Page 63 of Xavier

"He's not coming with us. He has a restaurant to run. Apparently, it has one Michelin star and is on the World's 100 best restaurants list," Xavier mimics me, and I punch him on the arm like I've been wanting to do since he made me get out of the limo in pajamas. “Ow! Meanie!”

“Don’t you forget it!”

He just shakes his head and holds out his hand to me.

“Come on, time to eat.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re here,” he whispers and tilts his chin.

I spin around and see, we’re on top of the world.

"Happy Birthday, sweetheart,” he whispers, his lips grazing my ear as he gently pushes against my hips and guides me forward onto the roof of the building. My mouth is open and silent as I take in the view in front of me. There, with the backdrop of the Empire State Building, is a single table set up in the middle of the roof, with a vase of sunflowers and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne.

"Wow."

"Yeah, this place is reserved only for private parties. And by private, I mean people who know Jaxon on a first name basis."

"And how is that you?"

"Well, it gets boring calling each other Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Kent when you're doing business together."

"You and Jaxon?"

"Yup."

"Business? How?"

"Kaine and I own the building."

I shake my head. Who is this Xavier? This business mogul. He's all grown up now, I guess. It makes me sad that there's so much I don't know about him. But then who's fault is that?

"Come, I can hear your stomach rumbling from here."

He pulls out a chair and sits down. I can’t stop touching the plate and the silverware. It's all so beautiful. And then I remembered what he said.

"You remembered." I don't even have to tell him what I'm talking about.

He smiles, pulling the napkin out of the wine glass. "Of course. You didn't think I'd forget your birthday, did you?"

"I don't remember yours," I admit, my cheeks flushing. Or maybe it's the effects of the champagne.

"Well, we never spent my birthday together."

He grins and I fall into a wormhole that takes me back twelve years ago. He'd spent some of his hard-earned money from working at the lawyer’s office and taken us to an Italian restaurant in Portland.

"Remember the bus trip up to Portland?" he says, his eyes twinkling.

"Most romantic bus trip in the history of bus trips," I laugh. “I love being ogled by a guy wearing a Futurama T-shirt and sucking on the same YooHoo for two hours.”

"Hey, I was eighteen and poor."

"No, really,” I reach out and squeeze his hand. “It really was so romantic. The whole night was," I say, not laughing so he knows I mean it.

He nods, "Well, I thought so. Even when you made us Lady and the Tramp it with the spaghetti."

"You made a great Tramp."