Page 58 of Mess With Me

I peel an orange I snagged from the bags as we go down a street lined with adorable shops with brightly colored awnings and potted plants lining their fronts. But instead of letting Griffin tell me about each of them, I realize I’m in a unique position to know more about him.

“So I was thinking, if I’m going to consider marrying you, I need to know a little more about you, don’t you think?”

Griffin looks deeply uncomfortable. “What do you want to know?”

I pop a section of orange into my mouth, considering. “What kind of music do you like to listen to?”

Relief flows over his features. I think he thought I was going to ask him about his thoughts on mortality or religion or something.

But then he says, “I don’t listen to music.”

My jaw drops. “What? Ever? What if it comes on the radio?”

He shrugs. “Some jazz, I guess. Nothing frilly. Only the classics.”

“Okay, first of all, what the heck is frilly jazz? And next, if you know the classics, it means you like the genre. Who are the classic artists you like?”

“Basie. Munk.” He glares at me. “Next question.”

I laugh, breaking off another section of orange. “Ever heard the saying ‘slow down and listen to the music’?”

“It’s ‘smell the roses.’”

“Same difference. What’s the point of barging through life fixing everything if you don’t slow down and enjoy it a bit, too?”

He gives me a look like he’s actually considering that. But I’m still holding the piece of orange in front of me. Maybe it’s that.

“Do you like oranges?”

“They’re fine.”

“Here.” I hold it out to him. “It’s really sweet. Juicy.”

“I’m fine.”

“So you don’t like oranges?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“The saying could be slow down and taste the oranges, too.” I pop the section into my mouth. “Okay,” I say around the sweet citrus. “Favorite movie?” I swallow the orange. “And you can’t say you don’t watch movies. You grew up in a pretty normal family, as far as I know. You have to have seen at least one or two.”

He frowns. But I see he’s actually considering the question.

“Casablanca,” he says finally.

I roll my eyes. “Of course you would pick the first movie ever made.”

“It wasn’t the first movie—”

I wave his facts away with my hand. “You know what I mean. But I don’t think that was your first answer, Mr. Kelly.”

He gives me a sharp look. “Why?”

“I saw you thinking about it. You always have an answer ready. Or a nonanswer. But you thought about this one. You kept your hands in your pockets so you didn’t do that face-scrubby thing, but I know.”

“What’s that face-scrubby thing?”

I explain my theory.

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