“Should I worry about who actually drew the picture?”

Reginald thought a moment. “I mean, I already told you that you should sue. So if you don’t want to do that, I don’t know, maybe blow up the building? When Arthur’s home, of course.”

“Right. I’ll get on that.” Andrea sighed. “But that director. She seems to, I don’t know, expect something of me.”

“Honestly?” Reginald leaned forward then, his face so close to hers that Andrea almost wanted to giggle. “Fuck her.”

He smelled like woodsmoke. Andrea could feel heat radiating from his skin. Something unexpected rose up in her, and then she did start laughing. “Well,” she said, pulling away slightly, ducking her head so he couldn’t see how red her cheeks were. “Thanks. Thanks for listening. You certainly know a lot about kids. Do you want them?” It just popped out of her mouth. The question felt so personal.

Reginald looked wistful. “Sure. That would be great.”

“Well, you still have time.”

They stopped by a table of stuffed animals, and Reginald touched a plush panda’s black nose. “I’m not sure. I just turned thirty-five. Do men have biological clocks? Because mine seems to have kicked into high gear.” He pointed at a shelf marked Vehicles; just as he predicted, there were boxes of Hot Wheels sets. “Anyway, Arthur’s a blast. You guys are my favorite clients.”

Andrea didn’t dare look at his face, but inside, her chest swooped. He hadn’t just said Arthur was his favorite client—he’d said you guys. Or was she reading into that? Really, she shouldn’t be going down this road at all.

The Hot Wheels items were comprised of miniature cars and sets of tracks and obstacles. Andrea marveled at them; she’d never played with this kind of stuff as a kid. She touched a large plastic shark toy; apparently, the car would fly across the track, trying to avoid the shark’s biting jaws. Arthur would love it, and she wanted to get something for him, suddenly, as if he’d been the one to endure this emotional crisis, not her. Andrea rapped overenthusiastically on the top of the Hot Wheels box. “I’m going to get this.”

Reginald followed her to the register, snaking around tables of travel mugs and warm socks and magnetic poetry sets. “Do you want to get dinner sometime?” he blurted.

“You want to go out with me?” Andrea felt heat rise to her cheeks, but the question truly surprised her . . . and pleased her, too. “Well . . . sure. Yeah.” She dared to smile. “That would be nice.”

Reginald beamed. “Does this Saturday work?”

“This Saturday is great.”

They looked at each other a long beat, and Andrea felt a thrill. She took in Reginald—his big ears, his lopsided smile, the T-shirt and long shorts and the threadbare Nike messenger bag he carried over one shoulder.