“I would hope that if I was assaulted, which I wasn’t, you’d be a little more concerned about my well-being and less about whatever inconveniences I may have caused you.”

“Olivia, our entire relationship is one giant inconvenience that you’ve caused me.”

“Well it wouldn’t hurt for you to pretend to care about my current state of distress.”

“When aren’t you in a state of distress? You almost started crying this afternoon when you couldn’t find staples.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so distressed if you actually filled staplers and showed me a little compassion. I am the woman you’re supposed to be in love with.”

“You’re pushing it,” he says as he launches himself off the wall. His Chelsea boots click along the sidewalk in long strides that I struggle to keep up with. “You’re the one who started this whole charade.”

“To help you,” I say as I follow him into the building. I’m so surprised when he opens the door for me that I almost fall and bust open the other side of my lip.

“I don’t recall asking for help,” he utters, pushing the button for the elevator. “Just like I don’t recall asking you to order me oven mitts and coasters and candles that smell like Christmas cookies.”

“I’m trying to make your house a home.”

“My house is a home. My home. And my preferred scent is English Pear and Freesia. Not Sugar Cookie.”

“That’s very specific.”

“I’m a very specific man.”

“I’m aware. I order your coffee every day.”

“And someday, I hope you’ll finally get it right.”

I ignore the comment as we step into the elevator. The doors close and we’re in comfortable silence. It only lasts a second. I don’t like when things are quiet.

“Do you have very specific tastes in decorative pillows?”

“Just that you specifically don’t buy them.”

I’m sure he’ll change his mind when they’re delivered on Tuesday.

There’s another drum of silence as we’re lifted to the second and then to the third floor. I love elevators. We’ve established my feelings about stairs, and escalators kill thirty people every year, so elevators have always been my preferred mode of vertical transportation. When I was little, I’d press every button to every floor, which was always followed by a very heavy sigh from my mother. When I was twenty and visiting her at the hospital, I’d press every button to give myself more time before the doors parted to reality.

“So what happened?”

I look over at Asher. He has his head tilted back against the wall. He’s studying the lines on the ceiling.

“To your face,” he clarifies. “I’d like to be on the same page when someone inevitably asks why you look like you got mauled by a raccoon.”