His amused smile remains, but his brows pull together. “And why’s that?”

“Because you’re an FH,” I reply with a half-shrug.

His amusement doubles. “Do I want to know what that stands for?”

I shrug. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”

His grin widens. “Maybe you should just tell me now and spare me the headache I always get when I think too much. And while we’re at it, why don’t you tell me something about you? Like, what grade you’re in, where you moved from, if you have a boyfriend …”

Wait … Is he flirting with me?

It’s not like I’ve never had a guy flirt with me before. I have a couple of times, but it usually happened at school, and Dixie May always found a way to ruin whatever allure I had toward the few guys who gave me more than a second glance. And, while I’m totally flattered that the prettiest guy that I’ve ever seen is semi-flirting with me, I know that, when Dixie May spots him, he won’t ever smile at me again. Because she will spot him. The guy is way too pretty for her not to notice. And, while style-wise, the two of them don’t look similar, their pretty faces will go well together on those shotgun wedding invitations.

“Nah, I’d rather not,” I tell him, figuring he’ll back off, but he only grows more intrigued.

“Oh, come on; just a little bit of information. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Nah. I think I’m going to hold on to my mysteriousness for now. Make sure I’m representing the symbolism of my name to its truest form.”

He chuckles softly. “Hate to break it to you, but you already messed up with that, because you just gave me a little bit of info about yourself.”

“Um, no, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“How?”

He grins, pointing the sucker at me. “You let me know you’re amusing.”

“Oh, I’m not,” I assure him. “I’m being totally serious.”

“I have no doubt you are, but it’s still amusing.” He gives a short, considering pause. “And I also think you’re a little bit stubborn.”

I roll my eyes. “You can’t determine that after talking to me for, like, thirty seconds.”

He throws a dramatic glance at the clock. “Actually, it’s been a little over a minute.”

“That’s still not enough time.”

“Says who?”

“Says the person who determined the time length required to be able to give an accurate analysis of someone’s character.”

He cocks a brow. “And what’s this person’s name? Because, as far as I know, no one has ever come up with such a thing.”

“His name is Jerry.” I make up a name then decide to make up a story. “And he lives somewhere in Switzerland where there’s no internet or cell service, so he hasn’t been able to publish his findings yet. But I met him once while I was on vacation, and me and Jerry had a good, long chat about his theory on the time it takes to get to know a person. And he told me that you have to know someone a lot longer than a minute to determine what kind of person they are.”