Page 33 of Baby I'm Yours

“I didn’t sayIwas never here,” I say. “Just that you’re unlikely to run into anyone else that we know. I’ve found my peers tend to avoid public places where the homeless use the restroom.”

Her lips curve. “Right. And finance bros are allergic to actual books, right? They prefer to read on screens or have a crypto currency podcast blasted directly into their pre-frontal cortex.”

“Exactly.”

“But you like turning pages?” she asks as we pause at the crosswalk in front of the library steps.

“I do,” I say. “I find it relaxing.”

“Me, too,” she says. “And I like the smell of real books. And I mean, Ihavetaken an e-reader into the bath before, but it’s risky.”

“Very,” I agree. “I stopped after I dropped the second one in the water.”

She laughs, the sound drawing more male attention from farther down the block. “Same. We should start a book club while I’m here.” She bobs her brows. “We could read something steamy together. Help set the mood.”

“I don’t think I need any help in that department,” I say, making her laugh again.

“Me, either,” she says. “So, where to next? Or is the library my only option?”

“Of course not,” I say, guiding her across the street. “A single location wouldn’t be much of a tour. We have several stops left to go.”

“Oh good! I’m enjoying it so far. It’s more peaceful here than down near Union Square, where Sydney and Gideon live. I like it. Feels homier. More private.”

“And less like a tourist attraction,” I agree, pleased that she shares my appreciation for the Upper West Side.

Not everyone enjoys the peace, but it’s the only thing that’s made staying in the city possible for me. I ran out of patience for the constant bustle halfway through my thirties, thankfully just as I came into the kind of money that would allow me to move out of the financial district and into the penthouse of my dreams.

I show Elaina several restaurants where she’ll be safe from prying eyes, including an excellent sushi place, a diner specializing in omelets, and a Jamaican jerk chicken spot that looks like a hole in the wall but serves some of the best coco bread I’ve ever tasted. We sample the bread with a plate of jerk chicken for lunch, and Elaina agrees that every bite is delicious.

As we circle back toward home in the early afternoon, I point out the third best grocery store in the area—also safe, and still excellent and well-stocked—and a stationary store she might find interesting.

Finally, we arrive at our final stop, a hideous office building that looks like the concrete box where hope went to die.

“Well, this is…not the prettiest place,” she says, her brows drawing together as her gaze tracks up the façade and rows of tiny windows.

“It’s depressing as hell,” I agree. “I’d jump out a window if I worked in one of those offices. But there’s a hidden gem on the third floor. Come on.”

She follows me toward the entrance. “Yeah, I think I would want to jump, too, but good luck getting out one of those tiny windows.”

We debate which came first—the depressing building that spurred the tiny windows as a suicide deterrent, or if the tiny windows, which made the building depressing—and emerge from the elevator on the third floor, grinning at our shared love of dark speculation.

“Oh wow!” Elaina’s eyes light up as she scans the brightly lit atrium and small food court. “Thisisa gem. And is that a shave ice, place? We used to have one of those on the pier, but it closed down a few years ago. I miss it. I love a snow cone on a hot summer day.”

“A shave ice isnota snow cone,” I say, leading the way toward Poke and Ice, the Hawaiian-themed food court offering. “It’s a delicacy, and theirs are excellent. Nearly as good as the one I had the last time I was in Kauai.”

“Well, well, someone’s passionate about frozen treats,” she teases as we take our place at the end of the short line waiting for counter service.

“I’m passionate about excellence in all things. Mediocrity offends me.”

“I figured,” she says, nodding as if I’ve confirmed something she already suspected about me. “You’re a snob.”

I grunt. “A snob wouldn’t be eating at a food court. Or a jerk chicken place with grease an inch thick on the wall.”

“Oh, yes he would,” she says, undeterred. “If he were a quality snob, not a price-triggered snob. It’s okay, I’m a quality snob, too. You should see the way hand-milled flour cuts into my bottom line at the café. But it makes a difference. Same with dark chocolate chips and vanilla. It’s the good stuff, or nothing at all.”

“Agreed,” I say, trying to ignore how good she smells as she sways closer, like sweet flowers, a hint of coconut, and summer sunshine.

When we reach the front of the line, Joey, the owner, greets me by name. “Hunter, what’s up, brother? You having the usual?” he asks, already reaching for a block of ice.

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