He nods, lips pressed together. “Good. I have an in with the partners.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m sure they’d love to have you on board. To develop a whole-systems approach to problem-solving when dealing with environmental challenges.” I stick out my tongue, which he ignores. “What name should I give when I recommend you?”

“Oh. Sadie Grantham.” I hold out my non-croissant hand. He looks at it for a long moment, and I am suddenly, inexplicably, tsunamingly afraid. Oh my God. What if he won’t take it?

Yeah, Sadie? A wise, mean, pragmatic voice whispers in my ear. What if a stranger won’t take your hand? How will you deal with the zero-point-zero impact it’ll have on your life? But the voice is moot, because he does take it, and my heart gallops at how nice his skin feels, solid and a little rough. His hand swallows my fingers, warming my flesh and the cheap, cute rings I put on this morning.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Grantham.” My breath hitches. My heart melts. I’ve had my Ph.D. for less than a year, so I still relish being called doctor. Especially because no one ever does. “Erik Nowak.”

Well. No one ever does except for Erik Nowak.

Erik Nowak. “Can I ask you something kind of inappropriate?”

He shakes his head, slowly, gravely. “Unfortunately, I am not wearing purple underwear.”

I laugh. “No, it’s . . . when you write your last name, are there cool, fancy letters in it?” I blurt the question out and instantly regret it. I’m not even sure what I’m asking. I’ll just roll with it, I guess?

“It has an n. And a w. Are they considered fancy?”

Not really. Pretty boring. “Sure.”

He nods. “What about the k? It’s my favorite letter.”

“Er, yeah. That’s fancy, too.” Still boring.

“But surely not the a?”

“Uh, well, I guess the a is . . .”

His mouth is twitching. Again. He’s teasing me. Again. I hate him.

“Damn you,” I say without heat.

He’s almost smiling. “No umlauts. No diacritics. No Møller. Or Kiærskou. Or Adelsköld. Though I did go to school with them.” I nod, vaguely disappointed. Till he asks: “Disappointed?” and then I can’t help hiding behind my croissant and laughing. When I’m done he’s definitely smiling, and he says, “You should really eat that. Or you’ll lose your client and NASA’s next rocket will explode.”

“Right, yes.” I tear a piece away. Hold it out to him. “Would you like a bite? I don’t mind sharing.”

“Really? You don’t mind sharing my own famously disgusting croissant with me?”

“What can I say?” I grin. “I’m a generous soul.”

He shakes his head. And then adds, as though it just occurred to him, “I know a really good French bistro.”

My entire body perks up. “Oh?”

“They have a bakery, too.”

My body perks up and tingles. “Yeah?”

“They make excellent croissants. I go there often.”

The sun is still shining, the birds are still chirping, I’ve now spotted five butterflies, and . . . the noise in the background slowly recedes. I look at Erik, study the way the shade from the trees falls across his face, study him as closely as he’s studying me.