“You barely know anything about me.” He frowns in the mirror. “I know things about you.” “Oh really? Like my first name?” “I know more than that.” He rips another alcohol swab with his teeth. The sound ignites a flicker of heat in my core. Now, I’m imagining him doing that with a condom. “I know you like peppermint tea and plants. You’re an artist. You’re doing a pottery fellowship in Argentina—” “You remembered that?” “No. I listened,” he repeats my words from earlier, hitching up a corner of his mouth. “You have a complicated relationship with your sister, but I can tell you love her. You
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