Page 55 of Not Just a Trick Play

As the Brooklyn Bridge comes into view, I segue into tidbits about the many artists that referenced the structure in their music and videos. Talking about these spots feels far more natural than forced small talk about finance and apples.

I dive into stories about the Mudd Club, which operated north of us in the late seventies, serving as an antidote to the uptown glitz of Studio 54 for the ultra-hip of the time.

When we approach Pier 17, I discuss more recent performances that have taken place in the area—indie pop, electronic music, and the like.

At this point, even Corrine has stopped trying to wrangle Jake’s fandom and joined my contingent. She doesn’t seem bothered that I’ve assumed the lead, occasionally chiming in with added details herself.

Before I know it, the tour finally wraps up at the South Street Seaport, bustling with restaurants that could have been perfect for post-tour dates—had Jake not hijacked almost all the males in the group.

One woman peers at her wristwatch then back at me. “I could listen to you all day, but I’m meeting my son inside.”

A tiny thrill blooms in my chest. She enjoyed my ramblings? “Oh. Well, that’s lovely to hear. Umm. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

A couple more nods and soft murmurs of “Yeah, that was cool” and “Wish we had more time” echo around me. I throw Corrine a guilty glance; I hadn’t meant to take over her tour. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem too offended.

Jake signs a few more autographs before donning his cap again, a cue his show’s over. As his fans reluctantly disperse, his eyes find mine. He makes his way back to me, and I have his full attention once more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

AMELIA

“Hey,you hungry? The Winters Hotel isn’t far. They do a fancy high tea thing,” Jake says.

I raise a brow. “Since when are you an expert on high tea?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Noah owns the place, and a couple of years ago, cool Uncle Jake threw this epic Mad-Hatter-themed birthday bash for Mackenzie. That’s Beatrice’s eldest.” His chest swells with the memory, a self-satisfied gleam in his eyes. It’s adorable.

“Cool Uncle Jake, indeed. Lead the way,” I respond. There are few things one should never refuse. Tea. Sweets. An undo button for those “oops” moments in life.

We loop back, crossing the shadow of the imposing façade of the New York Stock Exchange once more. “You know, I’d never heard that bit about Rage Against the Machine,” Jake comments.

Sneaking a peek at him, I counter, “How did you even catch any of that when you were distracting all the men? Onpurpose.”

He feigns shock, fluttering his eyelashes. “Me? Nooooo.”

My side-eye is fierce. “Fine, so you’re an attention whore.”

He offers a half-shrug, a rogue’s smile playing on his lips. “Just serving my adoring public.”

I snort. Truthfully, none of the blokes were all that interesting. But I’m not telling Jake that.

“Aww, don’t be bitter. It’s not my fault you have no game. Be thankful Yvonne wasn’t there to make things worse.”

The corner of my mouth quivers. “I’m almost shocked she didn’t have me showing off my teeth.”

“Or talking about your childbearing hips.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Seriously, her next job should be running a brothel, since she’s so good at it. Or auctioneer,” he adds, and we both crack up right as the Winters Hotel comes into view. It’s a neoclassical vision of grand columns and stonework that fits in with the surrounding buildings, but from its core shoots a tower practically thumbing its nose at the rest of the skyscrapers.

Jake steers me past the main entrance, where doormen in maroon tailcoats with gleaming brass buttons stand like sentinels, to the adjoining alcove with a glass topped portico. The late afternoon sun casts a kaleidoscope of colors through it onto the polished marble beneath our feet.

We enter a tearoom that’s all elegance. Whispers ripple around us when a starched, white-suited maître d’ greets us, “Welcome back, Mr. Cunningham,” and escorts us to a round, lace-draped table in a corner, laden with crisp cream serviettes, sparkling silverware, and fine china that wouldn’t be out of place in Buckingham Palace.

Jake waves the gentleman off, pulling a chair out for me himself before taking a seat on the other side. Our knees bump, but I don’t mind.

A few older women, big hair, shopping bags strewn at their feet, make no effort to hide curious glances.

I position my napkin diagonally across my lap, my fingers fiddling with the folds. “It feels like everyone’s looking at me.”

“Sweets, they’re looking at me.” Jake doesn’t bother to confirm it but instead tilts his head, his eyes locked on me. “And I’m looking at you.”

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