Samuel felt something tighten under his ribs that had no business tightening for a woman he had known for twenty minutes. The cream sweater suddenly felt too warm. "What did you say?"
"I said I needed to think. Which, in Grant-language, means yes with a delay. In Claire-language, it means I got on a train to Vermont without him and told my aunt I had a work conflict he couldn't join." She laughed once, without humor. "I'm twenty-five. I buy other women's Christmas fantasies for a living—scarves, wraps, the idea that the right shade of red will fix loneliness. And I can't decide whether I love a man who alphabetizes his ties."
"Do you?" Samuel asked quietly. "Love him."
The question hung between them like the Polaroid, still developing into its final truth.
"I love that he makes sense," she said at last. "I love that my parents exhale when he enters a room. I love that he would never wish anyone a merry train." Her eyes flicked to Samuel's face, and the smirk from the platform flickered there like a ghost of itself. "That last part might be emerging as a flaw in the merchandise."
He smiled despite himself. "I can try to be more conventional."