I sit back down, distracting myself from laughing by looking for our waitress as he takes his seat across from me.
“He did seem a little off,” I agree. “He was probably intimidated by you.”
Ryan eats up my answer as he resumes the game and reaches for one of the last available blocks. “I’m happy I could help. Now, aren’t you glad you went over?”
“I am glad,” I answer truthfully. “I’m really, really glad.”
Something in my voice makes him look at me longer than he should as he pulls out his block. The tower topples with a deafening crash, scattering all over the table and onto the floor, drawing the eyes and cheers of everyone around us.
I sit back in my chair with a satisfied smirk. “Jenga.”
5
After leaving The Wharf, we head back in the direction of Ryan’s hotel. We move down 41st Street at a leisurely pace, and I take a deep breath in as I catch the scent of hot falafels from a nearby cart.
“Do you like being back in New York?” I ask, looking straight ahead.
“I do. I always liked it here.”
“That’s probably because New Yorkers are so cool.”
“Are you referring to yourself?”
“No, but it’s nice to know that when you think of cool New York people you instinctively think of me.”
Ryan looks over at me with an unreadable gaze. “You know, in some ways you’re just as I remember you in college, but in other ways, you’re completely different.”
“How so?”
“You’re more confident. You were so shy back then.”
“I’m still shy,” I assure him.
“You don’t seem like it.”
“I’m better at hiding it now.”
Ryan stays quiet long enough that I look up and catch him staring. He gives me a small smile and turns forward.
“How’s the writing going these days?” he asks. “You working on your next masterpiece?”
“My next masterpiece,” I repeat, knowing I’ve only written one workable chapter in an entire year—and also knowing that I only wrote that one chapter because of him. “The novel I’m focusing on now is still in development.”
“Exactly how many books have you written?”
“Seven in the past five years.”
“A classic underachiever.”
“Writing dominated my life for a long time,” I say. “My first five novels were a historical romance series and my last two were contemporaries. The contemporaries didn’t go over well.”
“Why do you think that is? Did you not like writing them?”
“No, I did. It felt refreshing to try something new but I guess my readers weren’t into it. It seems I’m better off in the past—in 19th-century England, to be specific.”
“You always were an old soul.” Ryan pauses before speaking again, a boyish grin appearing on his face. “What’s it like when you write the dirty parts?”
“Really?” I ask. “How old are you?”
