“We can work on it together, tomorrow, beforehand. It’ll help me learn more about comedy.”

“I don’t know if I want anyone else’s opinions on it right now…” I trail off, letting my gaze wander down to my feet.

“Isn’t the whole point of a comedy set to get a group of people’s general opinion on your material?” he asks pointedly.

I narrow my eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be beneficial to get the opinions of people you know, so you can better predict the crowd’s opinion beforehand? And if you don’t like the opinions of the people you know … can’t you use said bad opinions to fuel the bits in your set?”

Why does that make sense?

“I thought you were doing a whole acting thing this quarter, not comedy.”

Zarar tilts his head. “I’m taking a serious acting class too. I’m doing this full throttle. Improv class, acting class, working here, and because I couldn’t arrange the timing perfectly, I’m also dabbling in music production these next four months. It works out because this job is evenings and that job is during the day. Acting class and improv class are only once a week.”

Wow. I feel strangely proud of this guy I’ve known for seven days. “You’re going to be a super busy dude. I don’t think you have time to add workshopping my set to that schedule.”

“It’ll be the highlight of my schedule,” he says. “I’m off tomorrow during the day. Also, I got you a ticket to the 7 p.m. show tonight. You can go get dinner and come back. I’ll be here.”

I take a beat to study the red-carpeted floor. He really isn’t letting me deflect this, and I don’t know how to deal with that.

I also … kind of like it.

“Z, one afternoon is hardly enough time to workshop a set.”

“Jamie, you don’t need time, you need a little push.”

My head droops sideways toward my shoulder like a corpse in a zombie apocalypse. “I don’t need a fucking push.”

His mouth kicks up again. Why is that quarter smile so much sexier than a full one? “I misspoke. You don’t need a push, you want a push.”

I swallow hard, glaring at him now. “Did you already sign me up or something?”

He picks a clipboard up from somewhere behind the ticket window. “I’m doing it now.”

“I have a dinner thing tomorrow with my mom.”

His eyes flit up. “Your slot is at midnight.”

Damn it. We stare at each other for a beat. “I might be able to fit it in.” I pivot and tromp out the door feeling naked.

As I step outside, Siri’s phone starts having a seizure in my backpack. I yank the bag off and fish it out. My own number glows across the screen.