“And they did this time?”

“For sure. The ad they pitched is brilliant and witty, but it’s a production nightmare.” I finish the lasagna and lick the fork before dropping it on the empty plate. “Too many actors, too many locations, and too little time. Not to talk about the budget; we’ll be lucky if we break even on this one.”

Promptly, Diego scoops up the plate, rinses it, and drops it into the dishwasher. “Where do you keep the dish soap?”

“There’re pods under the sink.”

He loads one, studies the dishwasher’s buttons for a few seconds, pushes a couple, and the machine awakens.

“Your boss must really trust you if he put you on this assignment,” Diego says, coming back to my side of the counter.

I stand up and move to the couch, where I kick off my shoes. “You have a future in management, you know?”

Diego joins me on the sofa, sticking to “his” end. “Yeah, why?”

“That’s exactly what my boss told me to sell me the project, ‘…You’re the only one who can pull it off… Can’t trust anyone else… Blah, blah, blah…’”

Diego smirks. “Then it must be true.”

“True or not, the bottom line stays the same: I’m screwed. There’s even a cat in the ad. I mean, a cat.”

“You don’t like cats?”

“I love cats. I’m one hundred percent a cat person. But on set, they’re a nightmare. Trained animals are expensive, and a scene to turn out decent needs a million takes, meaning long hours and money and time I don’t have. What about you, cats or dogs?”

Please say cats, please say cats…

“Cats…”

Yay! I do a mental victory dance. “How come? Guys usually go for dogs.”

“Blame my mom; we’ve never had less than three cats in the house. And she keeps feeding all the neighborhood cats as well, stray or not. So I guess I was groomed into being a cat person.”

“Great, I can’t stand dogs.”

“Why?”

“They lick, they’re smelly… Ew, gross.”

“Doesn’t your roommate have a dog?”

“Chevron? She’s different. She’s a cat’s soul trapped in a dog’s body, know what I mean?”

Diego chuckles. “Not really.”

“You’ll see when you meet her.”

He shakes his head, amused.

“What?” I ask self-consciously.

“You make little sense sometimes.”

“Why?”

“A cat person who claims to hate dogs usually doesn’t own one.”

“Correction, my roommate has a dog. I’ve begged her to get a cat from the day we moved in together, but she always said the apartment was too small to have a pet. Then she found a stray puppy and suddenly we had enough room for a sixty-pound dog. So, really, it’s her not making sense.”

Diego nods. “Agreed.”

“Hey, you want something to drink? Sorry I didn’t offer. We have wine, beer…”

“Are you drinking?”

“No, my brain gets too scrambled if I drink two nights in a row, and I need to be on top of my game this week.”