“Of course…” He replied quickly, looking a little flustered. Watching him try to navigate the conversation and how he cared about making me feel at ease was unusually charming. “How long have you been living in New York City?”
“My whole life…”
We slipped back into that same trance from earlier. Our eyes locked in their own private conversation. It was intense but not uncomfortable. I didn’t mind it. He didn’t seem to either. And then a honk from the car behind us jolted us back to reality. We’d gotten so lost in each other that we hadn’t noticed the lights turning green.
I smiled, trying to pick the conversation back up.
“I moved away from college but came right back.”
He adjusted in his seat, giving himself a moment to shift back into light conversation mode.
“Wow. So you must know everything about the city. All the best places and secret spots.”
“I’m a terrible tour guide,” I laughed. “Every time an out-of-state friend visits, they want the full NYC experience… and I’ve got nothing. My favorite place in the city is my house.”
The absurdity of it made me laugh again. I lived in the most exciting city in the world, and still, if it was up to me, I’d always stay in. Alone more often than not. And even when I wasn’t, I was the one hosting, keeping things on my territory, in my space.
He looked pleased by that.
“If I tell you I’m a total homebody, too, would you believe me?”
“No,” I said, deadpan. We both laughed.
Let’s be honest: no one has looked at Chris Jones and pictured him in sweatpants, watching a movie on the couch. And yet… when I saw him tonight, that was the first image that popped into my head. Almost like I already knew.
“It’s true,” he said, still chuckling. Then, his tone shifted to a more serious one. “I wish I had more time to do it. But according to my manager, an actor’s job doesn’t end at acting. I’ve got to network, be seen…” He made a face. “But any chance I get, I fly back to my house in Boston and just… chill.” He smiled at the word, clearly lost for a second in the memory of being there.
Another red light. Another glance in my direction.
“I think you’ll love my house in Boston. It’s the perfect homebody sanctuary.”
I was hooked. Not just on his eyes this time but on his smile. It was a real one, not the polished, press-ready kind. It felt unguarded. Like the rest had been part of the act, but this one snuck through.
“Are you inviting me to your Boston house?” I asked, teasing.
“I guess I am.”
“Shouldn’t you wait more than twenty-four hours before inviting someone to your house in a different city?” I kept the mood light.
This time, he didn’t let himself get caught in another stare. As soon as the light turned green, he broke eye contact and looked straight ahead. His smile faded.
“Well…” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t know. You’re the first woman I’ve ever invited to go there.”
My smile faltered. Whatwas I supposed to do with that?
He had to be kidding. Right?
It was a move. Ithadto be.
I swallowed hard. And then, to the rescue came a familiar song playing through the car speakers. I sank deeper into my seat and I remained quiet. Whatever had passed between us, I wanted to leave it untouched. Let it exist without hiding behind a joke. So, without thinking, I hummed along.
For a second, I debated whether I should stop humming and switch back to “proper date conversation.” But when I looked over, he was humming along too. It didn’t feel awkward or heavy. It felt natural and… familiar.
Chrisand I stood side by side in the elevator, and the lounge music was so faint I could still hear our breathing. His hand was close to mine, so close I thought, maybe, he’d reach for it. But he didn’t. And I wasn’t about to make the first move, especially not in a moving metal box.
The ride wasn’t longer than a minute, but it was enough time for me to sneak glances at him. His hair was longer than I’d ever seen in his films and a little messy, like a statement against the perfectly polished Hollywood version. There were faint lines around his eyes, something you would nevernotice on screen. They made him look even better. More real.
And that beard… I could still feel it on my fingertips and the texture brushing against my face.
