“We’re in Queens,” he says, as if stating a scientific discovery.
“Yeah. We are.”
“And my father is probably currently having a panic attack because he can’t track my phone.”
“Probably.”
Preston grins. It’s a sharp, reckless grin. “Good.”
He finishes the taco in two bites. He crumples the foil and tosses it into the trash can with a perfect arc.
“I’m still hungry,” he announces.
“For tacos?”
He steps closer, invading my personal space. He crowds me against the Porsche, his hip bumping my thigh. The heat coming off him is stronger than the humidity in the air.
“No,” he whispers. “Not for tacos.”
My breath hitches. “My apartment is three blocks away.”
My apartment is a fourth-floor walk-up. It is not a country club. It does not smell of cut grass and old money. It smells of the fabric softener my mom buys in bulk and the coffee I brewed this morning.
I unlock the door and push it open.
“Welcome to the humble abode,” I say, tossing my keys into the bowl by the door. “Shoes off. My abuela haunts this place, and she hates street grit.”
Preston kicks off his loafers. He steps inside, looking around.
It’s small. The living room is mostly books—stacks of medical journals, paperbacks, textbooks. There’s a comfortable, sagging couch and a TV that’s probably too big for the wall.
“It’s…” Preston walks to the bookshelf, running a finger along the spine ofHarrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine. “It’s real.”
“It’s crowded,” I correct, shutting the door. “And the radiator clanks in D minor.”
Preston turns to me. He looks wildly out of place here in his pastels, like a macaroon dropped on a subway platform, but he doesn't look uncomfortable. He looks… settled.
“I like it,” he says. “It doesn't feel like a museum.”
He walks toward me. The playfulness from the taco truck is gone, replaced by a focused intensity that makes my pulse jump.
“So,” he says, stopping a foot away. “The date. The real date. Did we survive?”
“We survived,” I confirm. “You didn't run when I threatened your dad with the St. Barts logs.”
“Run? Luke, I was taking notes.” He reaches out, his hands landing on my waist. “You defended me. No one… no one ever stands up to them for me. Max does, sometimes, but he fights them with logic. You fought them with a shiv.”
“I’m from Queens,” I say, my hands finding his shoulders. “We fight dirty.”
“I love dirty,” Preston murmurs.
He kisses me.
It starts slow, a testing of waters we’ve been skirting for weeks. His lips are soft, tasting faintly of spice and sweetness. But then his hands tighten on my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the dam breaks.
I groan, opening my mouth to him. Preston deepens the kiss instantly, his tongue sliding against mine, hot and demanding. He walks me backward until my legs hit the edge of the couch. I stumble, and he follows, pressing me down until I’m sitting, then looming over me.
“Bedroom,” I manage to gasp, breaking the kiss for air. “The couch is lumpy.”
