“Or you’re fine if I do this,” he said.

Now he moved his hand from my collarbone to my hair, running his fingers through the ends, watching the way the strands twined around his fingers. “So soft,” he murmured, saying it in a way that made me think he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“That happens when you have nice conditioner.” I was trying to joke, but it was like I could barely get the words out. I wondered if it was okay for me to touch him, too. Would his hair be soft? Would he let me twist and turn it with my fingers? Maybe make little braids in it?

“That kind of reminds me of the other thing I think we should be doing.” How could he speak so calmly when my insides were being jumbled like crazy? “We should get to know each other better. Like, I don’t even know if you’re from California.”

“I am. Born and raised.”

“Okay . . .” He was still playing with my hair, and I was still loving it and wanted to lean into him and purr like a cat. “What about your favorite color?”

“Teal, like my work polo shirts. What about you?”

“Black, like my soul.”

I laughed at that and then said, “My turn. What’s your favorite movie?”

“Pass.” He shook his head. “Too many for too many different reasons. Same with books. I do have a soft spot for Fight Club, though. Favorite vacation? You already know mine. It was the only one I’ve ever taken.”

“My mom used to take me up to Big Bear and we’d spend a couple of nights there. We couldn’t really afford to go anywhere else.” I was suddenly realizing the gift I’d been given. I could ask Noah Douglas anything I wanted and I knew he’d answer. He was notoriously tight lipped in his interviews and would often just refuse to answer certain questions that he deemed too personal. And I could find out all of his favorite things while he was playing with my hair.

Talk about a win-win.

“Favorite sport?” I asked.

“Football.”

“Favorite team?”

“The Portland Jacks.”

I didn’t care all that much about sports. I’d only asked because for some guys this was the most important question ever, but since Noah wasn’t waxing on about his eternal love for his team, I figured I was okay to shift questions. “Favorite ice cream?”

“Vanilla, I guess. I don’t really eat a lot of ice cream.”

“Don’t . . . eat . . . ,” I sputtered. “I don’t even know what to say to that. I feel like my people have been dishonored or something.”

He laughed at that and it looked like he was going to ask me a question, so I rushed in first. “Favorite candy bar?”

“Snickers.”

I smacked him on the leg. “You can’t choose that. It’s my favorite.”