Wes’s smile was infectious. “Not as good as a chocolate milkshake?” he asked, referencing what I’d been drinking at the diner.Hisdiner, he had called it. He took his own generous sip.
“No.”
Wes chuckled. “But does it taste like New York?”
I bit down on a smile. “Yes, Wes, it tastes like the city that never sleeps—the city where dreams are made.” I batted my eyelashes at him.
My teasing masked the fact that I found Wes’s enthusiasm for the city charming. And more than that, it was an enthusiasm we shared. I just wasn’t going to tell him that.
It was easier to lean into irony when so many became more disillusioned the longer they lived here. It made earnestness feel childish and embarrassing.
The warmth beneath Wes’s hard exterior was…
“Unexpected,” I said. My cheeks quickly heated, and I didn’t meet his curious eyes. “You’re very unexpected.”
Wes’s pace was casual, his body moving a step closer to mine. “Thank you, writer. That was exactly the word I was looking for earlier to describeyou.”
We walked in silence for a block, neither of us taking another sip of our egg creams.
Then, he asked, “How are your feet?” He frowned, looking apologetically at my poor choice of shoes.
“Oh, uh, they hurt, but it’s fine,” I said.
Wes’s intensity was back, those stormy eyes pinning me with a sudden unquestionable authority. “If you’re hurting, that’s notfine.If I catch you wincing, I’m calling you a car.”
My eyes widened in bewilderment. Several responses popped into my head, but they all dried up on the tip of my tongue. As much as I wanted to rebel against his dominance, something inside me couldn’t. The darkest, sickest part of me wanted to provoke it even more—to flirt with the darkness inside of Wes.
The moment I opened my mouth to say that, actually, I was feeling pretty tired and was going to hop on the L at 8thAvenue, Wes halted outside a bustling gallery front.
“Do you know this place?” I asked.
“Nope,” Wes said. “That’s part of the adventure. Let’s check it out.”
“There’s alist,” I hissed, tugging on his jacket sleeve.
Wes looked down at where I’d touched him before following my gaze to the butch woman sitting outside the door with a tablet, clearly only letting approved guests enter.
Wes shrugged. “Walk with authority.”
I was going to wither of embarrassment. I’d decided what Wes was: a psychopath.
A woman approached the bouncer, leaning over the tablet and speaking low in her ear as her cleavage nearly burst from her low-cut dress.
Wes placed my hand in the crook of his arm and dragged me forward before I could protest.
We walked right through the open door, our eveningwear blending seamlessly with the other attendees.
The first room showcased mixed media pieces hanging from the walls and ceiling—tiny lights intertwined with heavy fabrics and metals in a psychedelic display of color.
After we studied the smaller pieces on the walls, I walked to the biggest installation in the center of the room, an impressive spiral of bulging reds and purples that looked like ethereal entrails. Wes followed me, first looking at the sculpture and then my face.
Beside us, two women in bright, eccentric dresses stood with an Australian Shepherd.
“I know. I’m so glad they let her come,” one of the women said in what I could only describe as a West Village influencer accent. She looked down at the dog. “I’m telling you, she literally has superintelligence. The walker says she remembers every doorman in the neighborhood.”
“No way,” the other girl drawled with slight vocal fry.
Wes and I exchanged the same delighted expression, refusing to move an inch as we eavesdropped.
