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Most New Yorkers would rather walk the few extra steps than pay the added fare for the driver to circle the block to get onto a one-way street.
“Where are we going for dinner?” She looks up at me expectantly.
I haven’t seen her dressed like this before, which is why I requested it via text earlier today.
I reached out this afternoon to confirm that we were still on for eight o’clock. I anticipated she’d ask what to wear.
When she did, I told her we were keeping it casual tonight.
The faded jeans and white sweater she’s wearing are perfect.
Her hair is down around her shoulders.
She looks relaxed and content. I’m hoping to keep her that way for the duration of the evening.
“We’re having pizza.” I reach for her hand. “We can walk there from here.”
Her eyes rake me from head-to-toe taking in the jeans, gray V-neck sweater and dark blue blazer I’m wearing.
“Pizza?” Her button nose scrunches.
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re not a fan?”
She taps the toe of her black boot against the floor.
We’re still in the lobby of her building. I buzzed her when I arrived, hoping for an invitation up to her apartment, but she answered with a curt, “I’ll be down in five.”
It was more like fifteen, but I busied myself with returning text messages from Ph
oebe and Jack.
When she finally stepped off the elevator, any frustration I felt vanished at the sight of her.
“It’s never my first choice,” she admits. “Besides, I’ve lived in this neighborhood for months and I know for a fact that there isn’t a decent pizza place within walking distance of here.”
Honesty. It’s refreshing.
“Five hundred and fifty-two people on Yelp would disagree with that. They all gave the place a five-star review.”
“I’m not one of them.”
I laugh aloud. “Apparently not. What do you want to eat, Olivia?”
“I’ve had a craving all week.”
“For?” I arch a brow.
I don’t give a fuck what it is because I know she’s not craving me, yet. I’ll take her to any restaurant in the city if it means I’m a step closer to feeling her body against mine.
“A lobster roll,” she says quietly. “There’s this restaurant in the Financial District. They make lobster rolls just like the ones I have in Boston when I go there, and because it matters to you, their Yelp score is…”
She scrolls a finger over her phone’s screen. “Give me a minute to find it, but I guarantee they’re rated higher than the pizza place you wanted to go to.”
I watch her fingers tap over the screen, moving with deliberate precision.
“Here it is,” she announces with a smile. “Their rating is…”
“Inconsequential,” I interrupt. “Put your phone away, Olivia. If you have a craving, I’ll satisfy it.”
