“A math geek too,” I say dryly. “So impressive.”
A little later, we arrive at IKEA, where I put on my most serious face. “I wrote a list. I have a plan. I’m ready.”
His brow knits in confusion. “You planned out what I need to buy?”
“I did,” I say, owning it. “That’s part of the housewarming gift. It didn’t seem like something you wanted to do.”
He brings his hand to his chest and sighs dramatically. “You are an angel of mercy.”
“Just wait until your sink clogs, or your dryer goes on the fritz. You’ll elevate me to goddess status when I can come fix it for you.”
“I’m promoting you right now just for offering, January.” As we march into the store, a determined spring in both our steps, he lifts a brow. “Speaking of January, how is it that you and your daughter have such similar names?”
“Well, it may have something to do with the fact she’s my daughter and I got to name her.”
He laughs as we step onto the escalator. “I meant, was it as deliberate as it seems, you being named after a month and her after a day of the week? But I suppose that’s my answer.”
“I always liked the name Wednesday. I suppose I don’t mind, either, when things match.”
“You say that like it’s a confession. Like matching things are near and dear to your heart.”
“They are. Wine and chocolate, coffee and cream, hammer and nail. And now, January and Wednesday.”
“If she has children, do you think they’ll be named Minute or Second?”
At the top of the escalator, we turn into the linens section. “Please. Don’t be silly. If she gives me a grandchild, I’ll insist on the name Five O’clock.”
“Because that’s the best time of day?”
“My favorite time of the day is actually ten at night.” I slow my pace, tapping my chin. “No, probably eleven. I love the quiet of nighttime.”
“You’re a night owl,” he says, musing on this newly learned fact.
“I am. And what about you? Are you a morning person?”
“What do you think?” He flashes me a grin. The way the man alternates between droll and cheery is kind of adorable.
“You seem like a morning person.”
“And why do you say that?” he asks as he follows me through the kitchenware.
“I think it’s because you have this sort of upbeat personality.”
He exaggerates a grimace. “Don’t tell anybody. I really want to keep up my reputation as a ne’er-do-well or a curmudgeon.”
“You’re doing a horrible job of pretending to be either of those.”
“I’m working on it. In the meantime, like I said, don’t tell anyone.”
I bring my finger to my lips, swearing secrecy, then I focus on the shopping list.
After all, I am a woman on a mission. A couch mission.
We make our way through housewares, stopping only at an adorable steel trash can that’s so cute I have to grab a pink one.
“Penchant for pink,” I explain.
“And pink trash cans are irresistible?”
“Clearly.”
He holds out his arm, silently offering to carry it. I hand it over, thanking him. Next, we come to shelves and bins full of pillows, and I slow then stop because . . . pillows.
I wiggle my fingers at them. “Must have pillows.”
He lifts a brow, looking perplexed. “You need pillows?”
“I want pillows,” I correct. “Don’t let the whole tomboy vibe throw you. I am big on pillows.”
“What’s not to like? They’re soft and fluffy, and they help lubricate the path to sleep.”
A laugh springs from my chest. “I don’t really think of pillows as lubrication.”
“Ah, that’s an issue, then. Pillows are absolutely a lubricant. I highly recommend them for easing into a good night’s sleep.”
“I sleep quite well.”
“Do you sleep on pillows?”
“I do sleep on pillows.”
“Then the lubricant is doing its job, isn’t it?”
“Fine, fine,” I surrender with a laugh. “You got me there.”
“You are the girliest tomboy,” he remarks as I grab a sparkly purple one.
“I am.”
We go to the couches, and my gears start whirring. I recommend a dark-blue one for him. He approves it instantly. Tables next—I suggest a simple wood one for him, and he says, “I’ll get it.”
He’s easy, so easy that when we reach the chairs, I can’t resist patting a strange egg-shaped one with a pull-down shade so you can hide inside it. “And this seems like your style. You can use it as a chair fort.”
His brow lifts. “Just the thing every man needs.”
“Of course. Didn’t you see GQ’s list of ‘Top Ten Things a Manly Man Needs’? Scotch, an old-fashioned shave kit, and a chair fort.”
Stroking his chin, he makes a show of thinking it over. “Afraid I missed that one. I trust your judgment, but I’d better try it out to be sure.”
He crouches and inserts himself into the egg, then tugs the cover down, turning the chair into a kind of capsule.
