“Whatever. I guess humor is subjective.” I grab my computer and move back to my seat. I open up the spreadsheet I’ve created for the party and add a column for balloons before confirming. “So yes on the balloons?”

“Yup.” He lifts his chin. “Pop yourself out.”

I groan and rest my head on my computer. “Puns. Dear God. He really thinks he’s punny.”

His throaty chuckle reverberates off the still-empty walls and rugless cement floor.

I sit back up in my chair, closing the party tabs and tucking the piece of hair that has fallen in front of my face behind my ear. I look up to ask Quinton a question. My head jerks back when instead of seeing the top of his head like I expected, we are making direct eye contact. And he’s got some weird expression on his face that I haven’t seen before.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” I narrow my eyes at him before wiping at my cheek. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I wasn’t looking at you.” He drops his eyes and stares at the paper that has no words on it, fidgeting with the pen between his fingers. “I was looking at the door, trying to think of something when you tried to see into my soul.”

You know that feeling when you wave to the stranger in the grocery store because you think they’re waving at you, but they are really waving to someone standing behind you? That’s how I feel.

“Oh, sorry for interrupting your thinking.” I hope the heat I feel in my cheeks is hidden beneath my brown skin and Fenty blush I slathered on this morning. “But do you have the finalized list for your board members?”

I had him reach out to everyone he had in mind for the board after our first meeting at his house. Some people were immediate—and enthusiastic—yeses. Others had too many commitments already to get involved and the few maybes were supposed to get back to him over the weekend. They didn’t say anything outright, but I think a couple of them were nervous to attach their name to his until they saw which way all of this media attention started to swing. But because I’m good at my job, I drafted an email for him to send over. In it, we showed them the world Quinton was intent on creating. A world where, even if there were some people who were angry—you can’t please everyone—history would show that he was on the right side. This was going to have a lasting impact and they had the opportunity to create a legacy of change.

“Yeah.” He flips through the spiral notebook. The only time I’ve seen him use a computer is when I push mine in front of him. “They said yes.”