Page 32 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

‘What can I get you? Same as yesterday?’ he asked.

‘Perfect, cheers.’

He grinned and joined a short queue at the counter to place the order with Cory, which afforded me enough time to extract a pen and the crappy pad of paper from the hotel and give my appearance a quick appraisal in my phone’s selfie mode. None of my own make-up had made it across the Atlantic, but I’d found some Collection 2000 concealer and blusher in Mum’s make-up bag, so at least I looked less ghostly today.

Ethan slid back into his chair and rolled up each of his shirt sleeves in the most precise and entrancing manner I’d ever seen. I broke the spell by peering at his book, the open pages pressed face-down on our table.

‘You can’t even see the tear,’ I said, running my finger along the novella’s narrow spine. ‘Nice repair job.’

‘Thanks, I soldered it. Are you warm? I’m warm.’ He completed the final sleeve fold and took a sip of coffee as if to reward himself for the successful execution of his task.

‘I’m the perfect temperature.’

My coffee and croissant arrived, and I thanked Cory.

‘I can’t believe you follow me on Instagram. What are the chances?’ said Ethan.

I wanted to ask him so much about his cartooning, but I was also conscious that I needed to keep things as professional as possible.

‘I’m a big fan of The New Yorker cartoons,’ I said, as neutrally as I could muster.

‘Aww, and here’s me thinking I was special.’ He winked and blushed, which was an extremely endearing combination.

‘Don’t get me wrong, yours are up there with my favourites,’ I reassured him. ‘The funny thing is, I always assumed you were some Larry David-esque dude in his sixties, all bald and wrinkly and… New Yoik-y.’

‘But instead, I’m…?’

Was he fishing?

Sod it, I’m taking that bait.

I cocked my head to the side and locked eyes with him. ‘The opposite.’

Ethan raised his eyebrows and hooked a finger into the neck of his T-shirt and wiggled it up and down, as if to dislodge his fluster. I knew how he felt.

‘Ha, I’ll take that,’ he said, grinning widely.

I took a restrained sip of coffee, a welcome distraction.

‘Did you have a good day yesterday?’ Ethan asked.

A sliver of truth wouldn’t do any harm, surely?

‘I ended up doing a foraging tour in Central Park. It was… quite the adventure.’

‘Wow, I’ve heard about those tours but I’ve never actually done one.’

‘Did you grow up in the city?’ I asked, followed by a big bite of croissant and a lap-bound flurry of beige flakes.

‘No, I’m from Ohio originally – just outside Cleveland. A place called Shaker Heights.’

A couple of dormant neural pathways reconnected in my brain as I swallowed the pastry. ‘Isn’t that where Little Fires Everywhere is set?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’

‘Quintessential smalltown America.’

‘Right down to the white picket fences.’