We both fall silent as we eat our halves of the bread, the flavors of rosemary and olive oil filling my mouth.
When the check arrives, we both reach for it at the same time.
“I’ve got this,” Weston says, his hand covering mine on the leather folder.
“No way,” I argue. “We can split it.”
“Please,” he insists. “It was my suggestion.”
“But—”
“Consider it awelcome back to the single lifedinner,” he says with a smile that melts my resistance.
“Fine,” I concede, pulling my hand away. “But next time’s on me.”
“Deal.”
Chapter Six
Weston
The cold January air hits us like a wall as we step out of the cozy Italian restaurant. Brittany pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders, a small shiver running through her as we pause on the sidewalk. The night sky stretches above us, Manhattan’s lights dimming the stars but creating their own constellations of windows and streetlamps. I’ve walked these streets a thousand times, but tonight, standing next to her, everything feels different. Like I’m seeing the city with new eyes.
“Cold?” I ask, already shrugging out of my jacket before she can answer.
“No, I’m—” she starts to protest, but another shiver betrays her. “Okay, maybe a little.”
I drape my coat over her shoulders, my fingers brushing against her hair. It’s softer than I imagined.
Not that I’ve been imagining touching her hair.
Much.
“Won’t you freeze?” she asks, looking up at me with those piercing blue eyes.
“I run hot. Plus, I’m wearing layers.” I gesture to my sweater, which isn’t exactly arctic-ready, but honestly, I’d rather freeze than see her cold.
“If you’re sure,” she says, pulling my coat closer around her. It’s too big for her frame, making her appear smaller and more vulnerable. Something protective stirs in my chest. “Thank you, Weston,” she adds.
The way she says my name does something to me. It’s just two syllables, but somehow she makes them sound like poetry.
Get a grip, Wes.
I stuff my hands into my jeans’ pockets to keep from doing something stupid with them, like trying to hold hers.
She points downtown. “Parker’s penthouse is about fifteen blocks that way.”
“Perfect for a walk,” I say. “If you’re up for it? Or we could grab a cab…”
“A walk sounds nice,” she says, and we fall into step beside each other.
We make it about half a block before she bumps my arm with her shoulder. “That pasta was amazing,” she says. “I can’t believe I’ve lived in New York my whole life and never found that place.”
“It’s one of the city’s best-kept secrets,” I tell her. “The owner, Marco, is an eighty-year-old Italian guy who refuses to advertise. Says the right people always find their way in, eventually.”
“So, I’m one of the right people?” she asks, a teasing lilt in her voice.
“Definitely,” I say, too quickly.
