Page 22 of The Ex-cavenger Hunt

“Thank you, James,” Lily says. “For your time, art, and encouragement.”

“Keep exploring, Lily,” James encourages, his voice warm and sincere. He takes her hand in both of his, a gesture of support and camaraderie. “There’s no one else who can capture your art better than you.”

“Okay, I will,” Lily promises, her eyes shining with determination. She squeezes his hand, a silent thank you, and I feel a twinge of something in my chest, a mixture of pride and longing.

As we step out of the gallery, the cool night air washes over us, a refreshing change from the warmth and intensity inside. Lily takes a deep breath, her face tilted up to the sky, and I can see the joy and contentment written across her features.

She turns to me, her eyes soft and grateful. “Thank you for all of this, Ethan.” She leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek, and I feel my heart skip a beat at the unexpected contact.

I reach out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering on the soft skin of her cheek. “It was nothing.”

And so, with a final squeeze of her hand, I step back, a smile on my face. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We have to rest, there’s a lot more coming tomorrow.”

Lily nods. “Lead the way, Ethan.”

There are many other places I would like to lead her and that beautiful curvy body, but I abstain.

But for how long will I have to do it?

Chapter Thirteen

Lily

Being at the gallery was a great way to start our little tour through New York City and the men I dated there. Okay, there’s only two. According to Ethan, those who didn’t last more than a phone exchange and a few texts don’t count. I’d like to disagree with him. Some of them matter like . . . What was his name again? Andrew, no . . . Josh . . . Oh right, it was Jordan.

Okay, maybe I don’t remember him right away, but I swear, we had a connection.

We met at my favorite coffee shop. I remember it as if it were yesterday, despite the whirlwind of New York City life that’s happened since. There I was, in a cozy café tucked away from the usual hustle, surrounded by the ambient noise of clinking cups and whispers. It was trivia night, an event I hardly ever missed, yet that evening, I was late and found myself scrambling for a seat among a sea of eager participants.

My eyes landed on the only vacancy in the entire place, a solitary chair at a table near the back, seemingly waiting just for me. Little did I know, it was already claimed by someone. As I made my way over, oblivious to this fact, I saw Jordan for the first time. There was an air of quiet confidence.

Our eyes met, and in that brief exchange, something unspoken passed between us. I hesitated, my fingers nervously playing with the strap of my purse, ready to turn back, not wanting to intrude. But then, Jordan smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and gestured to the empty chair beside him. It was a simple gesture, one might think, but in that crowded café, it felt like an invitation to something much bigger than a game. My stomach fluttered with anticipation as I made my way over to him, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

Sitting down, I was immediately drawn to him, my body instinctively leaning closer as if pulled by an invisible force. We complemented each other’s knowledge seamlessly, my knack for obscure literary facts meshing with Jordan’s expertise in science and history. The night blurred into a series of laughter, silly comments, and high fives every time we got the answers right. I found myself grinning from ear to ear, my cheeks aching from the constant smiling.

Jordan was the epitome of understated, hipster charm, the kind that you’d find in a candid photograph on a bustling New York street. He wore his intelligence not just in the breadth of his knowledge, but in the very way he presented himself—effortlessly cool, with a style that spoke of indie bookshops and vintage vinyl records. His glasses, a classic, slightly retro frame, added an intellectual allure that made my heart race.

He was handsome in a way that was both striking and approachable, his features harmonious and inviting. There was an ease about him, a laid-back confidence that made him all the more appealing. His hair, styled in a way that seemed both deliberate and carefree, and the hint of a beard, gave him a rugged yet refined look that left me weak in the knees.

As we talked into the night, I found myself drawn to the sound of his voice—a gentle, engaging timbre that turned everything into a captivating story. His laughter, warm and genuine, filled the spaces between our conversations, making that night almost perfect. I couldn’t help but hang on to his every word, my eyes locked on his as he spoke.

Jordan and I exchanged numbers, our fingers brushing lightly as we handed each other our phones. It felt like the natural next step, a promise to continue what we had started in the cozy warmth of the café. My heart fluttered with excitement, and I couldn’t stop the giddy smile that spread across my face.

However, the days that followed were silent, each passing moment feeling like an eternity. My phone never buzzed, and my messages and calls went unanswered. I confess that in the weeks to come, I found myself checking my phone more often than I cared to admit, each time hoping to see his name on the screen. But it remained conspicuously absent, leaving a growing sense of disappointment and confusion in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t help but wonder what had gone wrong, my mind replaying every moment of that night in search of an answer.

And though I wanted to know why he ghosted me, my heart aching for closure, Ethan believed that it was just a waste of time. “They don’t deserve to live rent-free in your head,” he said, his voice firm but gentle as he placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. I sighed, knowing he was right, but the unanswered questions still lingered in the back of my mind.

So, we skip all that nonsense and here we are, going to visit Marco, the culinary master.

We walk into Mallorca, a fancy restaurant in the heart of Chelsea. The moment we step through the doors, I’m overwhelmed by the vibrant atmosphere.

“Let’s hope Marco’s dishes are half as tempting as the air around here,” I say, inhaling deeply, my eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment as I savor the tantalizing aromas. My heart does this funny little flip, and I press a hand to my chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath my palm. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m nervous or hungry, but the anticipation is making my stomach churn in the most delightful way.

“Lead the way,” Ethan says, gesturing grandly as if rolling out a red carpet before me, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

We step into the restaurant, and I’m immediately struck by the opulent décor. The walls are adorned with intricate murals, depicting scenes of lush Thai landscapes and bustling street markets. The lighting is soft and intimate, casting a warm glow over the plush velvet booths and gleaming tabletops. The air is thick with the scent of exotic spices and sizzling meats, making my mouth water in anticipation.

We approach the hostess stand, where a beautiful woman in a traditional Thai dress greets us with a warm smile. “We’re here to see Marco,” I say, my voice wavering slightly with nerves. She nods, her dark eyes sparkling knowingly, and leads us through the restaurant, past the elegant dining room and into the heart of the establishment: the kitchen.

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