“This place must cost millions!” I blurt before I can stop myself.
“Something like that,” he says with a slight shrug, as if the cost is irrelevant.
I study him more closely. He’s definitely not some random businessman. Sam’s casual confidence around luxury suggests old money, but there’s an edge to him.
Something rebellious that doesn’t fit the trust-fund stereotype.
“May I take your wrap?” He gestures to my light cardigan.
I let him slide it from my shoulders, shivering pleasantly as his warm fingers brush my skin.
“The view,” I manage. “It’s incredible.”
“Come see it up close.”
He leads me to the windows. “There’s Times Square, and over there, Madison Square Garden.”
I step closer to the glass, my reflection ghosting against the cityscape. “It’s like having all of New York in your living room.”
“Would you like a drink? I have Champagne I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”
“That sounds great.” I turn from the windows, taking in the rest of the space. White leather and crystal chandeliers, minimalist but somehow warm.
A wall of wine bottles glimmers behind glass panels, looking more like an art installation than storage.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to a sleek white sofa, then moves to the wine wall.
“I’d rather look at your wine collection,” I say, joining him instead. “Tell me about these bottles.”
“Every one has a story,” he says, his fingers trailing along theglass. He selects a Champagne and works the cork free with quiet expertise.
I notice his hands, strong but elegant, with calluses that seem out of place for someone who lives in such luxury. “You really know what you’re doing.”
“Spent a few summers bartending,” he says, pouring two flutes of Champagne that catch the light like liquid gold. “Best education I ever got.”
“Bartending? With all this...” I gesture around the apartment.
“My rebellion phase. Dad wanted me at the law firm, Mom wanted me at Connecticut country club functions, but I wanted something real.”
His smile turns wry. “Turns out people tell bartenders everything. Better than therapy.”
I can picture it. A younger Sam, bristling against wealth’s expectations, finding freedom in pouring drinks for strangers.
It explains the contradiction I sense in him—his comfort with luxury but his resistance to its conformity.
He hands me a flute. “Happy birthday to you and Hilary. I should order a cake...”
“No, please. Had cake with my roommates earlier. This Champagne is more than enough.”
“Did you make a wish?”
“Yes. But that’s private.” I blush, remembering Zaza’s teasing about my birthday man. Interesting to think she might have been right.
Sam’s eyes darken slightly, and the air between us feels charged. “Tell me more about yourself,” he says. “At the noodle shop you mentioned San Diego.”
I nod. “After her divorce Mom remarried a military man when we were ten. Suddenly we had a new dad, new rules, and new bases every year.”
I pause, wondering why I’m telling him this. “But what about you? What do you do to afford all this?”
