I put on my favorite “going-out” outfit, a pair of tight black leggings, a long-sleeved black shirt that clung to my torso in all the right places, and a leather jacket that Evelyn had bought me in London last year. Though it wasn’t my regular style, it always helped me feel like a badass.
I marched from the suite, down to the lobby, and through the revolving doors. The wind chill hit me like a punch in the face, and a swirl of fresh snow laid its icy fingers across my neck. My plans took a hit; I was dressed for the part, but I had nowhere to go and no one to go with.
“Jack?”
Jonathan had stepped from the Saint Angel right after me, holding his hand above his eyes to keep the snow from landing on his lashes.
“What are you doing out here without a better coat?” He immediately shed his fancy designer coat and draped it across my shoulders. “It’s freezing.”
“I forgot to check the weather,” I admitted, drawing the garment tightly around myself. The collar smelled of Jonathan’s musty cologne. “Didn’t know it would be snowing.”
He rubbed his gloved hands together. “Where are you headed?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure, but I couldn’t stay in that hotel for one more minute.”
The streetlights glimmered in Jonathan’s eyes as he smiled. “I know that feeling. Why don’t you tag along with me? I was about to grab dinner, and I could use the company.”
I shot him a half-hearted glare. “That depends. Are you going to take me to another hot dog joint?”
He held up one hand and placed the other across his heart, like he was swearing an oath. “I promise not to take you to another hot dog place.”
“Lead the way then.”
Jonathan took the “no hot dog” challenge to heart. We went to Eataly instead, an enormous Italian marketplace with various restaurants, pizzerias, bakeries, and cafes to choose from.
“Everything’s made fresh on the premises,” Jonathan said as I stared open-mouthed at huge slabs of prosciutto hanging from the ceiling. “Or it’s imported. This is one of my favorite places in the city, though I hear the one in New York is better. Look, here’s where they make fresh pasta.”
Behind a clear barrier, a worker rolled gnocchi and cut it into pieces. Enraptured, I watched until Jonathan dragged me along to the next area. After touring both stories—two whole levels of food!—he let me pick where I wanted to eat. I chose a small bar top where you could watch the chef prepare the food in front of you.
“Do you cook?” Jonathan asked as we settled into our seats. He took his coat from my shoulders and draped it over the back of my chair as if it belonged to me now.
“I do,” I answered. “I love to cook. My mom started teaching me before she died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be,” I said. “It’s not supposed to be sad. I cook because I love to do it, and it reminds me of my mother. It’s like I’m channeling her.”
Jonathan slid a menu under my gaze. “What’s your favorite thing to cook?”
“Curry.”
“I suppose I should have guessed that.”
“Don’t assume,” I said, wagging my finger at him.
He lifted his palms. “You’re right. Do you cook any Italian food? Can you tell me what to order?”
We leaned over the shared menu, our shoulders touching. I let myself sag against him a bit, enjoying the firm support of his broad frame. He turned ever-so-slightly, and, as if by accident, his lips brushed against my forehead.
“Short rib ragu,” I said, pointing to the dish as I tried to ignore the thrill in my veins. “If they do it right, the meat should fall apart. It’s delicious. Order a red wine with it, too.”
“Done,” he said. “I’m also going to get this bruschetta. Nectarines, ricotta, and thyme-infused olive oil. Would you like to share it with me?”
My breath caught in my throat as I looked into his eyes. We were so close. He waited patiently for my answer, letting me look for as long as I wanted.
“Sounds great,” I said at last.
Jonathan ordered for us, but he let me choose the wine. I picked a dry sangiovese that melted against my tongue and warmed my blood. Jonathan insisted on getting the bottle, rather than paying for two separate glasses.
“It’s less expensive that way,” he said. “And they’ll re-cork the rest of it for you to take home if we don’t finish it with dinner.”
“Like you have to worry about money,” I replied.
He gave me a questioning look.
“You live in the Saint Angel penthouse,” I reminded him. “I’m sure you can afford to buy wine by the glass.”
Jonathan smirked. “You know how wealthy people stay wealthy? They pinch pennies. We’re cheap.”
“That explains the hot dog date.”
“Hey, I’m willing to spend a little if the lady’s worth it.” He nudged me gently in the ribs. “But I have mountains of student loan debt, so I have to watch my spending.”
“What about Wolf?” I asked. “He won’t help you pay off your loans?”
As always, with any mention of his father, Jonathan’s generally jovial mood iced over. “It’s complicated. I don’t want to take money from my father. Besides, he doesn’t have as much of it as he’d like people to think.”
“I get it. Familial obligation and all that.” I sipped from my wine glass and let the liquid seep into my taste buds. “My father offered to help me while I was living in California, but I didn’t want to owe him anything.”
“Exactly!” Jonathan said. “I feel the same way. My family—” He heaved a sigh. “Let’s just say it’s not worth getting into the gory details. A few nights ago, I had to drag him out of a casino kicking and screaming.”
“Doesn’t really sound like Wolf.”
His expression hardened. “How would you
