“Only because we do all our consulting for events in here.”

“And that’s your responsibility?”

“Pretty much.”

He walked over to a bookshelf against the far wall and scanned the shelves. It was mostly stuff that came with the office. Thick product catalogs, sample books, and a few historical volumes of Orange County, North Carolina, history. I’d at least added a few personal things on the middle shelf—a picture of my family, a couple of my favorite volumes of poetry, the cheesy paperweight my last boss had given me when I’d left California.

“Are these yours?” Interesting. He’d reached for the poetry first. Most people went straight for the family photo.

“Yeah. Those are my favorites.”

“I love poetry,” he said. “I know Billy Collins and Longfellow, of course, but I’m not familiar with Nikki Giovanni.”

“Oh! You should be. She’s incredible. Revolutionary. Groundbreaking. Brilliant.” I leaned against the back of the overstuffed armchair that flanked the sitting area. “What I love about Nikki Giovanni is that her language isn’t so obscure or flowery that you have to search and dig and ponder to understand. It’s simple and yet still so evocative and moving. Her word choice is brilliant. And so multilayered. I don’t think she’s ever written anything I didn’t love.”

He flipped through a few pages, then took a step forward. “Here.” He handed me the book. “Read me your favorite.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, only if you want to.”

It suddenly occurred to me that hanging out with my boyfriend’s older brother, reading poetry alone in my office, might not be the greatest idea. But he seemed so earnest. And interested. And poetry wasn’t something I got to talk about often. The downside, I guess, to a soccer player dating another soccer player. Jamie and I spent a lot of time talking about soccer. Somewhere in the back of my mind it occurred to me that Simon was also a soccer player. But I didn’t feel up to dealing with the implications of that observation. I flipped the book open, searching the pages for something I could read.

I settled on “A Poem on the Assassination of Robert F. Kennedy.” Moving but not quite as evocative as my actual favorite, “Love Is.” Considering my audience, the assassination poem felt like a much safer choice.

“Okay. This one isn’t my favorite, but it’s still a good one.” He nodded his encouragement, and I started to read.

Simon was silent when I finished, just standing there, his arms folded across his chest, leaning slightly against the bookshelf. “That was . . .” He cleared his throat. “That was nice.”

I put the book back on the shelf. “Does Karen like poetry?” Karen? Yes. Dinosaur-bone-digging Karen. That felt right.

“Yes, she does. It’s one of the things I love most about her. She has a deep appreciation for literature.”