“Why’s that?” I ask, curious. She’s done all of those things with me.

“Because I don’t have time. I have goals to achieve and accomplishments I want to reach by a set time frame, and frankly, relationships are messy and time-consuming and would distract me from doing that.” Her eyes meet mine for the first time and I can tell she’s almost embarrassed by her admission. “I know it sounds cold and callous and selfish—”

“Not at all.”

“But if it’s okay for a man to want things out of life, then why isn’t it okay for a woman? And why the double standard because—”

“Hey?” I press a kiss to her hand.

“What?” She looks at me, startled.

“There is nothing you need to explain or justify about why you’re ambitious. I like that about you.”

“Most men say that at first and then when they want more and I tell them I can’t give it to them, they become raging assholes.”

Who is this woman? At the painting place an hour ago, she was worried I wouldn’t like her if I knew the real her, and now she’s standing before me with candor most people—most women—would struggle to exhibit. I like her even more because of it.

I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re amazing,” I finally say.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because very few people know themselves well enough to know what they want. You do. You know. And you’re unapologetic about wanting it and to me, that’s sexy. That’s attractive. That makes me want to get to know you better so I can hear about and cheer you on as you chase every single one of those goals.”

I mean it with every fiber of my being. Whether or not she’ll want me on the sidelines is another story. She might not want you past these moments. Which I’m beginning to think is not what I want at all. I want more.

Her smile is hesitant, her eyes pooling with tears as she stares at me. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

And before I can even respond, the first drops of rain hit. Big, fat blobs of warm water that make quarter-sized splats on the sidewalk. I look around for cover and see a gazebo a hundred feet away the city has put up for picnics.

“C’mon. This way,” I say, taking a few steps toward it before looking back to make sure she’s coming.

I expect a squeal. The “I don’t want my hair to get messed up” or “my clothes to get ruined,” but find myself stopped dead in my tracks when I see her.