He nodded. “My mom’s been trying to get me to hire someone to decorate my apartment for years now. She says it lacks personality.”

“Let me guess.” I studied him—looking at his face, his suit, the slight curl in his hair like I would a floor plan.

“Leather couch. Probably expensive. Coffee table. Modernist, sleek, black. No dresser in your bedroom. Neutral-color sheets. You keep meaning to hang art on your walls, but you haven’t yet, and—let’s be honest—you probably never will.”

He shrugged and took a sip from his mug and then raised it toward me, a toast to my skills. “You’re good,” he said. “I bet you’re already in high demand.”

I just nodded, pretending like he was right on the nose. “That’s why I do what I do, and you do…whatever it is you do.”

He cleared his throat. “Have you read any good books lately?”

I cocked my head to the side. “Why? Do you need a recommendation?”

He shrugged. “I was just curious about what you like to read.”

I thought for a moment and then perked up. “Ooooh, do you like cults?”

He appeared very confused by this question. “Why would anyone like cults?”

“Not, like, in a join ’em way,” I explained. “Reading about them.”

He shook his head, giving me another perplexed look.

“Okay, fine.” I let out a sigh, giving up on the cult-book recommendation. “What was the last thing you read?”

“A book called Getting Things Done,” he replied. “It’s about productivity. People are obsessed with it. There are all these meet-ups and classes you can go to for it. I had lunch with a client the other week who told me it changed his brain.”

“So it’s…” I motioned with my hand, trying to get him to finish my sentence, but he didn’t bite. Fine. “A cult.”

Hayes smiled at me and then shook his head, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of me. The feeling was mutual.

We sat in silence for a bit. “Is Franny short for Frances?” he asked, and I had to admit his awkwardness was kind of charming.

“No.” I scrunched my nose. “Everyone thinks it is, though. It’s Francesca.”

“Francesca,” he repeated back to me. “I like it.”

I shook my head. “I’m Franny, unless you’re my grandma, who’s dead, or my mom when she’s pissed off at me. My stepdad calls me Franny-Bananny, which I hated in high school.”

“Maybe I could call you Francesca-Bananesca,” he joked.

“Oh yeah, that has a great ring to it.” I nodded. “It would sound amazing being screamed during sex.”