“I usually hit the gym after work. Burn off some built-up pressure.”

“Nice,” I said, my mind drifting as I pictured his broad, sweaty shoulders and oiled, chiseled chest. Granted, I had never actually met a #46: SEXY engineer before, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Maybe Sajid was an anomaly. A hot brainiac who could code complex data with one hand while completing bicep curls with the other. As he talked about his workout regimen, I imagined his monster quads pounding out leg extensions like mathematical algorithms. My very own shirtless Salman with ripped acid-washed jeans and a bandanna headband. “Oh Oh Jaane Jaana!”

“What was that?” Sajid interrupted my thoughts.

“Nothing,” I stammered, feeling the heat rise in my face.

He laughed again. “So yeah, I definitely try my best to stay in shape,” he continued. I grinned and mentally checked off #15: FIT, #23: MUSCULAR, and #42: ACTIVE on my list. I knew there was a lot of hard work and sacrifice that went into getting a set of abs like Salman Khan’s, and any man who was willing to put in that work had my attention.

“That’s really great.”

“I do what I can. Actually, can you hold on for a minute? I’m starving! I’m gonna order something.”

“Okay, sure,” I said over the rustling in the background. I could hear the crack of a speaker, and then it sounded like Sajid placed the phone facedown because his voice was muffled as he gave his order:

“Can I get two Doritos Locos Tacos, three Crunchwrap Supremes, one Quesarito with extra sour cream, and a large Mountain Dew.”

The speaker crackled again. I heard Sajid cough, and then a few minutes later, he came back on.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“So, I’m guessing today is a cheat day?” I joked.

“Ohhh, yeah.” He laughed. “I’m not as strict—food-wise—on the weekends,” he said with a giggle. “So . . . what was I saying?”

“You were telling me about ways that you deal with stress.”

“Riiiight. So, yeah, I work out a lot,” he said, crunching down on something—probably one of his Doritos Locos Tacos. “And on really stressful days, when the gym just doesn’t cut it”—he chewed loudly—“I’ll typically hit the bong.”

I dropped my phone into my lap.

“Hello? Leila? Hey, are you there?”

“I’m here. So you were saying, uh . . . you typically—um, what?”

“I chief some leaf. You know, blow some blunts? Blaze a joint? Marijuana?”

“Yeah, I know what marijuana is.” I rolled my eyes. “So you . . . smoke weed?”

“Yeah,” he said, giggling uncontrollably again. “But only on weekends. Or at night. Or when my buddy Travis comes over. It helps me unwind.” He paused. “Like aromatherapy.”

“Right.”

“You should give it a try.”

“Aromatherapy?”

He laughed. “You know, I know a guy if you’re interested—”

I plopped my head against the pillow as Sajid rambled on about the quality of “hash” his dealer sold. The image of the #46: SEXY engineer floating in my mind had now been replaced by a beanie-wearing stoner with an oversize tie-dyed T-shirt looking for Froot Loops and corner market snacks. What would I, nonsmoking, nondrinking Leila, have in common with Mr. Midnight Toker?