But even though I know Kor’s intention with the song, I can’t help but find it romantic when the lyrics You’ll see whatever you want to see, her truth is whatever you want it to be pull Michael’s gaze to mine. And when the line If that’s what you seek, then she’s sure to beguile, but don’t lose yourself in her Mona Lisa smile draws his gaze down to my lips, I don’t think I’m reading this wrong. I’m pretty confident I’m getting kissed tonight.

Michael leaves a jangle of coins for each busker before we move on. I like that. I like a lot of things about him.

When we’re not talking, there’s a comfortable quiet between us that buzzes with possibility. I watch his hand, which swings beside mine. It’s constantly animated, stretching, tapping, emphasizing his words. If I shift just a little, our hands would inevitably brush against each other the next time he swings his arm. I imagine the thrill of the contact, but I don’t step closer.

We arrive at the restaurant, and it’s crowded with people enjoying their meals, nursing glasses of wine and plates of decadent carbohydrates. The room is small and echoes with the sounds of live piano. Really good piano. I breathe in the smells of crusty bread, simmering sauces, and melting wax.

Michael is familiar with the necessary choreography to get us a cozy, candlelit table with a bench facing the music. He slides in next to me and asks me if I want anything to eat or just a drink.

“Just a glass of red wine,” I say, trying to sound like the type of girl who might actually have a preference between red and white grape water. It must work well enough because no one asks to see my ID.

While we wait for our drinks, Michael asks, “What instrument do you play?”

“How do you know I play an instrument?”

“I can tell,” he says. “I have a sixth sense when it comes to pretty musicians.” Grin. Dimple. Eyebrow raise. His eyebrows have more expression than my entire face. “Also, you’re tapping your fingers along with the music in a very telling way.”

My cheeks warm. “I play guitar, but I’m hardly a musician. I’m really bad at it.” Despite growing up surrounded by multiple musicians, this is true. I’m even worse at the other instruments I’ve dabbled with. I try to hold off the descending wave of mediocrity and focus instead on the part where he called me pretty.

“I play guitar too,” he says.

“Yeah, I had a feeling.” His hand is resting on the table next to mine, and deciding to be bold, I trace the callouses along the tips of his fingers. The kind earned by the intimacy of stringed instruments.