“Like ‘knee,’ but with a ch. Chani,” I said, using the back of my throat to get the proper half-hacking, half-rolling sound.

As I did, a tiny bit of spit popped out of my mouth and arched in the air between us. Thankfully it fell before it came into contact with any part of Gabe’s person, and he was gracious enough not to comment on it.

I wanted to die.

“Chani,” he said. “Chani. Chani.”

He got it right on the second try, though I could have listened to him say my name all day long. Because he said it as if he was tasting it.

“My makeup artist on Tommy Jacks was named Preeti,” he said. “But everyone on the crew said Prit-ee instead of Pree-tee.”

He gave the puppy a good scratch under her chin and she snuggled up close, tucking her head against his chest. Lucky dog.

“She told me that she used to correct people but it never seemed to stick and after a while, she just got tired of trying.” Gabe shrugged. “I always think about that. How much it must suck to have your name constantly mispronounced.”

He wasn’t wrong—I’d just learned, like Preeti, that most people didn’t care.

Gabe obviously did.

We stood there for a moment—him shirtless and holding a puppy, me with my crush on him growing exponentially larger with every second. And me helpless to do anything about it. I felt like a teenager again, with hormones I couldn’t control. It was disorienting.

“What were you saying before?” he asked.

“About my name?”

He shook his head. “No, when you were coming up the walkway—it looked like you were saying something.”

My face got prickly and warm. Getting caught talking to myself wasn’t exactly the first impression I’d hoped to make.

“Sorry,” he said. “Guess I just revealed I was kind of spying on you through the window.”

He gave me a sheepish smile, even though I was the one who was beyond embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I was, uh, I was just talking to myself.”

There was no way in hell I was going to tell him what I had actually been saying. Between that and being compared to a clock, this interview was already awkward enough.

Gabe looked at me for a long time.

“Do you do that a lot?” he asked.

“Talk to myself?”

He nodded.

“Um, sometimes?” I squirmed a little under his penetrating gaze. “I guess it just helps me sort out my thoughts? It happens when I get stuck on things, sometimes. Like, saying them out loud makes them real? Or, I can organize them better than if they’re just in my head? Almost like a list? Or not really a list, but a documentation of my ideas? For posterity?”

I was rambling about talking to myself. Wonderful.