When it’s finally my turn, I step forward. “I’d like a bowl of Bang Bang noodles, please.” I place my five-dollar bill on the counter. This place is cash only.
The counter guy says something I don’t quite catch.
“I said, I want a bowl of Bang Bang noodles, please.” I point atmy money, but he just shakes his head and speaks again in rapid Mandarin.
“He’s saying they’re out of that type.” The tall stranger’s voice comes from beside me, and suddenly he’s close enough that I catch his scent.
Something expensive and subtle that makes me want to lean closer.
I turn to face him, and my breath catches. His eyes are warm, brown, intelligent, watching me with an intensity that heats my skin.
Up close, there’s something eerily familiar about him, though I can’t quite place it.
Now that I’m closer, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes suggest he’s in at least his mid to late thirties, but the lines oddly add to his appeal.
“Out?” I say to the counter guy, trying to focus. “But Ineedthese noodles.” I blush immediately, hearing how ridiculous that sounds.
“Why do you need them?” the stranger asks, his voice gentle.
When I don’t answer, he turns to the counter and asks for a menu, his shoulder brushing mine as he leans in to point out alternatives. “Maybe we could find you something else?”
“No,” I say. “No, it has to be Bang Bang noodles.”
He studies me for a moment, and something shifts in his expression—maybe recognition of a deeper need than hunger. “Take mine. I just ordered the last bowl.”
“I couldn’t?—”
“Then please share them with me.” It’s not quite a question, not quite a command. His lips curve into a smile that probably gets him anything he wants.
“My table’s in the corner. Unless you’re afraid of eating with strangers?”
I bite my lip, considering. I planned this evening so carefully—just me and Hilary’s memory, toasting with the mini Champagne bottle hidden in my purse.
Yet there’s something about him that makes me want to break my own rules.
“Sharing noodles with a stranger?” I manage a teasing smile. “That’s pretty intimate for New York City.”
His laugh is unexpected and genuine—a rich, low sound that seems to vibrate in the air between us. “I’ve been told I have excellent chopstick etiquette.”
His noodles appear, and at the garnish station, he moves with casual grace, adding cilantro, chopped egg, and chilies to separate compartments like he’s done this a thousand times before.
His fingers are long and elegant, with calluses I notice when our hands briefly touch as we reach for the same ladle.
When he slides into the booth across from me, his presence fills the space. Not intimidating, just...intense.
The pendant lights hanging above cast shadows that accentuate the hollows of his cheekbones, and for a fleeting moment, I get another flash of familiarity.
“So,” he says, expertly dividing the noodles between our bowls, “what makes these particular noodles so important tonight?”
I watch steam rise between us, debating how much to share. Something about him—the way he waits patiently, the lack of pressure in his gaze—makes me want to tell him the truth.
“My twin sister found this place in some underground guide to secret New York spots. She loved discovering hidden gems where chefs and musicians hang out after hours. We visited last summer. It was our last weekend together.”
I pause, the words catching. “Tonight’s our birthday. Was. Is. Grammar gets confusing when only one of you is still celebrating.”
“Your twin,” he says, the words careful, measured. His eyes stay steady on mine, and I notice flecks of gold in the brown. “You lost her.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “She was always the impulsive one—wouldn’t wait for lights to change, lived like every moment was her last.”
