Dean apparently could tell, because he gave my hand a little squeeze and turned, heading up the stairs.

“Dean?” I said.

“Yeah?” he stopped, half turning with my hand still in his.

“It’s really nice. The way you help me when you can tell I’m freaking out a little. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “And if you do, I’ll help you calm down again,” he added with a smirk.

I grinned. “I know. And I appreciate it.”

“Good. Now tell me something you don’t like about me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because when you get all sweet like that it makes me start thinking thoughts I don’t want to be thinking.”

“What kind of thoughts?”

We were standing in the middle of an old fashioned, wood-paneled stairway. It was a strange place to have a conversation, but I barely noticed because I was hanging on his every word.

He pursed his lips. “You sure you want me to answer that?”

“I do.”

“Thoughts like how I enjoyed road tripping with you. Or how it feels good to take care of you when you need it, and how it also feels good when you’re like a firecracker and want to bust my balls. Just how being around you feels good, I guess. And when you’re being all sweet like that, it’s harder to turn those thoughts off. So tell me something you don’t like about me. Help me hit the off switch.”

I almost asked him why he wanted to turn those thoughts off. Almost. But that was one of those many doors where danger was waiting on the other side. Danger. Uncertainty. Risk. It was all on the other side of that door if I asked the question burning on my tongue, so I did what I seemed to always do: I took the coward’s path.

“Okay,” I said. “Umm. I don’t like how easy you make it for people to like you.”

He laughed. “What kind of insult is that?”

“I don’t know!” I couldn’t help smiling a little. “Tell me something you don’t like about me, then. Maybe give me some ideas and I’ll try again.”

He leaned against the railing at the edge of the stairs, arms crossed as he studied the ceiling in thought. “Okay. Got one. I don’t like when you won’t trust yourself. Sometimes I can tell you’re going into panic mode because you think you can’t handle something. But every time you trust yourself, you absolutely kill it. Like that balloon popping game at the hotel in Asheville. You were about to lose your shit, and then you went up there and pulled that? I mean, you’re the last person who should be doubting herself.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, come on. That’s like when an interviewer asks what your biggest weakness is and you say, ‘well, I’m a workaholic and I can never seem to put a project down until it’s finished.’ Or ‘I’m a perfectionist and can’t handle when I haven’t put my absolute best into my work!’”