Page 56 of A Winter in New York

“Don’t end this,” he says, his eyes urgent on mine. “If you don’t want to be more, I understand, but I don’t want to lose what we have.”

I step onto the island of us and hold my hand out to him, pulling him close. “You’re wet,” I say, even though I couldn’t care less.

“Rain,” he murmurs. “It’s filthy out there.”

“You better stay here tonight,” I whisper against his mouth.

“I really should get out of these clothes,” he says, holding my face.

“I’ll run you a bath,” I say, and he sighs into my mouth as he kisses me.

“It’s been a real long time since anyone did that for me.”

He talks me into getting into the bath with him, which is never going to go well as it’s a small, old-fashioned tub with large, bulbous taps, absolutely not made for two people.

“This isn’t as romantic as it was in my head,” he says, exasperated when he shifts to give me space and traps my knee against the side, making me yelp.

“This is every bit as romantic as it was in my head,” I say, when he sweeps me up and carries me to my bedroom a few minutes later.

“My back disagrees,” he says, laughing as he tumbles us both onto the bed in a heap.

—

We share the singlesteak on one plate a while later, sitting pressed together at the chipped kitchen table. My wineglass from earlier becomes our wineglass, and we don’t care at all because this is the best steak anyone ever tasted and the wine is nectar in our mouths.

“I’m imagining that we’re on a desert island,” I say. “We’ve checked into the only place on the island, and it only has one room.”

“Ocean view?”

I nod and slice a sliver of steak. “One of those wraparound porches with sunchairs, uninterrupted turquoise as far as the eye can see.”

“Sunshine?”

“Sunglasses every damn day.”

“What’s it called, this place?”

“The Monday Night Motel,” I say.

“I mean, I meant the island, but I kind of like that now you’ve said it.”

“Service is a bit shit, though,” I say, tapping our empty wineglass.

He looks over my shoulder. “I’ll try to catch someone’s eye.”

“Forget it, I’ll do it myself,” I say, topping us up.

“We should complain to management,” he says, taking a sip of wine.

“Better not,” I say. “We might come again next Monday.”

“Let’s take our drink through to the bar,” he says, when we’re done eating.

I follow him to the sofa, lying with my head in his lap when he sprawls in the corner seat, his arm flung out across the cushions.

“This is turning out to be a pretty fine vacation,” he says, resting his head back and closing his eyes.

“An easy five stars on Tripadvisor,” I say, my legs propped on the back of the sofa.

---