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“No need to be shy about that guilty pleasure with me. I’m used to the car obsession. Frank, my stepfather, is fascinated with anything that has four wheels.”

“I’m not shy. I’m just careful—I don’t want to be accused of flaunting my money,” he teased, poking me lightly in the side and causing me to jump.

Hmm, this is interesting…the playful side of Alexander.

“I could probably tell you something about every make and model of car out there because of him. Everything I know is because of his non-stop chatter at the dinner table growing up.”

“What do you know about the Turbo S?” he asked, somewhat dubiously. If he was trying to test me, this was one test I’d be sure to ace.

“Well, where should I begin? I know the hefty price tag packs five-hundred-and-fifty horsepower and is powered by a four-point-eight-liter twin-turbo V8 engine. It can go from zero to sixty miles per hour in only four-point-three seconds, maxing out at one-hundred-and-seventy-five miles-per-hour. It has—” I stopped short when I saw Alexander was staring open-mouthed at me.

“You sound like you’re reading from a spec sheet. Even I don’t know all that off the top of my head! You got all of that from dinner conversation?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah, sort of. Plus, I’ve had a car crush on anything with a Porsche logo since I was thirteen years old,” I confessed with a slight shrug.

“You continue to surprise me, Miss Cole,” he murmured. “It makes me wonder about what else you may be hiding from me.”

“Frank owns a bunch of car dealerships back home. Car stats were sort of ingrained into me. It’s really no big secret.”

“It seems like you’re fond of your stepfather. Do you have a good relationship with him?” he asked, guiding me around the corner onto Fifth Avenue.

“Oh, yeah—I don’t have any issues with Frank. He has always been very good to me, but I’m always battling with my mother. She can be rather difficult at times, and that’s putting it mildly.”

“How so?”

I took a deep breath and tried to think of the easiest way to describe my mom.

“She’s just bitter all the time. Really negative, you know? It’s almost like she has something to prove. It’s hard to explain if you don’t know her.”

“Maybe I’ll meet her one day,” he said easily.

“Oh, no. You don’t want to meet my mother. She’s stubborn and overbearing, to say the least. A part of me would swear she hates men. Her past is somewhat…well, tainted. Do you know that expression about a woman who’s been scorned? That’s her. I almost feel bad for Frank sometimes. It’s a small wonder he’s put up with her for so long.”

“Oh, I don’t know. She sounds like someone I’d find interesting,” he said with a wink.

I watched him for a moment before realizing the hidden meaning behind his teasing. I was, in a sense, describing myself.

I felt the blood drain from my face as the comprehension dawned. It was like taking a blow to the head. Alexander probably didn’t realize how close to the mark he had hit. At some point in time, I had become like my mother—untrusting, bitter, and resentful toward the entire male species. And while I loved my mother dearly, I did not want to spend the rest of my life sharing her negativities.

How could I have not seen it before? I’m miserable—just like her.

“Krystina, are you okay?” I looked up to see Alexander searching my face.

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?” I questioned, trying to shake off the unsettling emotions raining down me.

“You got really quiet all of a sudden.”

I didn’t offer him a reply, as I could not formulate any sort of response at that moment. No words could describe what I was feeling. I could only shrug and act unconcerned, and I was glad when Alexander didn’t press the issue. This was a whole subject I needed to evaluate for myself—alone, without his speculative gaze.

“I haven’t been here in ages,” he said as we passed under the Washington Square Arch.

“This park is one of my favorite places. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with New York—it’s so full of life. There’s always something going on in Washington Square,” I said wistfully, taking in the activity around us.

“Yep, the place sure has character, all right. I’m pretty sure the guy sitting over there feeding the birds is in the exact same place he was when I was here last,” Alexander said with an air of disdain, nodding his head to a man sitting on a bench with pigeons dancing all around him.

“Oh, come on! The pigeon man gives this place charm! Besides, he’s better than the lady who feeds the squirrels out of her purse.”

“A woman who feeds squirrels?” he asked, features pinched in disgust. I started laughing at his repulsed expression.