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“You eat these?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“You're a billionaire.”

“My bank balance hasn't rendered me incapable of appreciating a hot dog.”

I take a bite.

Heaven.

“Oh my God.”

“Good?”

I point at him with the hot dog.

“This is one of my favorite things in New York.”

“I know.”

I stop chewing. Slowly.

“What?”

He takes a drink.

“I read your interview with City Scene.”

I stare at him.

“You remembered my favorite hot dog?”

“I remember things.”

Apparently.

But that shouldn't feel as intimate as it does. It's research.

That's all.

The man researched the reporter moving into his house. And really, it’s perfectly reasonable.

Still...

I take another bite before my stupid heart can assign meaning where there isn't any.

After lunch, Mitchell's car drops us in front of one of those department stores where the doorman probably earns more than I do. I stop.

“Why are we here?”

“Tonight's dinner changed.”

“How?”

“It's become something of a gala.”

My stomach dips. Mitchell glances at me.