He was just . . . there. Holding my hand, making sure I was all right.

But while we were in the car, he turned back into a robot.

Stiff set to his shoulders, tight grip on the steering wheel. He shut me out in the blink of an eye.

And I have no idea why.

Now, that robot persona carried over into dinner. I couldn’t take it anymore; I was fed up and almost walked out.

Like the mercurial man he is, he dipped and showed that generous personality again, the one I saw while we were at Chipotle.

And he offered me two questions a day and night, something I wasn’t expecting either. I’m not sure he thought I was serious about asking them, but I am. It’ll make things so much easier if I actually get to know this man. I’ll feel more comfortable and, like Kelsey said, maybe I can make things more believable between us.

I send him a text.

Lottie: What are you listening to right now?

When I see the dots appear next to his name, I’m surprised.

Huxley: “The Chain”—Fleetwood Mac. You put me in the mood yesterday. Been listening to them all day.

I smile to myself and text him back.

Lottie: Me too. Just got done singing my heart out to “Rhiannon.” My computer mouse was my microphone and I used the flashlight on my phone for mood lighting. Did you do the same?

Huxley: No.

Lottie: Baby steps, I guess. Go ahead, ask me one of your daytime questions.

Huxley: Is that what’s happening right now?

Lottie: Yes, you said I get two questions during the day, two at night. So . . . go ahead.

Huxley: Craziest thing you ever did in college?

Lottie: Throwback question. Okay, uh . . . well, I wasn’t really crazy in college. I know it seems as though I might have stories to tell, but I really don’t have many, just one claim to party fame.

Huxley: What is it?

Lottie: There was this bar we went to a lot, the Chicken Leg. It was a hole in the wall. They accepted any form of ID, and they had some of the best music ever played, and when I say best music, I think you know what I’m talking about. Old school rock. They had a lip-sync wet T-shirt contest one night. Prize was one thousand dollars.

Huxley: I think I see where this is going.

Lottie: I don’t have much to work with upstairs, but I wore the thinnest T-shirt I had, no bra, and when it was my turn to lip-sync “Don’t Stop Believin’,” I drenched my boobs in water and went for it. I was one thousand dollars richer that night.

Huxley: What did you do with the money?

Lottie: Paid for parking tickets I accumulated from being lazy and parking in the wrong parking spots at school.

Huxley: That’s an unfortunate way to spend it.

Lottie: It was going to bills either way.

Huxley: Did you work in college?

Lottie: Is that your second question?

Huxley: Yes.

Lottie: Then, yes. I was a waitress at a steak joint. I made good money, but the hours were long, the customers were brutal, and I took back at least one steak a week to the kitchen for being cooked too rare. But I served dinner to rich people and they paid well. It’s why I’m not drowning in debt. Well, that and you . . .

Huxley: Having only thirty thousand dollars in student debt after graduating just a year ago? That’s really good, actually.

Lottie: But when you have nothing, thirty thousand is a lot.

Huxley: I get it. What’s your second question?

Lottie: What’s your favorite board game to play?

Huxley: Don’t have one.

Lottie: That’s a boring answer. You have to have some sort of board game you enjoy.

Huxley: I don’t play board games.

Lottie: Card game?

Huxley: Uno?

Lottie: Is that a question or an answer?

Huxley: Answer. It’s the only thing I could think of. Breaker makes us play Uno Attack every once in a while. It’s fun.

Lottie: Ooooo, I love Uno Attack. When those cards spit out at you, it’s the devil’s work. Good answer, Huxley. I accept.

Huxley: Glad to hear it. Now, getting back to work.

Lottie: See you at dinner.

“Did you ask for this on purpose?” I ask when Reign leaves the room.

Huxley, who’s looking particularly handsome in a black button-up shirt, places his napkin on his lap before reaching for the homemade horseradish sauce. “You put me in the mood for steak. Hope you don’t have to send yours back.”

“Cheeky,” I say. He dumps some sauce on his steak and then hands me the dish. Our fingers glide over one another, and for some reason, the warm touch of his finger sends a bolt of lust up my arm and straight to my heart. Where the hell did that come from?

Clearing my throat, I say, “This looks good though. Fingerling potatoes and . . . what’s this green thing, again?” I ask.

“Broccolini.”

He’s answering in clipped, short responses, which only leads me to believe one thing—he needs to be warmed up again if I’m going to get him to engage like earlier. He seemed pretty open through texts, but in person, his guard is up. The good thing is I know it can be torn down with some coaxing.

“Broccolini looks like something from a Dr. Seuss book.”

“It’s good.”

“What’s this stuff on it?” I ask, seeing if he’ll expand on his comments.

“Mustard vinaigrette.” Huxley cuts into his steak.

Oh-kay . . .

I’m wracking my brain for what else I can ask, when he says, “I reached out to Dave today, like I promised. I asked to set up a meeting with him to go over business.”

Oh crap, I forgot he said he was going to do that, even after admitting he’d like more time to work the friendship angle. I feel guilty. I had a moment of weakness last night when I told him I was done. I was frustrated, and deservingly so, given the closed-off individual I’ve been interacting with. But that frustration morphed into something else last night—appreciation.

Appreciation for him loosening up and giving my idea a chance without a disgruntled look or thought.

“You didn’t have to call Dave,” I say. “I was just in a bad state of mind last night. I shouldn’t have told you that I was ready to be done.” I glance up at him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Business needs to be taken care of,” Huxley says rather coldly. “He’s going to try to make some time for me this week. When he does, I’ll be sure to tell him you’re busy and can’t meet up with Ellie.”

“Huxley, you don’t have to do that. I signed a contract. I can go out with Ellie.”

His eyes land on me and sternly he says, “It’s fine.”

It doesn’t feel fine.

But just like that, the conversation is over. Just when I thought he was starting to warm up to me, he turns into this taciturn man again. Not sure I’ll ever understand these mood swings or why he has them, probably because he won’t let me get close enough to figure out why he acts the way he does.

But I guess that’s “business” for you . . . right?

I’m so sick of that. Of that term. When did business become this impersonal? When my mom first owned her cleaning business, before being hired as a senior manager in her current position, she was never cold. She was warm, friendly. It was one of the reasons why her customers loved her so much, because she took great care of them, because she was, in fact . . . not indifferent. Although, to be fair, Mom’s business involved giving to her clients, whereas Huxley is in the business of acquisitions.