didn’t want me paying,
didn’t want to feel like a stray I picked up on the way home.
The car’s spacious,
but still too small for everything left unsaid.
Words pile into the silence,
getting rowdy in the corners of my mouth
that by the time we climb out,
it’s like we survived a riot.
Then the door shuts behind us,
and everything goes still.
Fifth Avenue,
where it’s dead quiet at one in the morning.
Because wealth doesn’t scream.
It whispers and locks its doors and looks the other way.
Mickey spots us before we hit the awning,
bald head shining under the light,
posture chiseled from granite,
coat buttoned to his throat.
“Evenin’, Miss Taylor.”
Mick clocks Drew with an old-school glare?—
head to toe, judgment first?—
then eyes me. “That him?
“The one stealin’ your smile lately?”
I sigh. “Keep trackin’ my smile, I’ll have to pay you.”
Mick smirks. “Just makin’ sure it’s still yours.”
Andrew leans into me, heat at my spine.
“She let me hold it for a minute,” he says.
“I’ll return it in one piece.”
I shake my head, fighting back a grin,
but lose.
