I turned to face her and put my arms around her waist. “It just might be the best place in all of New York for a first kiss.”
She leaned in even closer. “You may be right,” she whispered.
Our lips met and lingered while the water danced around us and covered us with a fine mist.
“I live right here on the Upper West Side,” Cheryl said. “Walking distance.”
“Would you like a police escort?”
“Definitely. Some of these operagoers look menacing.”
We walked uptown to Lincoln Towers, a sprawling complex of six high-rise apartment buildings on West End Avenue. It was yet another New York City neighborhood where most cops can’t afford to live.
“I got the condo. Fred got the bimbo,” she said, reading my mind.
We stood in the shadows, away from the bright lights of her lobby. I wrapped my arms around her. She was exotically beautiful, her skin was soft and warm, and the lingering traces of her perfume set every male hormone in my body on point.
We kissed. The second kiss was longer, sweeter, and even more electric than the first.
“Thank you,” she said. “I had a wonderful evening.”
“Me too. Except for the part where I didn’t get to pay for dinner.”
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll let you buy me breakfast tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I said. “Are you really sure you want to trek over to the East Side and have breakfast with a bunch of cops at Gerri’s Diner on a Sunday?”
“No,” she said, taking me by the hand and walking me toward the lobby. “I have a better idea.”
She certainly did. Much, much better.
But that’s a whole other story.
