“I’ll clear my Saturdays,” he says.
“I was kidding,” I say.
He grins. “Not me.”
I gesture toward the stacks. “Can I help you find something?”
“I was hoping you could spell out every word of a love poem to me,” he deadpans.
“That guy already called today,” Ashleigh pipes up from the reference desk.
“Yeah, I’ve hit my limit on daily X-rated flower metaphors, so that’s the one thing I can’t help you with,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “I’ll try again on Monday. Actually, I was on my way in to Cherry Hill and I just wanted to double-check we’re still on for tomorrow. Would’ve texted, but I forgot my phone at home.”
“Tomorrow?” Ashleigh looks up from the gel manicure she’s giving herself, complete with a little light-up device plugged in between her computer and the printer. Harvey left already for his daughter’s fortieth birthday and the front desk quickly descended into lawlessness. “What’s tomorrow?”
“I wasn’t planning to hold you to that,” I tell Miles.
He scoffs. “It’s on the calendar. It might as well be etched into the annals of history.”
“It’s pronounced anals,” Ashleigh says.
Miles looks to me, brow lifting.
I shake my head. “It’s definitely not. And you really don’t have to ferry me around. I can just, like, buy a map.”
He rolls his eyes, slumps forward on his forearms at the desk. “Just be ready at one p.m., okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
He looks between me and Ashleigh. “Should I expect you at Cherry Hill tonight?”
“I’ve got Read-a-thon stuff I need to work on,” I say.
“And my kid’s having friends over to play video games,” Ashleigh says. “So I’ll be shoveling pizza rolls in and out of the oven until dawn. But he’s at his dad’s again next Sunday night, if you guys want to do something then.”
“Should we expect Craig too,” Miles teases, leaning across the desk, vaguely flirtatiously.
Ashleigh shudders. “No, no, we should not. Daphne can fill you in on that. I can’t bring myself to utter it aloud again.”
“He had too much Phish,” I explain.
“Like an aquarium?” Miles says.
“Like posters upon posters of Phish. The band,” I say.
“What’s wrong with Phish?” he wants to know.
“Nothing, in moderation,” Ashleigh volunteers.
“But he also had commemorative mugs and action figures and cardboard cutouts. And . . . I want to say sheets?”
“Hand towels,” she corrects me. “I don’t begrudge a man a hobby, but if you’re forty and your apartment has a theme, I just don’t see it working out for us.”
“Well, shit,” Miles says. “That rules out pretty much everyone I know.”
“I’ve seen your place,” Ashleigh says. “I didn’t see a cohesive theme. Unless it was major depressive episode.”
“When did you see my room?” Miles asks.
“I picked Daphne up there,” she says, apparently happy to admit to her snooping.
“Actually, the theme is, you’re never invited over again,” I tell Ashleigh. Then, to Miles: “What time do you need to get into work?”
“Shit!” He pitches himself forward over the desk to check the time on my computer. His eyes flash back to mine, and he points for good measure, which really accentuates the Popeye-style anchor tattoo on his bicep. “Tomorrow. One o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“I never am,” I say.
Miles is fifteen minutes late.
I tell him this when he enters the apartment.
“I know,” he says. “Sorry. I went to get coffee, and the line was really long.” He holds out a paper cup to me. I recognize the stamp on it as being from Fika, the shop I stopped in to on my way to work yesterday.
“Thank you,” I say.
