In a New York Minute(19)

But before I could collapse in a panicked heap, Eliza was there with an arm on my shoulder, guiding me toward the “café.” Priya walked alongside us and fussed with a curl that kept falling in my face.

“Hey, you didn’t say anything about this ‘get-to-know-each-other’ thing,” I said to Eliza. “Not that I ever say no to free coffee, but I thought this was supposed to be quick.”

“Last-minute change,” she said with zero feeling, digging into the mic pack attached to the collar of my dress to switch off my microphone. “Your mics will be off, so we’ll just be cutting back to you from time to time in the next segment.”

“And we’re live in three, two…” Cameras locked in on Hayes and me as we sat facing each other, steaming cups of coffee in front of us. I waited for him to say something—anything—but he just stared at me and the table. “So,” I deadpanned, “come here often?”

He offered what sounded like a genuine laugh. “Oh yeah, every morning. I’m a regular. They know my order and everything. Nonfat caramel macchiato with two shots of espresso and whipped cream. See?” He picked up the cup and showed it to me. It was black, but I played along.

“Impressive,” I said, brows raised.

Then he brought it to his mouth, taking a small sip. “Mmm,” he groaned, all pleasure. “Exactly how I like it.”

“So,” I said as I reached for the small pot of cream and dumped half of it in my cup. “I’m not your type?” It’s not like I needed any more confirmation of this fact, but again my mouth was moving faster than my brain.

“Hey,” he said, and his tone wasn’t jokey anymore. “That wasn’t at all what I was trying to say. Sometimes the words get tangled in my brain, if that makes sense.”

It did make sense. Too much sense, if I was honest. I felt exactly the same. So much so that I had made up a business on live TV. But I was not going to give this guy any more satisfaction today.

I paused for effect, simply to needle him a little more. “No big deal. Happens to me every day. Water under the bridge.”

I waved him off and watched his eyes dart from me to the table, then back to me again. They were so dark and yet so beautiful. Not the sparkly bright kind that populated the romance novels I used to sneak from my grandma Elsie’s shelves in middle school, books I later packed up and took to the assisted living facility she’d had to move in to. Books I had to toss last year when she’d passed. His eyes were dark and swirling, murky, like the ocean in winter. Every time they moved, his thick black eyelashes swept across them in a hypnotic, rhythmic fashion, like they were trying to get me to forget what had just gone down.

“What I meant to say was that I didn’t think I was your type. I don’t”—he ran his fingers through his hair—“have a way with words, let’s say. I work in finance. I do data and numbers. I don’t always know how to articulate what I feel. I meant that…” He was searching. “I don’t normally date women like you.”

I threw my hands up. “Seriously?” I laughed. “You’re only making this worse! Did you not see my mom up there, telling the world I haven’t brought a man home in almost ten years? I’m not having a good day.”

“No.” He waved his hands in front of his chest. “I mean, I don’t pick women up on the subway.”

How was it possible that a man this handsome was also this socially inept?

“Well, where do you pick women up, then?” I took a sip of my coffee, holding the cup to my lips as I swallowed. It was warm, and the smooth edge of the mug was grounding. “The stock exchange?”

He laughed at this, and nodded his head as if to say “You got me there.”

“Well, I’d never be caught dead dating a finance bro, so…” I crossed and uncrossed my legs, which were still sweaty, under the table, kicking his shin in the process. “Sorry,” I said. “About kicking you just now. Not about the finance-bro comment.”

He waved my apology off with his hand, which was lean and muscular. Could hands be muscular? I’d never even considered this before, but his most definitely were. And again, I was remembering the feel of his hands on my back as he’d braced me on the train. Now it was my turn to blush.

“Do I come across like a bro?” He edged forward in his seat, his brow furrowed but not angry. He seemed genuinely curious that this was what I thought of him.

“I mean—you wear suits to work, you’re on some Forbes list, you have a last name for a first name. I’m just hypothesizing here, but you probably also played lacrosse in high school and graduated from an Ivy League college.”

“Soccer,” he replied, raising one of those beautifully lush brows. “And I definitely didn’t go to an Ivy.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d you go?”

“Stanford. And Cal for grad school.”

I raised my hands in defeat, flopping them in my lap. Those schools may not be in the Ivy League, but they sure as hell were just as hard to get into. Was he for real?

“Look, let’s just pretend this whole thing never happened, okay?” I poured a bit more coffee into my mug, and then another generous slug of cream. “I mean, you’re not wrong. This”—I gestured between us—“would never be a thing.”