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And that’s when I see what’s poking out. They’re pretzel rods, dipped in colorful chocolate, and topped with chocolate flowers.

“That moment at the inn with those pretzel rods,” Henry says, “that was the first time my fingers brushed against yours and you didn’t flinch or stew. That was the moment I thought maybe. Maybe this isn’t one-sided. Maybe there’s hope.”

I feel the twitch in my nose that always happens when I’m about to cry, and I tamp it down, not wanting to ruin my makeup. “Henry” is all I can get out. I reach up to touch his face, and he leans his cheek into my hand. “Thank you. This is so much better than flowers.”

He takes the overnight bag off my shoulder and starts to walk.

“You also may not be surprised to learn that I can’t keep plants alive.”

He laughs, taking my hand as we walk. “I parked in the lot around the corner. I’ll take you back to my place,” he says, and my eyebrows shoot up. “So we can drop off my car. We won’t need it the rest of the night.” He gives me a look. “So eager to get back into my pants, Gold.”

“I mean, when you do things like bring me a bouquet of pretzel rods, what else is the appropriate response?”

He rolls his eyes, but the wide grin hasn’t left his lips. I like seeing this side of him, the one who gives me his smiles so freely.

We reach his car, a midnight blue BMW. “Ah, the famous city car,” I say as he opens the passenger-side door for me.

Henry laughs, shaking his head as he closes the door after me.

When he gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine to warm up the car, he turns to me for a moment. His clear blue eyes dance across every centimeter of my face. “God, you’re beautiful.” Then he buckles his seat belt and throws the car into drive.

We make our way across the Queensboro Bridge and into Manhattan. Henry finally turns onto Amsterdam, then circles down into a garage underneath a high-rise. A valet greets him by name as Henry hands over the keys.

“We’ll just throw this upstairs,” he says, gesturing to my bag on his arm, “and then we’ll head out.”

We ride a glass elevator up to the twenty-eighth floor, and he turns down a hallway, leading me to apartment 28-D. He unlocks the door, pulling me inside with him. The apartment itself is very white, almost sterile, without many personal touches. It looks like it’s been staged for a showing, to be honest. But I take one step past the tiny kitchen and into the open living/dining room, and those floor-to-ceiling windows that the exterior promised do not disappoint.

Henry brings my bag through a door that I assume is the bedroom, but I don’t follow, transfixed by the view. I can see the entire Upper West Side, lights twinkling from the early December sunset. This is the part that never gets old for me. Seeing the expanse of the city, laid out like it was built for me alone.

I feel Henry’s presence behind me, and then his arms wrap around my waist at the window by the round, dark wood of his dining room table. His lips graze my neck, his body flush against my back. I sigh, tilting my face toward my left shoulder to try to meet his lips.

“We have reservations,” he says before placing one more kiss at the base of my neck.

I sigh, frustrated, and feel his body tighten behind me at the sound. A low groan from his throat surprises both of us as he spins me around and kisses me fiercely against the window, like a man who’s just returned from war. He kisses all the lipstick right off my face, and when we break apart, riled up and breathless, I can’t help but laugh.

“We have reservations,” he repeats, muttering with disdain as he adjusts himself in his wool pants.

I wipe the color off his swollen lips with my thumb, then go to a mirror to reapply, before we head out into the city.

* * *

We walk a few blocks from Henry’s apartment, then turn down an alley. Halfway down the narrow, trash-laden stretch, Henry opens an unmarked black door grate next to a dumpster and gestures for me to enter.

“This better not be where you murder me,” I say, and he laughs, leading me down a dark flight of stairs.

As we head deeper, I see the warm orange glow of light, and then walls of exposed brick. An older man stands and approaches us at the bottom of the stairs.

“Cole, for two,” Henry says, and the man nods. I guess we really did have reservations. The man leads us past the half-dozen other tables, with handcrafted wooden chairs and candlelight, and over to the back corner against a wall. The brick forms a wide arch, filled with rows of wine bottles.

“Enjoy,” the man says as he hands us each an ivory piece of printed paper.

I finally remove my coat. Henry does the same, hanging them on an empty coat rack in the corner. He strides back over to me, and I finally get a real look at him now that he’s sans overcoat. The excruciatingly fitted almost-black button-down tucked into his gray wool pants, one extra button open with no tie. When he starts to roll up his sleeves, exposing his forearms in the warmth of the restaurant, I very nearly pass out.

Henry slides into the chair next to me. “You okay, Gold?”

You’re trying to kill me, I think.

“Henry, where are we?” I ask in a hushed whisper.