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“It’ll be worth it,” he promises, “with what I have planned for you.” His hand brushes my inner thigh for just a second, but I can feel my nipples pull taut through my sweater. “You should definitely bring an overnight bag.”

“You’re like an old man,” I laugh.

“I’m an adult,” he says simply. “You have roommates and I don’t. I’m happy to go back to your place after, but I thought we might have more privacy at mine.” I nod. “And I want you to be comfortable.”

“What if our date is absolutely terrible? Are we being too presumptuous?” I ask, only half joking.

“Not possible.”

“If nothing else, I promise not to steal your wallet.”

He’s quiet for a moment, tucking a curl behind my ear. His hand lingers, fingers grazing the delicate skin. “I can’t promise I won’t sneak-attack kiss you.”

“I mean, you better, or I’ll be very upset.”

Henry pulls my face toward his, brushing his mouth softly against mine. “We can’t have that,” he says, the breath of those words dancing on my bottom lip.

* * *

Luckily, I do not run into the same trouble of a lost suitcase as I did on the trip to O’Hare. Henry gets us a cab from LaGuardia, saying he’ll drop me off first since my Astoria apartment is more or less on the way into Manhattan. A huge part of me wants him to come upstairs with me when we pull up in front of my building. When he realizes I wasn’t kidding about the fifth-floor walkup, he asks the driver to keep the meter running and takes my suitcase from me. Not exactly what I had in mind.

We go inside and he carries my fifty-pound suitcase with such ease that I get distracted just watching him and trip up a few of the steep stairs. We reach the door to my apartment and I lean into him. “Come inside,” I say, pressing myself against him. His breath catches in his throat, and his hands graze my hips. I let out a whimper when he presses me away from him, taking a step back, even though I can see the muscles in his jaw betraying his desire.

Henry leans down, using his finger to tilt my chin up. “Tomorrow, love,” he breathes into my lips before giving me one last, albeit tame, kiss, and I hold on to those two words as I watch him fly down the stairs.

I let myself into the apartment, where Luisa is watching an old episode of Top Chef.

“You’re back!” Luisa says, leaning over the couch to face me. “It’s been too quiet and clean the last ten days.”

I make a face at her but can’t hold back a smile. “Where’s Aya? Michael?”

“Michael’s working. He’ll be back tonight. Aya went home, but I still couldn’t tell you where home is.”

“We’re never going to figure that girl out, huh?”

“Nope. Was there someone outside with you? I thought I heard voices.”

I feel my face and ears flush hot, and there’s no hiding it. “There was.”

Luisa’s eyes narrow. “Did Rob pick you up from the airport? I thought we were fading him out.”

“The Rob thing is very, very over,” I say as Luisa raises an eyebrow. “Hardly even qualified as a thing. And that”—I gesture to the door—“is a very, very long story.”

Luisa swivels around. “Well, how about you start unpacking, ’cause we both know it’s now or never, and I’ll sit with you so you can tell me your long, long story?”

I nod, and Luisa follows me into my room to hear, for the very first time, the story of Henry Cole.

Chapter 22

I’m embarrassed to say that I spend a lot of the next day primping for my date with Henry. Paint my nails. Shave my legs. Let my curls hang free and bouncy. Spend a painstakingly long time selecting two rounds of lingerie—one decent set to wear underneath my black sweetheart knit dress and tights, and another truly sexy set packed into my overnight bag so everything is as fresh as possible. I know Henry couldn’t care less about any of this stuff, but it all feels good for me. It’s not every day that you finally go on a first date with the person you’ve been in love with your entire life.

When our buzzer rings, I tell Henry I’ll be down in a moment. I grab my bag, charcoal peacoat, and a scarf, and fly down the four flights of stairs. He’s standing outside my building, wearing a navy overcoat with a sky blue scarf folded into it. The scarf makes his eyes shine bright, even through the dirty glass door to my building. Or maybe he’s just feeling the same way I am, his whole face lighting up when he sees me.

“I would have come up,” he says as I throw my arms around his neck. One hand presses into the small of my back as his face tilts down to kiss me.

When we separate, I notice why his other hand was occupied. He’s holding the base of a mason jar.

“I thought flowers were a little cliché, but…” He trails off, embarrassed, as he presses the mason jar into my hands.