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She greets them, cheeky as always. “Tony. Murray. Looking good, boys.”
Actually, they look like walking adverts for mustache wax or spokesmen for hipster craft beers, the type that tastes of chocolate and acacia berries or some fussy shit.
Tony, a muscle-bound Italian with a walrus mustache, serenades her with a truly awful rendition of “There She Goes” by The La’s, while Stella cringes and laughs. The place is packed, and while we wait our turn, people glance at Stella, clearly wondering who she is. I’m standing right next to her, and not one person looks my way. It’s fucking grand.
We get to the counter and the wiry, bushy-bearded Murray asks if she wants the usual.
Stella glances at me. “You have an order in mind?”
“What’s the usual?”
Her smile is coy. “You’ll just have to see if you pick that one.”
Worst-case scenario, I’ll hate it and find something else to eat later. But considering our eerie similarities in taste, I doubt that. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Two, Marco. And coffee.” Another glance at me, and I nod. “Make that three coffees.”
Murray shakes his head in resignation. “You’re too good, kid.”
“A regular saint,” she deadpans but doesn’t appear offended.
“Three?” I murmur as Murray goes off to get her order. “How thirsty are you?”
“The third isn’t for us,” she says before Tony comes over to talk her ear off. He tells her about his wife, Glory, who’s having their second kid any day now. He shakes my hand when Stella introduces me as her friend John. And then he’s back to asking her if she liked his recipe for minestrone.
“Bet it’s not as good as my apple cake recipe,” Murray says, handing over our order. While Stella grapples with the coffee, I take the bag of food and pay him. She shoots me a repressive look that I meet with a shrug. I was raised to pay for my date. I’m not sure if that’s sexist, since I’d do it if I were into dudes as well.
“They complemented each other,” she says diplomatically. “Soup for dinner. Cake for dessert.”
They’re too busy to chat anymore, and wave us goodbye.
“We can eat this at Union Square Park,” she says outside. “It’s two blocks away.”
“You going to tell me what your usual is?”
She grins wide. “An everything bagel with herb cream cheese and smoked sturgeon lox.”
My stride stutters. “Stells, our breath is going to scare people.”
A light laugh escapes her. “Good thing we’re not supposed to have sex.”
I give her the side eye. “Kissing, however, was an agreed-upon activity, Stella. Be prepared. I will brave the garlic.”
At the entrance to Union Square, she stops next to an old guy who’s busy covering the sidewalk with chalk art. The guy is good, his images lush with vivid color. There are some highly detailed reproductions of old masters—Leonardo, Michelangelo, and next to them, a rhinestone-wearing Elvis and a pouty James Dean.
The artist looks up and gives Stella a toothy grin. “Star Girl.”
“Ramon. Thought you might like a little caffeine.” She hands him a cup of coffee.
“You’re an angel,” he says before taking a sip.
“I thought I was Star Girl,” she says.
“All Star Girls are angels,” Ramon insists. “I’m gonna do your portrait now.”
“I’ll come back later and see,” she promises.
With a nod, we’re off again.
“That guy is good,” I tell her.
“He is.” A wrinkle gathers between her brows. “But he’s in his own world. Sometimes he’s lucid, sometimes he’s not. He forgets to take care of himself, so people around the neighborhood help him out when they can.”
Not just people—Stella.
“You really do look out for everyone, don’t you?” I admire the hell out of her for it.
But she clearly doesn’t like the attention. Her frown grows as her cheeks pink. “It’s not … I just … No one took care of me unless I asked for it, and I remember how that felt. If I see someone who needs help, I just … act.”
I sling my arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to the top of her head. “That’s what makes you Star Girl.”
We eat on a bench under the trees. Our bagels are still warm and soft. “This is ridiculously good,” I say around a mouthful. “Garlicky as hell, but good.”
Her eyes light up, her cheeks stuffed with food that makes her look like a chipmunk. “Told you.”
She swallows, licking an errant dab of cream cheese off her lip, and grins like a kid in summer. I lean over the mess of coffee cups and sandwiches and kiss her. A squeal of protest vibrates against my lips, and I smile, not moving away.
“John,” she protests again, her mouth on mine, “I stink.”
“I warned you.” I nip her bottom lip, then suckle it. “A little garlic isn’t going to put me off.”
She doesn’t stink, though. Maybe it’s that old adage that people eating the same thing don’t notice. Or maybe I just want to kiss her more than anything else. But she simply tastes of Stella, buttery sweet like toffee on my tongue. Her mouth softens, and she leans into me, her fingers gripping my shoulder, tracing the edge of my collar. I feel that touch at the base of my spine.
