Page 31 of A Winter in New York

He laughs, shrugs. “Sorry. I guess I’m rusty talking to women.”

“Free tip—don’t tell them they eat too much,” I say, mock-offended.

“What should I say, then?”

“Are you asking me how to flirt?”

“I haven’t flirted in twenty years,” he says, then huffs. “God, that makes me sound old.”

I side-eye him. “You’re way too young to say stuff like that.”

He shoots me a look. “That’s flirting, right?”

“Just reminding you how it’s done.” I laugh softly as I do my best to stay on my feet.

“Got it,” he says, smiling into the collar of his jacket. “Bella showed me the video of you singing, you know.”

“Oh,” I say, glad my cheeks are already pink from the cold. Aside from Sophia, I thought I’d gotten away with the rest of the Belottis not seeing that clip.

“She just needed someone to step in and I was there.”

“You surprised me. It’s like you’re a different person when you sing.”

“People used to say that about my mum,” I say, remembering the way people sat up straighter in their seats whenever she took the mic.

“Are you a lot like her?”

“In some ways,” I say, picturing us as bookends on the sofa watchingSleepless in Seattle,reaching over to pass the popcorn between us. “In looks, yes, and I sound a lot like her when I sing, but she was more…more effervescent, I guess? Always the first one on the dance floor, a life-and-soul kind of person, someone people naturally gravitated toward.”

“And you don’t see yourself that way?”

I sidestep a frozen puddle. “There’s only room for one magpie in the family,” I say, because I don’t want to say that maybe I was more like that once, before life pressed me down.

“I don’t know, my family is full of them,” he says. “I see your shine, Iris. I mean, look at me—the guy who has locked himself behind the counter at the gelateria, according to my sisters, but here I am walking you home like a nervous teenager.”

“I make you nervous, Belotti?”

“Stop fishing for compliments or you might just get one, and then where will we be?”

“So awkward,” I say.

“Exactly.”

By my reckoning, everyone gets a handful of movie-worthy moments in their lives. Some people would probably pick out their wedding day or the birth of their child for their showreel, but for most of us it’s the unexpected moments lifeoccasionally gifts our way that make for the best memories. This is one of my movie moments. To anyone looking at us, they’d see a man and a woman pressed together from shoulder to hip, her unsteady on her heels, his arm around her waist. The silver threads in her scarlet scarf catch the light of the streetlamps as they weave their way slowly along the frosted sidewalk, their conversation punctuated by hushed laughter whenever she slips and he stops her from falling. They look like lovers.

My feet slow as we approach the familiar sight of the noodle house. I’ve left a lamp on for myself upstairs, and there’s a string of orange pumpkin lights up at Bobby and Robin’s.

“This is me,” I say. “Thanks for not letting me break any bones.”

“It’s the bare minimum you can expect from a date, right?” he says.

“To not end up in hospital.” I nod. “Is that what this was, then? A date?”

He glances away and then back at me. “It didn’t start out that way, but it feels kind of like it right this minute.”

“Good flirting,” I murmur, and he laughs.

“So if thisisa date, what happens next?”

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