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“I can agree to the following,” Noah says, consulting the page. “The medieval gardens at the Cloisters; the Minetta Brook in the West Village; Seven Thousand Oaks in Chelsea; Breezy Point in Queens; and Poe Cottage in the Bronx.”

These are fine selections. I signal my approval with a slight nod. “And your conditions?”

“We’re going to alternate,” he says. “We visit one site from your list. And then one site of my choosing.”

No, no, no. My list was carefully selected. Intentional. Productive. I feel confident that if I agree to this condition, Noah Ross is going to make a joke of the endeavor. And I’ll end up wasting my time at some depressing outer-borough diner.

“I’ll take it seriously,” he says. “I promise.”

I swallow. I don’t really have a choice. “Then I agree.”

“Good. Condition number two,” he says, “we don’t meet here again.”

I glance around. “Here, meaning my apartment? What is your problem with my apartment?”

“It’s distracting. Can we just agree to meet at the sites from now on?”

“Fine,” I say. “Anything else, Highness?”

“One more,” he says. “Once we agree on an idea... assuming wecanagree on an idea, you leave me alone to write it. No babysitting. No Fifty Ways to get Noah to Chapter Two lists, et cetera.”

I think about my trial promotion, how so many things will have to go right in order for it to become permanent. How hard it will be to trust this man to make them go right. Part of me would love a good long respite from interacting with him. The other part of me is scared he’ll fuck it up.

I take a breath and meet his eyes. “Wewillagree on an idea, because we have to. And once we do,ifyou can assure me I’ll have a draft in my hands by May fifteenth, you won’t hear so much as a peep out of me.”

“What about a squeak? Like the brakes of the M50 bus?”he teases. It’s the world’s driest tease, like a Vegas showgirl hairstyle from the eighties.

I give him a closed-mouth smile. “Let’s just say it’ll be like we’ve never met.”

Noah puts out his hand. “Then I think we have a deal.”

Chapter Nine

The following Saturday night, Ryan and I have managed to snag two barstools at Grand Army in Boerum Hill right after a sold-out Jenny Lewis concert. We’re clinking two flutes of rosé champagne as the waiter sets down a dozen oysters on the half shell. The circular bar is cozy and candlelit, the oysters briny and ice-cold. The restaurant is packed, which I find romantic. There’s nothing that makes me feel more a part of my city than being holed up at a bar filled with interesting people having sparkling conversations.

To Ryan, on the other hand, crowds equal “trendy,” read: overhyped and overpriced. If he walks into a place and there’s a mural painted on exposed brick, with a hashtag inviting guests to Instagram their visit, he’s basically out. But he did grow up on his dad’s boat on the Eastern Shore, which translates to a weakness for fresh oysters.

He takes his with Tabasco and a squeeze of lemon. I’m amignonette and horseradish girl. Most nights, this simple tableau would be enough to make me very happy, but I’ve been a mess ever since meeting Noa Callaway, and I don’t see my streak ending anytime soon.

I know I told BD I’d tell Ryan, but the truth is, even if Iweren’tbound by this NDA, Noa Callaway’s identity—his maleness—would be a hard topic to broach with Ryan. Either he wouldn’t see why Noah’s gender is a betrayal of our readers, or it would become leverage in Ryan’s case that this may not be my dream job, that moving to D.C. holds the answer. And/or his jealousy radar might go up once I told him about the Fifty Ways plans.

Which would be absurd, of course. Noah and I can barely stand each other in person.

Also nagging at me: BD’s brunch comment about no marriage getting everything right, but how important it is to find the person you can turn to no matter what. I know she meant it gently, lovingly, but it bothers me to consider that she thinks something might be wrong with my relationship.

Was it just a simpler time back in my grandmother’s day? No, I know I’m selling BD short by even wondering that. She was married to my grandfather for fifty years. Like everything else in her life, she worked hard for it. Ryan and I should be so lucky to have a marriage as solid all our lives.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, fixing himself a Kumamoto. “You’ve been acting funny all weekend.”

“I’m just stressed,” I say.

And lying. Also lying. Not a great look on me.

“Work again?” Ryan sighs, putting down the oyster he was about to shoot. “Listen, Lanie, I’ve been thinking, and I just don’t think this is good for you.”

My champagne sticks in my throat and I cough. “What do you mean? What’s not good for me?”

“This job—if it’s not one thing with your work, it’s another. A week ago, you were so stressed about meeting the diva that you canceled your trip to D.C. Then, as soon as you did meet her, you transferred all that stress into panic over some arbitrary deadline.”