“Devney seems good at projects.”
“I’m starting to understand that.”
At the corner, a woman sat against a building with a sign propped at her knee. Tessa stopped, reached into her bag, and set a granola bar and a water bottle next to the sign.
“Thank you,” the woman said.
“You’re welcome.”
Gabriel watched her, his jaw tight and his eyes soft in a combination that shouldn’t have worked together. It did. He pulled her closer when she stepped back and slid his palm flat against her lower back.
“What?”
“Nothing. Everything.”
His palm stayed there as they walked. Possessive. Steady.
The Brooklyn Bridge stretched ahead of them, and they crossed it together. The city lights reflected in the water below like fallen stars.
“A real want,” he said. “Something small. Something you don’t tell people.”
“A want.”
“Yes, a want.”
She thought about it. “I want a porch. A real one. Not a fire escape with a chair on it. A porch big enough for a swing. With a railing. So when my mother visits, she can sit there and tell me everything I’m doing wrong with my hostas.”
“Do you have hostas?”
“I’d have hostas if I had a porch.”
He laughed. “That’s a good want.”
“What’s yours?”
“To stop being good at the things that don’t matter.”
“Like what.”
“Like working through Christmas. Like sitting through dinners with people I don’t like because the deal requires it. Like saying yes when I should be saying no.”
“That isn’t a small want, Gabriel.”
“No. It’s not.”
They walked past Brooklyn Heights. She knew the streets in her sleep. She had walked them with a dozen disappointing dates over the years, and none of them had been Gabriel.
When they reached her building, he stopped. She turned to face him, and he put his hands on her waist and backed her against the brick wall. He stepped close enough that she could feel every inch of him against her.
“I’ve been thinking about the farmer’s market all week,” he said.
“What about it?”
“The Cherokee Purple. Your fingers on mine. Henry winking at me. The way you decoded Devney’s whole dinner from one tomato.” His voice was rough. “I’ve been replaying the last four days every night since Wednesday. I haven’t slept much. Most of what I’ve replayed is Henry telling me you taught a kid how to hopscotch, and it was her favorite summer. That’s what’s been keeping me up. Not the kiss. That. The hopscotch.”
Her throat closed. She opened her mouth to say something and nothing came out, and then he kissed her, and it didn’t matter.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t restrained. It was hungry. His hand threaded into her hair. His mouth was hot against hers, and she opened for him without hesitation. He groaned into her mouth and pulled her closer. She fisted her hands in his jacket and pulled him closer still. Closer wasn’t close enough.
