A moment later, sounding surprised, he says, “It’s delicious. It’s really, really good.”

I giggle, unable to pretend any longer. “I know.”

“Why’d you try to trick me?” he sputters.

“I thought if I made you think it was gross, you might set it aside and I could take it home later.”

“You’re like . . . a con artist. Are you sure you’re not from Florida?”

“Seriously, if you say that one more time . . .”

He devours another couple of bites. “Just answer me this. What’s with your arm warmers? And your boots? Nothing about your ensemble makes sense. It’s like you’re dressed for two different countries, like your top half is at war with your bottom half.”

I’m not sure I like the idea of him contemplating my top and bottom halves. Though God knows I’ve contemplated all of him from the moment he arrived in his clingy wet clothes. A blush threatens to overtake my face again.

“On cool days, it’s nice to have the arm warmers on outside, and on hot days, when they crank the a/c all the way up, it’s freezing inside and I can’t type if my wrists and fingers are cold. Either way, I need them.”

“Also to hide your commuter tan?”

I stare at him. “How do you know about my commuter tan?”

Now I’m pretty sure he’s the one who’s blushing. He tries to play it off with a shrug. “You had the arm warmers off once. Your right arm looked pale compared to your left. I assume from wasting away your life inside a car all day.”

He’s right, of course. Not about wasting away my life but about how the lopsided tan came about. My left arm out the driver’s-side window naturally got more sun while driving to work each day.

“At least the sun shines where I come from,” I shoot back, nodding to the dire weather outside.

Miles is clearly determined to get back to why he finds my sense of fashion perplexing as opposed to, say, why he’s been staring at me so keenly that he knows my tan lines. “And the boots?”

I let him squirm a little before I answer. “My first week here, someone stepped on my foot and broke my toe. I can’t risk it happening again.”

“Pro tip: Some women wear sneakers to commute and then put on high heels at the office.”

“Are you honestly suggesting I change into high heels while I sit at a café?”

“It’s basically your office, though, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t gotten any work done since you sat down,” I point out.

He mimes zipping his lip and throwing away the key.

Twenty minutes later, as I sit staring at my blank screen, I have to admit it wasn’t his words that were preventing me from working; it was his presence.