Page 23 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“I wouldn’t do that on purpose,” he says, almost sounding offended.

Eli tries to laugh off the blooming awkwardness. “It was a joke.”

“Oh . . . right, yeah.” Peter doesn’t seem entertained. He just takes the spoon from his silverware set and opens the metal lid of the rice bowl.

Eli closes his eyes and lets out a quiet sigh, wondering when it’d be appropriate to call this date over. He can’t help but think of the horror movies he’s watched where people find themselves trapped by the psychopath killer simply because they decided they couldn’t possibly be rude.

Of course, that’s an exaggeration. Now that Eli can look at Peter, he’s not sure exactly what he was worried about. Peter doesn’t look like the kind of person capable of hurting others; at least, not on purpose.

Eli traces his finger around the rim of his glass. He’s not sure where the night could possibly go from here, but he can’t just leave in the middle of Peter eating, right? He decides to give it until the bill is paid, then they can go their separate ways. “Did Francine mention what I do?” he asks, since Peter doesn’t seem interested in asking himself.

“No,” he says plainly, chewing his food.

“Well . . . do you want to ask me?”

“Oh, uh . . . what do you do for work, Eli?” Peter wipes his mouth with one of the few unused napkins remaining.

“Thanks for asking, Peter.” Eli tries to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he straightens in the booth. “I work at Vent.”

“Like the website?”

“Yeah, the website.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Well . . . not exactly.” Eli shuffles his feet under the table. “I’m an executive assistant to the head editor.”

“Oh, so a secretary?” Peter asks, and to his credit, Eli doesn’t think there’s anything malicious about how he asks it, but it sure doesn’t sound as kind as it could have.

“Executive assistant,” Eli corrects him. Even if he knows that’s bullshit, the last thing he needs is for a near stranger to talk down to him.

“Right, sorry.”

“How long have you been in the city?” Eli asks, desperate to skip past any more awkwardness.

“Four years,” Peter says, taking another bite of his still-sizzling food.

Four years? When Eli heard that Peter was new and he wanted to meet people, he thought that Peter must’ve been in the city four months at the most.

And suddenly he feels like such an asshole for thinking that about Peter. He isn’t a douchebag or a jerk, he’s just . . . Eli doesn’t really know exactly. He doesn’t want to be an armchair psychiatrist, so he isn’t going to diagnose Peter with anything, especially after only knowing him for thirty minutes, but the guy seems more than anxious.

A sensation Eli is all too familiar with.

“Where are you from originally?” Eli asks, hoping that questions about Peter’s home might relax him a bit.

“Incheon.”

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. “Was it nice there?”

Peter looks up, nodding in agreement while he chews for a moment before he admits, “I don’t know.”

“Oh. You don’t know?”

“My family left when I was two. So, I don’t remember it.”

“You said you grew up there.”

“No.” Peter points hurriedly with his spoon, placing the perfect ratio of meat to rice with his chopsticks. “You asked where I’m from. There’s a difference.”