The look on Annabelle’s face when her mother asked me to lunch was so horrified that I was tempted to say yes. There’s something about her that makes me want to tease her, see if there’s a sense of humor behind those secretary glasses and uptight attitude.

Plus struggling actors know never to turn down the offer of a free meal.

But common sense and professionalism prevailed. I turned Mrs. Winter down politely, gave myself a pat on the back for handling an awkward situation well, and turned my attention to the next customer.

I’m used to dealing with women who are more worldly than Annabelle; they might be attracted to me, but they’re too sophisticated to be obvious about it. The way Annabelle is so completely, obviously flustered by my presence is an odd blend of annoying and amusing. Perversely, it makes me want to see how much more flustered I can make her, which is probably why I make a point of walking over to her and striking up a conversation when I see her buying the perfume an hour later.

But after five seconds with her at the counter, I realize that we’re going to be in big trouble on Thursday night if she can’t relax more around me. No one’s going to believe that we’re dating, let alone believe in the future that she was the one to break things off.

While I’ll probably never have to deal with her again after our “date,” I do take pride in the performances I put on, whether they’re real acting gigs or not. Plus, a good review from her will go a long way toward more and better roles with Gentlemen, Inc. Until I get my big acting break, I can’t afford to overlook opportunities that pay this well.

So I ask her to join me for coffee. I see it as prepping for a role. Besides, I don’t have anything better to do on my break except wander around the store admiring things I can’t afford.

Bar on Four, the little restaurant off the Men’s Department on the fourth floor, sells $30 sandwiches and $25 salads. I’ll be in trouble if Annabelle’s expecting me to buy her lunch, but when we sit down, she orders a much more affordable cappuccino and I order a latte.

She smiles at me politely while we wait for our coffees, but she fidgets and has trouble meeting my eyes, and the tension in her shoulders tells me she’s not entirely relaxed around me.

“So, I figure we should get to know each other a bit better before I meet your friends and family,” I say.

She meets my eyes and nods earnestly. “So, like, where we grew up and what our hobbies are and stuff?”

I lift one shoulder in a light shrug. “Well, maybe—I grew up in a small town in Ohio, for what it’s worth—but I don’t think we need to worry about too many details. There’s not going to be a test, is there?”

The waiter comes back with our coffees and places them in front of us. After smiling her thanks at him, Annabelle turns to me and shakes her head. “No. My parents are more likely to grill you on your future intentions. They’ll probably hold off on the full green card interview for another time.”

I take a sip of my latte while I pretend not to notice that her face has gone scarlet. I can almost hear her thoughts: there won't actually be another time, and she's embarrassed for suggesting that there might be.

“And we’ve only been dating a few weeks anyway, right?” I say. “So if we don’t know everything about each other, it’s not that big a deal.”

She nods, and I can see her start to relax a little. But only a little. “Okay, you’re right. I'm overthinking the whole thing. So … tell me about acting.”

She kind of pounces on the topic like she’s trying to think of things for us to talk about. I’d like to see if we can get to a point where we’re just chatting spontaneously, like regular people. I kind of doubt we’ll get there in the 20 minutes before my break is over, but this is as good a place as any to start.

“It’s fun. I love it. I couldn’t do anything else.” Now I’m not acting at all. I do love what I do.

She tilts her head at me over her coffee cup. “It’s not just about the fame and fortune? It’s actually about the acting?”

I chuckle. “Feel free to send a little fame and fortune my way, they're always welcome," I answer. “But I do love acting. I wouldn't want to do anything else.”

“What do you love about it?” She looks at me, genuinely curious.

I consider her question a moment before answering. “It’s a chance to be someone else, but you have to figure that person out first if you’re going to do a good job. It’s like putting together a puzzle. It’s a challenge.”

She nods slowly. “Even when you’re doing things like commercials?”

I nod. “Even if the role doesn’t call for it, I try to come up with a background for the character. I come up with a whole life for them sometimes, where they grew up, what they like to eat, what they do for fun. It’s good practice for when I when I get my big break.”

“Your big break?” She’s smiling a little now and looking way more relaxed. “Like in the movies where the understudy gets a shot at the starring role?”

Now it’s my turn to feel a little heat creeping up the back of my neck. Like a lot of actors, I have a Big Break fantasy—to land the role that propels me to fame, to catch the notice of a powerful player in the industry, to be singled out from amongst the thousands of hopefuls and turned into a star.

It’s true, but it’s also childish, and I’m not sure what prompted me to mention it to Annabelle.

But now that it’s done, I cover my embarrassment with a grin. “Exactly like that,” I reply. “But honestly, I’ll always be an actor, even if I never get my big break. But I will get it,” I add quickly. “It’s just a matter of time.”

I’m not superstitious about many things, but I have made a deal with myself never to think negatively about the future. I am an actor, and I’m going to be a very successful one.

Time to change the subject.

“So, speaking of acting, in acting classes, we talk a lot about character motivation,” I say. “Seeing as Thursday night’s going to be one big improv act, let’s dig into motivation a bit. Tell me more about why you hired me.”

She shifts a little in her seat but finally lets out a long breath. “Well … I told you a bit about my family and you'll meet them at the party. They're all … They're really sparkly.”

I can't repress a smile. “Sparkly?”

She nods. "They're all super charismatic and good looking and interesting. I'm like …” She glances at the ceiling, looking for the right words. “I’m like a little brown button in a box full of sequins. I mean, I'm smart, and I'm nice, and I do things that I think are interesting, but I'm not glamorous, and I'm not that good at … fascinating people the way they are.”

I nod. From an actor’s point of view, this is good stuff. I'm starting to get a better sense of what she really wants—which is to not be outshone by her family.

“Okay,” I say. “Thursday night's assignment: help Annabelle sparkle.”

Instead of ducking her head and blushing, which I'm half expecting, she looks intently at me and gives me a little smile.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’m starting to feel more comfortable about the whole thing. I really appreciate you helping me out. You're very kind.”

Now, for some reason, I'm starting to feel a little uncomfortable. Maybe it's that sweet, earnest look in her eyes like she thinks I'm being a hero for having a 20-minute coffee date with her. I'm already a little alarmed by the way she acts around me, like a schoolgirl with a crush. I don't want her to think I'm a bad guy … but I don't want her to think I'm a saint, either.

I smile a little, to soften the words but I say them firmly. “I’m not being that nice. I just want us to do a good job tomorrow night. And frankly, I'm hoping that if I make an extra effort, you'll give me a good evaluation.”

She doesn't stop smiling, but her eyes grow a little guarded. “So you do something nice for me, I do something nice for you?”

I spread my hands out and give a little shrug. “It's the way of the world.”

Annabelle raises her eyebrows. “That's kind of cynical. Couldn't someone just do something nice for you and you say thank you and that's the end of it?”

My only motivation here was to take her opinion of me down just enough for her to realize I have feet of clay like everyone else so that she'd feel more comfortable around me. I didn't really intend for us to start debating our philosophies on life. But now that we’re here, I feel oddly defensive.

“I don't like being in debt,” I tell her. “If someone does me a favor, I'm not comfortable until I've paid them back. Until I do, it's like they own part of me.”

This is the real heart of my outlook on life, and I know there’s no way I'm going to make Annabelle understand; whatever complaints she has about her family, I can tell she was brought up in a far more sheltered environment than I was.

She doesn't know what it's like to feel owned.

She gives me a quizzical look. “So, the universe is just one big balance sheet to you?”

“I guess.” I shrug, feeling a little silly. In the space of a few minutes, I've managed to spill both my dream of getting my big break and my cynical philosophy on life. I’m not sure what it is about this geeky girl that makes me overshare like this; maybe it’s simply that outside of our performance tomorrow night, I don't want anything from her. I don't want sex, or a job, or a place to live. She has nothing to offer me, so I can be myself around her.

Which is stupid, because until midnight tomorrow night, she’s still a client, and I absolutely should not be thinking of her as anything else.

Annabelle breaks into my thoughts. “So … I guess I'd better pay for the coffee.” A slight smile hovers at the corners of her mouth.

I frown. I don’t want her to think I was angling for her to pay. “No. I asked you. I just wanted us to be more comfortable with each other. So we could carry off your party. Professional pride,” I explain.

She shakes her head and gestures at a passing waiter for the check. “Then you're doing me a favor, and I don't want to be in your debt,” she says, a twinkle in her eye.

“It's okay. Really …” I try to assure her.

The waiter comes back with a little brown folder with the check in it. Annabelle snatches it with surprising confidence. I narrow my eyes as I watch her tuck a couple of bills in the folder and set it back on the table. She doesn't know—she can't know—how much I dislike watching a woman pay, even just for a couple of coffees.

On the one hand, I’ve succeeded: Annabelle is smiling at me, looking far more comfortable than she was, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

On the other hand, I can’t help feeling like the tables have been turned against me somehow.