cheese.”
“Cheese,” Dean says, the corner of his mouth turned up. “Really?”
“Yup. He lives on a cheese farm. I mean . . . dairy farm. I mean, cows. You know how it is around here with all the cows.” Oh my god. My brain is actually malfunctioning. Dean’s eyes are twinkling with amusement and I know he’s enjoying witnessing my slow death. I point at his chest, trying to change the subject. “So what’s the deal with your shirts?”
He looks down. “They’re all movie directors.”
“Well, obviously,” I say, glad we’ve moved past my conversational glitch. “I mean, do you make them?”
“Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” he answers, which isn’t really an answer at all. But I get what he means.
“You should make a Hitchcock one,” I say, filled with an overwhelming desire to touch him in some way.
“He’s your favorite, right?”
“I mean, he’s kinda messed up. But brilliant.” I take another sip. It doesn’t taste as bad this time, like my senses have been dulled. “Are any of them women? I just realized you don’t wear any women.”
“Wearing women. Sounds a bit Silence of the Lambs, don’t you think?”
“I’m serious.”
“I only wear my favorites.”
I want to say something about that, but he’s standing so close to me that I can see the freshly shaved stubble on his jaw, can almost feel his warm breath. I don’t want to challenge him and ruin the fizzling magic of this moment.
“Okay, how about Collins?”
“You’re a director?” He raises his eyebrows, an expression I hope means he’s impressed.
“I might be,” I say. “Someday. And then you can put me on your shirt.”
“Well, let me know when the time comes,” he says, leaning toward me, his voice low. “Because you’ll definitely be one of my favorites.”
“Okay.” I can tell I’m smiling like crazy, but I can’t help it. I feel clumsy, alight from his words. I put the bottle down on top of the dresser and notice a pile of photographs, in disarray as if someone has carelessly dropped them there. “What are these?”
I pick up the first picture in the pile and look at it before it can cross my mind that it might be personal. It’s a woman, slim and beautiful, with long dark hair and a wide smile. She looks like someone you’d want to tell secrets to over a steaming mug of tea.
“Oh, that’s my mom,” he says, scratching the stubble on his face.
“Sorry.” I put the photograph back down on the dresser. “Are these private? I didn’t mean to look. I just—”
“It’s no big deal,” he says, picking it back up. He smiles, running a finger down the side of her glossy face. “I took these when I was home over Christmas break. I don’t get to see her much, so it’s kind of nice to have these.” He picks up another photograph, this one a German shepherd, tongue flopping out the side of its mouth. “They’re like tiny stand-ins for my family. Sometimes when I’m, like . . . lonely or stressed or whatever, I’ll talk to them. Is that corny? Sorry, that’s pretty corny.” His face turns an adorable red color. “I’ve clearly had too much whiskey if I’m telling you these things.”
“It’s not corny,” I say. “It’s sweet.” I want to reach a hand up and run it through his tousled hair, but I keep my arms firmly by my sides.
“To be honest, I miss Charlie the most.” He grins. “He’s the dog.”
“That’s my friend’s ex-boyfriend’s name, actually. Charlie. He’s a Death Eater.” I press my lips together as soon as I’ve said it because oh my god Dean is going to think I’m idiotic. He doesn’t seem like the type to appreciate a Harry Potter reference.
Luckily he laughs. “Really? Hmm, well, this Charlie is more of a shoe eater. And a furniture eater. And sometimes even his own shit.”
“Glad Hannah’s ex didn’t do that,” I say. I have to get us back on track. How do I keep leading us into the least