There’s a knock on my door at nine sharp.
“Let’s go,” Daniel says when I open it.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I tell him, zipping up my jacket. I’ve been awake since before six, waiting for the sun to rise and for him to show up.
I don’t ask him where we’re going. I just follow him out of the hotel lobby and in the direction of 7th Avenue.
“Breakfast first,” he says, putting a hand on the small of my back as he guides me toward the closest subway stop.
On the train, we stand close, and his touch never leaves me. If it isn’t a hand on my hip or my shoulder, it’s his fingers brushing mine. These small moments of intimacy make me want more.
He takes me to a small eastern European bakery nearly a hundred blocks north and orders coffees and pastries with practiced ease, even holding a conversation with the older woman behind the counter. He asks about her daughters who are off at college. She asks him about his sisters, one back in Mexico, one in Spain, and the other here in New York.
“I didn’t know you had siblings,” I comment as he hands me a steaming cardboard cup. It only drives home how little we know about each other. We’re still essentially strangers, despite how connected I feel to him.
“Three sisters,” he tells me. “All younger. I can’t stand them, but I’d do anything for them.”
I nod and take a sip of my coffee as he gathers up our bags and ushers me out of the quaint shop. We arrived at the perfect moment; the line is now down the block and curving into the closed-off street. There are metal chairs and tables set up on the pavement outside the bakery, but Daniel walks past them.
“I know a nicer spot,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder.
I nod again and fall into step beside him, the brisk spring breeze blowing my hair back. Last night was cold, but now that the sun is out, the temperature is pleasant. I turn my face up toward the sky, letting the rays warm my skin. I nearly blush when Daniel takes notice and a hint of a smile lifts his lips.
“I love spring,” I admit. “There’s something about it that just feels so…fresh. Like a new beginning. What’s your favorite season?”
It’s a cheesy question, no doubt, but it’s fitting for a first date. Despite knowing each other for years, we still have to learn the basics, and this is about as basic as it gets.
“I like spring too,” he says, and I’m weirdly pleased to hear that tidbit of information. “More so the later part of it. Those weeks right before summer hits and everything gets disgusting.”
“What, you don’t like New York in the summer?” I tease. “The unbearable humidity? Sweating through your shirt after walking two blocks? The scent of weed, hot piss, and garbage?”
“Wow, you make it sound like a dream. I might have to change my answer.”
The laugh he’s fighting makes me grin in reply. So far, this date has proved that we can get along for more than five minutes.
We wander over to the Columbia campus—“My alma mater,” he tells me—and set up on a wide concrete bench outside the library. The stone walkway is flanked by lush green lawns, and the few trees lining the perimeter sway in the light morning breeze. I face him and sit cross-legged, watching as he unfolds a few napkins between us and displays our spread. There are croissants and almond pastries, plus fresh jams and creams. The absolute breakfast of champions.
My fingers hover over the carbs while I debate which to go for first, but Daniel hands me a croissant and nudges a tiny pot of apricot jam my way.
“Start with the best,” he instructs, watching carefully as I smear a little of the jam on the end and take a bite. “Está rico, no?”
“That’s an understatement,” I say around a mouthful of buttery, flaky pastry. “This is the best croissant I’ve ever had in my life, and I studied abroad in Paris.” I savor that first bite, forcing myself to take my time, then sip my coffee, working up the nerve to comment on something else I enjoy just as much as this croissant. “I like hearing you speak Spanish.” I duck my chin a little, unsure. “Is that weird to say?”
He shakes his head as he dips a piece of his own croissant into the jam. “Not weird at all. It’s my mother tongue.”
“You sound more…relaxed,” I explain. It’s mostly for my own benefit, but I want him to know where I’m coming from. “More at home. Comfortable.”
“I definitely worry less about fucking up what I want to say when speaking it.” He laughs and shoots me a knowing glance. “I’m definitely blunter in English. It’s not a language that leaves room for poetry.”
“You’re telling me,” I commiserate. “Sometimes there are phrases in Arabic that I want to use in my writing, but the English equivalent doesn’t do it justice.”
He takes a bite of his croissant and chews slowly, his attention never swaying from me. “Considering your sales, I think you’re doing a good job.”
“But still not good enough to warrant having physical copies of my books without receiving inside help,” I point out, keeping my voice light so he knows I’m not taking it too seriously. In the end, I’m getting exactly what I want. “Thank you for that, by the way. I’m not sure if I ever said it.”
Daniel’s dark eyes meet mine and hold. “Even if you did, you don’t need to. It’s long overdue. And you deserve it. You’re a fantastic writer.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I murmur as I shove more croissant into my mouth to distract from the intensity of his stare. When I swallow again, I say, “How did you end up working for Naiad, anyway? You don’t strike me as the romance novel–loving type.”
He chuckles and glances away for a moment. “You’re not wrong. The genre isn’t my favorite,” he admits. “I started working at Naiad as a favor to the old CEO, the one who stepped down right before you started. He was a friend from college who asked me to join his start-up. I was fresh out of business school, working at a hedge fund that bored me to death. So I agreed, thinking I’d be there for a year or two to pad my resume. Neither of us knew much about romance, but we both knew it was a huge market, so it was an easy sell.” He flashes a wry smile. “Five years later, I’m still there, even though he’s moved on to new ventures.”
“But how can you buy these books to put on our platform if you don’t even like them?” I shake my head. “Shouldn’t someone who actually enjoys them be doing your job?”
“Probably,” he confesses. “But disliking the genre doesn’t mean I can’t make objective decisions about the quality of writing and whether a work is destined to sell well.”
“At least there’s that,” I say, lifting my coffee in a mock toast.
He taps his cup against mine. “My turn to ask a question.”
I raise a brow, inviting him to do so.
“What made you want to write romance?”
It’s a question I get often, but I never quite know how to answer past “I like love. And happy endings.”
Of course, there’s more to it, like I write about it because I’m afraid I’ll never experience it for myself. But for now, this is what I’m going with.
“Ah, so you’re a true romantic,” Daniel says, like he’s figured me all out.
“Yeah, I am,” I admit freely, and I always will. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. “I’m also a realist—I know that some of the scenarios in books don’t work out in the real world, but some do. It’s that hope that makes me a romantic, I guess. The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”
I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts. “Romance doesn’t have to be fully realistic. It’s a fantasy. It’s a chance to explore desires. Discover what I like and what I don’t.” And what I may never have for myself. “Plus, I…I sort of see it as a service to others. I can bring them a little escape, a little happiness.” I shrug, feeling a bit self-conscious, but if I want him to know me, then I can’t hide this. “I don’t know. It’s not just about me, even if sometimes I feel like I’m writing about myself.”
Daniel examines me for a long moment, and I try not to grow shy under his gaze. “I like that,” he finally says.
I wait for him to say more, but instead, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine, a tease of a kiss that has my eyes fluttering shut and reopening all too soon, wanting more.
“What was that for?” I ask a little breathlessly.
Daniel smiles, his focus steady on me. “You had jam on your lip.”
I scoff out a laugh. “And your first instinct was to kiss it off me?”
“I didn’t want it to go to waste. It’s good jam.”
Oh, this guy. Can’t even admit he just wanted to kiss me. If I wasn’t grinning so widely, I’d play my hand at pretending to be offended.
When we’re finished eating, he gathers our empty wrappers and deposits them in a nearby trash can.
“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand to me. “Time for our next stop.”
I don’t hesitate to slip my palm into his. It doesn’t matter that he has touched nearly every inch of me already; holding his hand in public feels like a strangely massive step. It’s like we’ve done this all backward: started with fucking and rounded the bases to hand holding. But God, I’ve got butterflies.
He gives my fingers a squeeze as we walk, glancing down at me with a question in his eyes, as if to make sure I’m still onboard with all of this. I squeeze his hand back in answer and tell him that he better bring me more of those croissants tomorrow, because I’m going to be thinking about them for the rest of my life.
When he laughs, I lean into him a little more, my elbows and shoulders brushing his, and when we stop before crossing the street, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head.
All right. Yeah. I’ll admit it. So far, this is the best date of my life.
Somehow, the best date gets even better when we reach our next destination.
It takes me a moment to read the worn-down sign, squinting to make out the letters on the frosted window. “A bookstore?” I ask, my heart lifting. “You know this is dangerous, right? I can’t be trusted in these places.”
Daniel shakes his head and opens the door. “Don’t tell me you already have twenty unread books sitting on your shelf and still can’t resist buying more.”
I cackle as I step inside the shop. “Twenty? Try two hundred.” I look around, taking in the narrow aisles full of towering shelves and colorful book spines. “And yeah, I will be buying more.”
The place is beautiful, with its high ceilings and antique bookcases. They stretch from wall to wall, and up a rickety staircase in the corner is what looks like a cozy reading nook. I hope Daniel isn’t in any sort of rush, because there will be no dragging me out of here if I take another step. This is a place I could easily spend hours in.
“This is my favorite bookstore in the city,” Daniel says as he waves to the woman behind the front counter. “It’s a mix of new and used, so they almost always have something I want.”
“Wow,” I murmur, dragging my attention away from the books for a moment to take him in. “So you really are a book lover. Every other guy I’ve dated can barely read.”
He smiles at that. “You need better taste in men.”
“I’m working on it.” Before I let myself dwell on how my taste is now exclusively men named Daniel who work as acquisition managers and aren’t exactly the shitheads I thought they were, I grab his hand and tug. “Yalla. I want to see if they have a decent romance section.”
As it turns out, they have an exceptional romance section. Which is why, two hours later, Daniel is ascending the stairs after depositing my third round of books by the register. I have three more cradled in my arms when he slides behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders.
“More?” he asks, his tone a mix of exasperation and humor. He’s been a good sport, putting up with my browsing and the random publishing facts I spout periodically. He even entertains my excitement over finding out-of-print books I’ve always wanted to read.
I peer up at him. “They have all the new releases I’ve been meaning to buy.”
“If you’re not careful, you’ll sell them out of their entire stock.” He takes a book from my arms and flips it over to read the back cover. “Wow, another billionaire romance. How creative.”
I snatch it back from him and tuck the stack against my chest. “Gotta love a financially stable man.”
He snorts. “That’s a little more than stable, but all right. Can’t really knock it, considering how well they sell.”
“True. But if I never have to write another, it’ll be too soon.”
“No billionaires for you, got it,” he teases. “Is there anything else you don’t like in your romance?”
“I don’t like big love confessions,” I answer immediately. “I can’t stand when the male character suddenly makes a big speech after doing nothing but grunting and smirking and being a blunt asshole for the entire story. Or when they become the most poetic people on the planet, comparing women to sunshine and the ocean and the greenest grass they’ve ever seen. It’s like, damn, just say you love each other and get on with it.”
A rumble of a laugh leaves him as he presses his cheek to mine. “Didn’t you say you were a romantic?”
“Not that kind, I guess. I’m less of a words of affirmation girl and more here for acts of service.”
Like how he’s started the process of getting my books printed. That’s an act of service if I’ve ever seen one.
“No over-the-top confessions,” Daniel confirms, taking the books from me and setting them on a nearby shelf. “Keep it subtle.”
“Subtle, but with feeling,” I correct.
“Pretty specific.” He takes a few slow steps back toward the secluded corner of the upstairs nook where the romance section extends. “Come here.”
“Why?” I ask, though I’m already moving toward him. “What’s in the corner?”
“Just me,” he says, offering his palm up.
I take it and let him pull me to his chest, breathing in the scent of paper and ink and something distinctly Daniel. I tilt my head back reflexively and close my eyes. His soft lips coax mine open, his tongue sure as it swipes against mine without hesitation. His kiss is confident but gentle. He’s a man who knows exactly what he wants, yet is willing to take his time. He knows I’m not going anywhere. He knows I’m hooked.
I give a small sigh when he pulls back to press little kisses to my jaw and cheeks.
“Let’s go buy your haul,” he says against my temple. “And then we’ll find another suitcase so you can get them all home.”
His teasing makes me grin. I let my head loll to the side in sheer contentedness. “I didn’t pick out that many.”
“You practically decimated their romance section, mi amor.”
“I can write them off on my taxes. It’s market research.”
“You’re a true businesswoman.”
I laugh and smack his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”
I’m practically high on him as we wander back downstairs. I lean against him as he makes easy conversation with the woman behind the register while she rings up my stacks of books. When they’re all bagged and she reads my sky-high total aloud, I pull my credit card from my wallet, but Daniel knocks my hand away and taps his own card against the reader.
“Hey,” I protest as the machine beeps. “You weren’t supposed to do that.”
“This is a date,” he says, as if that explains everything.
I raise an eyebrow, expecting more. “And?”
“And that means I pay for everything.”
I’m not the kind of person who will protest when a man pays for a date—I let him pay for breakfast, and if he insists, I’ll let him pay for any other meals—but that was several hundred dollars worth of books. Had I known he would be paying, I certainly wouldn’t have picked out so many.
“I don’t remember discussing that.”
“It wasn’t up for discussion.” He grabs my bags and says goodbye to the smiling woman at the counter, then heads for the door without a glance back at me.
I splutter out my own parting words to her before following after Daniel, still stunned. But knowing what I do about him, there’s nothing I can say now other than, “Thank you.”
He turns to me when he reaches the door, pleasant surprise on his face. “That was easier than I expected.”
“Did you want me to fight you?”
“No, but I was ready for it.” He pushes the door open and holds it for me.
“I still can,” I say lightly as I step outside. “We can throw down. Right here, right now.”
Daniel scoffs, shaking his head. “You are truly ridiculous.”
“And yet you still asked me out.” I shrug, flashing him a smug grin. “Regretting that yet? I’m annoying and expensive.”
“Good thing I like both those parts of you.”
I exhale, trying to ignore the heat creeping through me. “Careful, or you’ll never get rid of me.”
“That’s the plan.”
I’m so struck by his words that I nearly lose my breath for a second. At least I don’t have to worry about whether he’s as into me as I’m into him, because, wow—that’s the exact kind of subtle yet direct confession I live for. Man’s a fast learner.
I clear my throat, hoping to regain my composure. “Where to next?”
“Lunch now. I’m hungry again after watching you pick out all those books.”
I shoot him a look from the corner of my eye. “Is it going to be another place where they know you?”
“I know it surprises you, but people do like me.”
“Truly shocking. Impossible to believe.”
“Guess I’ll have to keep proving it to you.”
I’m all for it.
