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I picture Noah at twenty, not knowing a thing about love. It’s sort of cute.

“When I showed the first draft ofNinety-Nine Thingsto my mom,” he says, “she didn’t believe I’d written it. If my own mother couldn’t see it, what reader would want to open the back flap and see me?”

I consider what his author photo might look like.Smoldering green eyes flirting with the camera. Dark curls just long enough to suggest untamed. Black turtleneck. No, a button-down showing a little bit of chest hair...

He’s right. His author photo would give his readers a shock.

“Alix didn’t know I was a man until after she’d bought the manuscript,” he continues, another key piece falling into place. “We had no ideaNinety-Nine Thingswould take off the way it did. I never thought I’d make a career of it. Once upon a time...”

“It was just a love story?”

“Yes,” he says, meeting my eyes. It feels as if this is the first time we’ve ever really looked at each other. “It was just a love story.”

We keep walking along the river, the sun high and bright overhead, the view of the George Washington Bridge growing in the distance.

“It’s your move,” he says, catching me off guard.

“What?”

“In chess.” He waves his phone. “It’s been your turn for over a week. You’re about to forfeit the game.”

“Oh! I’ve been—”

“Paralyzed by my impending victory?”

“More like trying not to distract you with push notifications! Also, I don’t want to completely crush your confidence in this delicate creative moment. You’ve lost—what?—the past six games in a row?”

“That’s only because I can’t use my intimidation tactics over the app.”

“And those would be?”

Noah squares off to face me, crosses his arms, and raises one eyebrow dramatically with an exaggerated tilt of his head. All he needs is a monocle to complete the look of total lunatic. I burst out laughing.

“I’m scared now,” I say.

“See?”

“Scared for you that you think that’s an intimidation tactic. You look like an Angry Bird.”

“Fine, but I am a better chess player in person. The game of kings needs human beings.”

“Well, if only you hadn’t pissed me off so much that day in Central Park,” I say, feigning a sigh. “We could have already put this argument to rest.”

“I’m afraid there’s only one solution,” he says.

“Are you challenging me to a game of chess?” I say, feeling my competitive spirit rise.

He nods. “And hoping you like sushi, because I’m starving, and Saturdays are for sushi.” Then he does the thing with the eyebrow again until I crack up and agree.

Noah tells the cab to stop at Ninety-Fifth and Broadway.

“What are we doing here?” I ask as he opens the door.

“This is where I live.” He leads us toward a black iron gate tucked into the center of a two-story Tudor-style apartment building. The place looks out of time, dwarfed by taller and more modern buildings on all sides.

I’ve been here before, I realize. This is the entrance to Pomander Walk, the pedestrian enclave of row houses Meg brought me to once for a party. It had been on my list of Fifty Ways to Break Up Noah and His Writer’s Block. He crossed it out.

“You don’t live here,” I say as Noah takes out a key and unlocks the gate. He leads me up a set of brick stairs, which open to a private garden the length of an avenue block. “You live in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue overlooking Central Park.”