“How do you feel about Hitchcock?” Her question caught me by surprise and I realized she was hovering in front of me, shifting from foot to foot as she tugged at the sleeves of her hoodie.
“I’ve only seen Psycho,” I said.
She gave her head a little shake of exasperation. “And you call yourself a movie lover.”
“I’ve never called myself that, actually,” I said, enjoying the sight of her shuffling around her room in her pajamas and glasses more than anyone should.
Being here was weird but...cozy.
“It’s too quiet in here,” she muttered as she stuck a DVD into an old TV and pressed play. She turned around and I could see her debate written all over her face.
Where was she going to sit?
There were no seats in her room other than the desk chair, which didn’t have a view of the TV.
I patted the bed beside me. “I promise I won’t bite.”
She eyed me warily but then grabbed the magazine and used it as a shield, holding it to her chest tightly as she scooted onto the bed next to me. Close, but not close enough that we were touching.
“Okay,” I said, shifting to face her as the opening credits music swelled behind me. “Tell me what you’ve got.” I nodded toward the magazine.
She bit her lip with a weary sigh. “First of all...most of the suggestions in this one are totally ridiculous.”
It was impossible to keep a straight face. I’d flipped through enough of the “how to land your man” articles to know that this was an understatement. “Agreed. If you start mimicking his every movement, he’s probably going to call the cops.”
Her lips twitched in amusement. “The only one that makes sense is to find some common ground to get the conversation started.”
She sounded so serious as she plotted out her plan to flirt, it was kind of hilarious.
It was also insanely adorable. I just wanted to pull her close and give her a hug.
I resisted the urge.
“Have you come up with any conversation starters?” I asked instead.
She shifted, her gaze darting back and forth between me and the TV. When she said a line along with Cary Grant, in a deep voice and British accent, I realized just how nervous she was.
She peeked over at me. “I was thinking I’d ask him how he came to play the bass guitar?”
She posed it as a question and I nodded thoughtfully. “So, you...know something about the guitar?”
“No. Nothing,” she said. “I suck at playing instruments.”
“So...not exactly common ground then,” I pointed out.
She pursed her lips in irritation. “Yeah, but Rose said I just had to get a guy talking and then he’d take over. She said most guys love to talk about themselves and will keep the conversation going single-handedly if you let them.”
“Ah. I see.” I stared at the TV screen as I pondered this. I’d heard that stereotype before but I’d never really understood it. I’d always hated when girls I barely knew asked me personal questions. “So, you want a guy who will keep a conversation going by talking about himself all night?”
“Well, no, not necessarily, but it beats me having to make conversation.” She shoved her glasses up her nose and her gaze met mine levelly. “Even you have to admit that I’m not very good at small talk.”
“Even me, huh?”
She huffed at my apparent cluelessness. “Yeah, even you. Mr. Nice Guy.”
Mr. Nice Guy. Was that how people saw me? I shifted uncomfortably. Sounded pretty...boring.
I shot her a sidelong look. Was that how she saw me? As some harmless, boring, asexual nice guy?
“What then?” I asked.
She blinked in surprise at the change in my tone of voice.
I didn’t exactly intend to get all serious but quite frankly, my ego was taking a licking over here. How had it not occurred to me that being the stand-in date was more than mildly humiliating?
Did I seriously have nothing better to do with my time? How pathetic.
“What do you mean, what then?” she asked.
“Well, say this Tony guy gets real talkative about the bass guitar, and all you have to do is listen and nod,” I said. “What happens then?”
She shifted, her gaze dropping to the magazine that had slipped down onto her lap as if the answer was in there. “I don’t know. I try not to mess it up, I guess?”
“Sounds romantic.”
She shot me a quick look. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No, just…” I exhaled loudly. “Maybe a little bit. I guess I’m just curious why you want to date a guy who will only talk about himself and who hasn’t noticed you even though you’re right in front of his face at band practice.”
“Ouch,” she muttered.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that to be…” Ah crap. I was making a mess of this. “There are plenty of guys who would like you exactly as you are, including bad impersonations and bunny slippers.”
“Really?” she scoffed. “Name one.”
Me.
I swallowed. The word had been right there on the tip of my tongue. She stared at me, waiting for an answer, but I couldn’t speak because my brain was still temporarily stunned into silence.
When I went to speak again, the first word that popped into my head?
Me.
Again.
I cleared my throat and she rolled her eyes. “See? You can’t think of a single person.”
She didn’t sound bitter, just...resigned. Like I’d just confirmed her worst suspicions.
The silence stretched as I tried to figure out a way to answer that question without giving myself away. Because I didn’t like Simone…
Did I?
I stared at the screen just as Cary Grant hopped into a taxi in 1950’s New York City. “How’d you get into old movies?” I asked.
She tensed. “What does that have to do with flirting lessons?”
I shot her a little smile. “Flirting is just talking, Sims.”
She frowned at my use of her dad’s nickname. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s that simple. Flirting is just two people
