My gaze swivels from the screen to his face, and his expression knocks the wind from my chest. In my mind, my feet come out from under me—whoosh!—and I land, hard, in unfamiliar territory. Dazed, I tell him, “Cary Grant was in a movie called Holiday.”

His head dips, a barely discernible tic. His eyes go dark and time itself seems to deepen. “I know,” he breathes.

My eyes lock on his mouth. “I can’t have him because he’s dead, and nobody else will do.” My eyebrows draw together.

He’s looking at me like . . .

Like that.

And then swiftly away. His mouth purses, a serious expression overtaking his features as if he’s just changed his mind about something.

“What?” I whisper.

He shakes his head, innocently replying, “Nothing.”

My eyes narrow. “Hm.”

He stretches his legs, shifting subtly away from me. “Pay attention to the movie.”

Oh my, he’s blushing. And secretive! Since when is Hall secretive? He used to process every single one of his thoughts and emotions verbally, and now he’s dodging me with this “Nothing” business, just like a self-conscious human. And right when we were having a gazing-adoringly-at-each-other moment. Which probably doesn’t bode well for the romantic notions I’ve been entertaining (they involve a horse-pulled carriage ride through Central Park and a broken axle, leaving us stranded with only each other’s body heat for warmth).

On further, and disturbing, reflection, gazing-adoringly-at-each-other moments are a frequent occurrence for Hall. He gazes adoringly at my mother when she compliments his pies, and gazes adoringly at Hallmark Christmas movies, and icicles when the sunlight hits them just right, and . . . truly, I can’t think of anyone he doesn’t gaze at as though they’re the most important, special being in the universe.

Hall leans in again, although he doesn’t look at me. He keeps his face angled toward the screen. “I was just thinking,” he whispers, “about one of your evil schemes.”

“Which one is that?”

“To make an enemy’s pillowcases scratchy for the rest of their life.”

I don’t believe for a moment that this is really what’s been on his mind, but I indulge with a “Have you come to the dark side, then?”

“For one scheme only. I don’t like that Ted Cruz guy.”

I giggle. Someone two rows in front of us, four spaces down on the right, twists around, holding a finger to their lips. It’s Greta Garbo. I’m being shushed by Greta Garbo.

Hall lowers in his chair, sliding all the way down out of sight. We both laugh. More people shush us.

“This is fun,” I murmur in his ear when he braves coming back up. “We should come here more often.”

“If you think this is fun, you should see what I can do with the tub in the purple guest bath. Hint: I can expand it into a lake and re-create a Viking ship inside it.”

“Really?”

Up on the big screen, Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell stop what they’re doing to turn in our direction, giving us reproving frowns. “Shhh!”