Page 47 of When Hearts Ignite

“You’ll see.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Take a bite. Be a team player—we’re a team, remember? Come on, it won’t kill you.” I quirk my brow at him as we sit on a bench, facing an endless expanse of green grass and towering trees, blocking most of the surrounding skyscrapers.

It never ceases to amaze me how in a large city filled with millions of people, where every square foot of land costs an exorbitant amount of money, there’d be this huge park, filled with nothing except carefully manicured Mother Nature, located smack in the middle of Manhattan, where all the action is.

Steven grumbled the entire half-hour ride on the 2 train to the park. The man has never taken public transportation before. Not when he was younger in LA, which made sense, since I heard there were more cars than people over there, and definitely not when he moved here after college because he either drove or had a chauffeur at his beck and call.

These little vignettes he shares continue to make me wonder what we are doing. And yet, like two magnets driven by invisible poles, we’re drawn to each other. For the first time in my life, I want to throw caution to the wind, to spend these moments with him as my “friend,” ignoring what my mind is telling me, the hypocrite living in delusion.

I want to collect all these memories because I’ve been in the ugly, dirty trenches of life, and I know happiness is hard-earned and fleeting, and some day, this friendship or whatever we have will fizzle out, like the men in Mom’s past who’ve ultimately deserted us, leaving us to tend to our wounds in the confines of our small apartment.

I want to be irresponsible, to be selfish, and to ignore all the red flags my mind is waving in front of my face—the erratic heartbeats in his presence, how my body becomes heated, no doubt a flush spreading on my skin, the way my nerves spark with electricity even when we aren’t touching.

I laughed at how he dusted off his pants after taking a seat on the train, his fingers flicking off invisible lint or dirt. He looked so uncomfortable and out of his element as his eyes darted around the surroundings, like he was cataloging every scratch or blemish on the well-used seats. I saw how his hands swept over his slate gray tie, like he wanted to yank it loose from his neck to take a calming breath.

Now that we are settled on the park bench, watching the world go by, his tensed shoulders slowly relax. He has long given up on wearing his entire three-piece-suit. His jacket, a deep royal blue, is draped over his lap as he stares at the staple of the city in his hand like it offends him.

A hot dog.

His sunglasses are stowed away in the pocket of his vest, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, showcasing his muscular arms I was desperate to peek at that night when he stood on the stage at Lunasia and the sexy veins traversing over his muscles, which flex as he brings the hot dog in front of his lips.

“I could be having foie gras and filet mignon cooked by a Michelin chef right now,” he grumbles before he swallows, as if he’s trying to dislodge a lump in his throat. His lips flatten in displeasure.

“Ew. Do you know how they make foie gras? They fatten up a duck or a goose just so they can harvest the liver. It’s barbaric! That’s why they banned it in the city for a few years.”

He arches a sardonic brow. “You and your bleeding heart. Why don’t you become vegan then? They do the same things to chickens.”

I throw my hands into the air. “That’s different. Just eat the damn hot dog. How do you even call yourself a New Yorker without having a street dog?”

“Technically, I’m an Angeleno,” he retorts, a smirk on his face.

Swallowing a laugh threatening to break free from my throat, I watch him wince as he takes a big bite of the hot dog ladened with ketchup and mustard. We bought it from a random street vendor who was parked in front of the entrance. Steven looked squeamish as I paid for his birthday meal, muttering about how unsanitary everything probably was and how he could have his chef fix us gourmet hot dogs if that’s what I was craving.

Steven chokes, his face turning a tad green. “This is revolting. The meat is so overcooked…if you can even call this meat. God knows what’s inside it. The bread is soggy, and don’t even get me started on this wannabe ketchup.”

He grabs the bottle of water next to him and chugs half of it down in a matter of seconds. “Fuck. This is nasty.”

“Really?” I take a bite out of my own hot dog and cringe. Of course, the day I take the King to eat street fare, I’d buy from the wrong vendor. This hot dog tastes stale, even I have to admit it’s pretty disgusting.

I slap him on the back as he chokes down the rest of his dinner because I lectured him beforehand about the perils of wasting food. “Think of it this way. This is a birthday you’ll always remember. Instead of spending it surrounded by glass windows and piles of work…”

“And air conditioning,” he mutters, sweat dripping down his forehead.

I snicker, watching him take out a tissue from his pocket and blotting his face.

“And gourmet food,” he continues, his brow lifting higher, almost touching those luscious black strands of hair. “God, how will I ever survive the tragedy?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” I grin, even though I feel a pinch of guilt, since I dragged the king out of his comfortable castle to experience the call of Mother Nature with us serfs. “But look around you…see those tourists walking around. Even though sweat is dripping down their faces, they are wearing smiles because they get to enjoy the sun in the middle of the day. And look at that woman walking her cute little dog…or those kids sunbathing on the lawn. You don’t need money to enjoy yourself.”

Turning to him, I ask, “When was the last time you took a few hours off work and sat in a park to just…be? Enjoy the stillness? Savor the warmth of the sun hitting your skin and the way the breeze carries a hint of freshly mowed grass?”

He stares at me like I grew two heads.

“Well, my present to you this year is the gift of a new experience. And a reminder there’s more to life than money and work.”

“But isn’t that why you want to work at Pietra? To make money…just like the rest of us?” Steven’s eyes are piercing, glinting almost gold in the bright sunlight and I look away as the flutters, which have subsided for the last twenty minutes, begin anew in my gut.

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