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"A serial killer who knows your coffee order? You could do worse."

"I have done worse." I tuck the note into my purse, where it's joining several others I refuse to admit I'm saving. "One of them once bought me an air fryer for Valentine's Day because he wanted chicken wings."

Denise laughs, but the thing making my chest feel warm isn't the croissant or the coffee. It's that Enzo remembered the reading program I've been worrying about all week. When he calls that evening, the first thing he asks is whether the shy little boy with the dinosaur backpack finally joined in. I told him about that child once, in passing, and somehow he remembered.

We've been seeing each other for almost two weeks, and my phone has become the most interesting object I own. Enzo sends photographs of ridiculous desserts from business dinners, always asking whether I'd prefer the chocolate cake or him. Naturally, I pick cake. Yesterday, he texted from a meeting to complain that a roomful of grown men had spent an hour arguing over something that should have taken five minutes.

Tell me something interesting, sweetheart.

I sent a picture of Murder Mittens sitting in the sink and explained he'd joined the plumbers' union. Enzo called afterward, laughing, to complain I'd interrupted a serious discussion. I like that he remembers to ask whether I've eaten lunch before the afternoon gets away from me.

Unfortunately, I'm beginning to like him an awful lot.

On Wednesday, Enzo takes me to Griffith Observatory, where the city glitters beneath us and I spend an entirely unreasonable amount of time explaining how stars die.

"That's romantic," he says, drawing me beneath his arm as we look through the exhibits.

"Sorry. Would you prefer the statistics on unidentified bodies found in the desert? I've got a whole section of the library devoted to questionable life decisions."

He kisses my temple. "Your mind is a dangerous place, Bridget Collins."

"You're only figuring that out now?"

"No. I'm finding I like it more every day."

He kisses me beneath the night sky, and I reconsider mocking fictional heroines for falling too quickly.

Another evening brings dinner on a private terrace and a detour into a boutique, where Enzo spots an emerald-green dress.

"That costs more than my rent," I tell him, holding the price tag between two fingers like it might bite.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it, which isn't the point."

"Try it on. If you don't want it afterward, we'll leave it here."

The dress fits beautifully. Enzo stops mid-sentence when I emerge, and the look on his face makes me forget the price. Almost. He buys it after promising not to renovate my entire wardrobe.

Later, in the car, with Rocco politely pretending he can't hear us, I rest my head against Enzo's shoulder as we follow the coast road.

"You know I'd rather eat pizza with you on your couch than go to another expensive restaurant, right?"

He turns toward me. "You would?"

"Enzo, I like you. The man who laughs at my cat pictures and remembers the kids at work. You don't need to buy a small country every time you take me out."

He studies me a moment, then kisses my knuckles. "Pizza, then. Tomorrow night."

The following evening, we're barefoot on his couch with mushroom-free pizza and a terrible horror movie. When the heroine investigates a basement after being warned about a murderer, Enzo pauses so I can finish yelling at her.

"She deserves whatever happens," I announce. "There's a perfectly good front door. Use it."

"You're very unforgiving."

"Of stupid decisions? Absolutely."

He reaches for another slice. "Remind me never to make one."