It is a kind of tic, I think to myself. When he ponders things he draws . . . it’s a little odd, but then, at least it’s helpful to me. It means that those drawings I saw at his place are a peek into something . . . deeper.

“You’re right, you know,” he says as if trying to draw my attention away from the picture. “I did choose to take home the most complicated girl at the bar. For instance, after talking to you for five minutes I sensed that you were well-educated . . . most well-educated women don’t work at bars like that.”

“Most well-educated men don’t frequent them,” I counter.

Our conversation is momentarily put on hold as the waiter comes back and pours a small amount of red wine into Lander’s glass. Lander swirls it almost impatiently before tasting it and giving his nod of approval. When my glass is filled, I take a moment to admire the color, which is so dark it’s luscious. I would wear this color if I found it in a dress. Lander’s right: The rich disguise their sins so well. Their vices are actually made pretty . . . before they turn ugly.

“When you quit, you didn’t do the expected thing,” Lander continues as the waiter retreats again. “You didn’t seek employment at a different, better bar. No, I run into you on the streets of the Upper West Side looking like you just stepped off the pages of some cutting-edge style guide. That’s a pretty dramatic switch.”

“Guess I’m a Renaissance woman.”

“And then when I asked you to come home with me, you said yes, but you were conflicted. There were moments when I thought . . . the way you looked at me sometimes . . .”

“It made your heart melt,” I say teasingly.

“It made me think you wanted to hate me.”

I hesitate a moment, take another drink. “I don’t want to hate you,” I lie.

“Who are you, Bellona?”

A warrior. That’s what I want to say. But instead I shrug bashfully. “If I’m mysterious, Lander, I’m certainly no more so than you. I’ve . . . been with you twice, I’m about to share a meal with you now, and I still don’t even know your last name.”

He’s taken aback for a moment and then laughs, genuinely. He truly didn’t realize he’d kept this fact from me. “I guess I haven’t been so forthcoming either, have I?” He smiles and casually says, “My last name is Gable.”

“Gable,” I repeat, then I widen my eyes with practiced surprise. “Gable? You’re not any relation to Travis Gable, are you?”

“Yes,” he says warily. “He’s my brother.”

The waiter returns with a breadbasket as I prepare to launch into a performance. “Lander—that’s who I just interviewed with. Travis and Jessica Gable. I’m going to be Jessica’s personal assistant!”