wearing jeans.

“Hollis.” I say her name again and—there’s the shiver. “Hollis.”

“Stop it!” She laughs, throwing a chip across the table. It hits me in the chest, and I pick it off my shirt and stick it in my mouth.

Chew.

“Crunchy and delicious,” I tell her with a full mouth, and I almost do say something douchey—something like, Crunchy and delicious like I imagine you’d be, but that’s the most idiotic thing to say and makes zero sense, and I have the wherewithal to keep my big mouth shut for once.

“Soooo…” she starts, holding another chip in her hand, breaking it into two pieces and setting them on her tongue, one at a time. “What else is going on? Besides work?”

I stuff three chips in my mouth at once, wash them down with water, and wipe my hands on a napkin before responding. “Other than seeing my parents and hanging out at Harding’s house, I don’t know. Reading and shit.”

Reading and shit? Real fucking eloquent, you tool.

But Hollis’s brows shoot up, and I see that I’ve managed to surprise her, yet again. “That’s right. You said you’re in a book club, but do you actually do the reading?”

More chips go in my mouth. I like the idea of making her wait for my answers, especially when she seems so intent on hearing them.

“Yeah. Of course I do the reading.”

“Because you like books.”

Why is she saying books like that? As if the sound of the word is turning her on—it’s so weird. And why is she leaning forward, with her boobs smushed into the edge of the table? Is she doing that on purpose?

“Yes?”

“What kind of books do you read when you’re not reading romance?” I hear her low chuckle over the sound of the mariachi band and the chatter of the people surrounding us.

Brat.

I rack my brain for the last book I’ve read that wasn’t a book club selection. “It was a World War II biography written by a fighter pilot whose plane went down. He lived in the jungle for a few months without any supplies, food, or weapons to keep him safe.”

“Was it a thick book?”

“Um. Yes?”

She nods. Nods again, watching me as she takes a few more chips and breaks them into pieces. “Uh huh. Tell me more.”

Okay, what the hell is going on right now? It looks like she’s turned on, but I know she can’t stand me, so is she having a hot flash? Or a seizure? Is she so hangry she’s hallucinating she likes me?

I’m so fucking confused.

The server appears as if by magic, bringing sustenance for this hungry woman sitting across from me, and I’m spared from her leering, glazed-over eyes as our tacos are laid out in front of us. Still, this doesn’t seem to excite her as much as the mention of books did. Or the sound of her name on my lips.

I test the theory again. “So, what genre are you most into reading for pleasure when you’re not working?”

Genre—nice one, Buzz.

I give myself a mental pat on the back.

Hollis raises her head, fork full of rice poised halfway to her mouth. “Romance.”

“Really. You read romance novels?” I bite into my first hard shell taco and moan. “What trope?”

Trope.

Another mental pat and I smile to myself when her eyes get soft.

“Um.” She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Mostly the usual stuff. Uh, cowboy romance and…sports romance.”