Beau, relief making every muscle in his body loose now that he’s on solid ground, says, “No problem. Now that it’s over.”
I let that go since he was such a good sport in trying something new. Speaking of...
“I have some dinner planned if you’re hungry.” I’ll be eating either way since I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. It’s been a hectic day with the Christmas auction looming, plus all the other work for upcoming auctions. And taking on Beau’s decorating job, which still hasn’t been approved by anyone, so I have to do it in secret on top of my other work.
I could eat.
“I’m ready for what I’m sure will be the fanciest restaurant in the hottest new neighborhood that New York has to offer.” Beau turns in the skates and collects his purchases.
“Oh. Then you’re going to be disappointed because I thought you’d want to go low-key. Maybe some street meat.”
“Street meat?”
“Meat, from a street vendor. A venerable New York tradition that everyone should experience when they’re in this great city.”
“That’s not just a TV thing?”
“Well, for health reasons I try not to eattoomuch street meat, but yes, I do partake.”
I tuck my hand in the crook of his arm again, a place that it’s gotten too comfortable in over the last few days. It started out as a way to direct the tourist where we were heading, but now my damn hand reaches for him before my damn brain can approve of the move.
Not that my brain would stop my hand. It wants Beau just as much as my hand does.
I direct him to the nearest food cart around the corner. Which, to be fair, serves artisanal hot dogs from Brooklyn, if he’s worried about it not being fancy.
Hot dogs and fancy sauces consumed, we stroll along Fifth Avenue, taking in the Christmas window displays, all vying for attention and money.
“These are just obvious attempts to get you to spend money.”
“Sure. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be entertaining and even beautiful. Most of the highbrow art in museums was made to glorify a patron, to advertise how rich and tasteful they were. But it can still be beautiful.”
“Another art lesson for free?”
“Possibly the most important art lesson.” I point to a window of two elves playing video games while a conveyor belt dumps toys on the ground in the background. “And window displays have gotten a lot cheekier over time, which is fun.”
“That is good.”
I shamelessly move closer to him on the walk. For his sake, because a New York winter is nothing to scoff at, especially for a Southern boy. And if I enjoy getting closer to his solid mass of warmth, that’s just the joy of doing a good deed, I’m sure.
“This is me.” Beau looks up at his hotel.
“Of course the man who lectured me on excess is staying at The Fucking Plaza.”
A light dusting of red blooms in his cheeks. “I think this is stillfunctionalexcess. Different from a painting, which was my original argument.”
“It’s a very nice hotel.” I try to comfort him, adorable little hypocrite that he is.
“I know it’s a work night for you, but do you want to come in for a drink?”
I’m surprised to find that I don’t want the night to end. “Sure. But only something Christmas themed. So this still counts as me showing you a good city time.”
Beau opens the door for me, letting me into the famous decadent white-and-gold paneled lobby. And then puts his hand on my lower back again. I should be irritated at the cheek it takes to lead me around my own city, but since I melt inside whenever his strong hands are on me, I choose to find it charming.
To distract myself from that unsettling thought, I take in the surroundings. Like the rest of the city, the hotel is decked out for Christmas. Their giant tree fills the space, decorated with bright lights, classy ornaments, and a pile of enticing (and probably fake) presents under the tree.
We walk to the Palm Court and settle in the atrium for a drink. True to its name, the room is lined with greenery amidst its white walls, golden furniture, and stained-glass skylight—a mini oasis in the chaotic city. With drinks.
“I’ll have a Balvenie, please,” I say to the bartender.
