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"I don’t have any concrete plans yet," I finally reply. "But I think I’ll go back to work once I’m fully recovered."
"A hairstylist," he says matter-of-factly.
"How do you know?"
"I looked you up on Facebook."
I shake my head, half in disbelief. "You’re unbelievable."
"Just honest."
"Why did you look me up?"
"I wanted to know more about you."
"Why go to all that trouble just to get me into bed? That’s what this is about, isn’t it?"
"That too," he answers enigmatically.
"And what if I want the same? To know more about you, I mean."
"Ask me, Brooklyn. I don’t play games. At least, not outside the bedroom."
My pulse spikes.
Dear God, how does he manage to unravel me with just a hint of innuendo?
"Are your parents alive?"
I notice his hands tighten on the steering wheel. "My adoptive parents, yes. They’ve been married longer than I’ve been alive."
"Which would be?"
"Forty years. Subtle way of trying to figure out my age. Does the age gap between us bother you?"
"No, but I’d like to know if you usually date younger women."
"Is this an inquiry about my sexual past?"
"No, just curiosity."
"I don’t typically date women under thirty."
"Oh! Why me, then?"
"You attract me." He briefly glances away from the road to look at me. "You attract me a lot, Brooklyn."
Jesus, I must not be fully recovered yet because suddenly I feel dizzy and feverish. "Have you already started trying to seduce me?"
"No. Did it feel that way?"
"Uh . . . no, of course not."
"You’re a terrible liar, Brooklyn Foster."
"I don’t play games. Moses was my first boyfriend."
"You got pregnant by your first boyfriend?"