“Can I have your number?” he interrupts quickly, as though fearing where I had been going with that sentence. “You didn’t give it to me at the party, and I didn’t know how to find you.” “Find me?” I repeat dumbly. What the hell was he trying to find me for? “Yeah. I wanted to text you. I thought maybe we could get together sometime. You know”—the right side of his mouth quirks upward—“somewhere nicer than a backyard.”
