Page 28 of How Freaking Romantic

We lose.

In the end it’s not even close. But it’s not a complete washout; after that first question about The Real Housewives , we get one other question right, which kicks us up from last place to second-to-last. More importantly, we win for best team name, so after our round of free drinks, we decide to celebrate with pizza.

Eighth Avenue is almost empty except for a few lone cabs careening uptown as we stumble out onto the sidewalk.

It’s late enough that the restaurants on either side of the street are closed, but Nathan starts walking downtown anyway, claiming there’s a pizza place still open a few blocks ahead.

I keep my steps in sync with his, and when the cold begins to breach my sweatshirt and a shiver ripples through my body, he wordlessly takes off his coat and wraps it around my shoulders.

I’m about to protest, to give it back, but before I can open my mouth, he says, “Shut up,” and keeps walking.

The pizza place is right where he promised, on the corner of Fifteenth Street. The fluorescent lighting makes it positively glow, its small white interior on full display through the windows before we even enter.

A blast of heat welcomes us as Nathan opens the door for me.

I audibly moan, but I don’t care. It feels so good and it smells even better.

Like bread and grease and melting cheese.

The alcohol had worn off a bit during the walk, and the buzz has been replaced by a gnawing hunger, which now demands at least a whole pie. Maybe two.

There’s a group of women in short dresses and heels already halfway through a cheese pizza when we walk in.

They’re huddled around one of the tall metal tables, talking at full volume in the way you only do when you’re thoroughly drunk.

The minute they see us, they fall silent.

Their eyes follow Nathan as he approaches the register, orders a few slices for both of us, and pays.

We get our food and head to a table in the far corner, but I notice the women’s collective gaze is still on him. He has his back to them, so he can’t see their eyes raking down his body, the whispers and the giggles.

I turn my attention back to him, too. There’s no question that Nathan is gorgeous, but under these harsh fluorescent lights, the fact is even more evident, illuminating the details that I normally work so hard to ignore.

The gray flecks in his eyes that are usually invisible beneath the blue.

The distinct line of the scar along his chin that’s obvious even under his stubble.

His light brown hair rumpled from where he ran his hand through it during the quiz.

Even his body seems accentuated, the size of it as he bends down to take a bite of his pizza, the width of his shoulders as he leans one elbow down next to mine as he chews.

It’s like the universe has decided to bypass my judgment and put him on a pedestal where I can do nothing but stare.

He stops chewing and cocks one eyebrow up his forehead. “What?”

I roll my eyes, like that will disguise the flush in my cheeks. “You chew with your mouth open.”

He grins like he knows I’m lying but can’t be bothered to figure out why. “Do you want another slice?”

I do and so does he, and at some point the women leave, but I don’t notice when. I don’t even know how long we’re there. Only that the conversation rolls on and on and we’ve eaten almost an entire pizza before we finally leave.

We walk side by side along the pavement, and I suddenly feel a bit more sober.

I’m not sure if it’s because of the carbohydrates currently swimming in my stomach or the fact that the night is drawing to a close, but I suddenly remember that I have no idea where I’m going to sleep tonight.

Or what I’m going to do tomorrow. Or for the rest of the weekend.

I momentarily consider a hotel, but the thought flies out of my mind as soon as it appears.

Yesterday I had to check my bank balance before going grocery shopping; there’s no way I can afford one night in a hotel, let alone a whole weekend.

I don’t even want to have to think about my credit card debt right now.

Of course, I could always head up to Maggie and Travis’s. There’s a good chance they have a key hidden outside the house somewhere. But if they don’t? That means sitting outside a train station in the Hudson Valley until morning. With all my books and my computer. And a twenty-pound laundry bag.

There’s also Jillian. I know she would have me, no question.

But she’s still in Boston on that job interview.

Even if she were home, her studio in Queens is barely big enough for her, let alone a houseguest. It reminds me again that Josh is only a few blocks from here, all by himself in that empty two-bedroom apartment. No way I’m staying there. Bastard.

But none of that is center stage in my mind right now. No, that space is currently being occupied by the man walking beside me, his clean white Nikes in sync with my tattered Converse.

I don’t want the night to be done. Not yet.

And I don’t want to think about why that is, to examine the details that will only make me anxious.

No, I just want to stay in this limbo, this wonderful, blissfully naive half state where my slight buzz muffles the alarm bells in my mind.

I don’t have to analyze the whys or the hows or what happens next. We can just be here. And that’s enough.

But we can’t stay in that place because after just a few more minutes we’re outside his building again. I pull his coat tighter around my body, a feeble attempt to keep out the wind whipping down Eighth Avenue and try to avoid his gaze.

“Well, I guess I should grab my bags,” I say, nodding to his building.

“Did your friends get back to you?” His eyes narrow with that familiar skepticism. He already knows the answer.

I shrug, not really up for admitting the answer is no. “It’s fine. I can hang out at Grand Central and get on the next train.”

Then I smile, like it will soften just how pathetic the rest of my night will be, but his expression stays flat. “It’s one a.m., Bea.”

“So?”

“So she’s not going to get back to you until the morning.”

I sigh. “Well, what else am I supposed to do?”

“Stay here.”

A heady mix of panic and heat pulses through me, and all I can do is laugh—a tittering, maniacal sound that causes his forehead to furrow.

“No,” I reply.

“Why not?”

“Because…” My voice trails off as every possible answer runs through my brain at once.

When I don’t reply with anything, his lips become a hard line, like he’s insulted. Or worse, hurt.

“You can have the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says, like he’s read something from my expression. “When you get in touch with your friends tomorrow, you can head up there. You don’t even have to say goodbye.”

My heart is still racing as I scoff. “I would say goodbye. I’m not a complete monster.”

He frowns as if he isn’t so sure.

I let out a soft laugh. “Asshole.”

“Yeah, we established that.”

He’s staring down at me, and I’m staring right back. After a moment, I realize that we have been standing there for a while without saying anything at all.

“All right,” I say with as much manufactured exasperation as I can muster. “Show me this penthouse apartment, then.”

Tony has an elevator waiting for us when we enter the lobby, and he promises to bring my bags up in just a few minutes.

I want to know exactly when and how, but Nathan just says thank you and presses the button for nine.

We’re silent as the elevator rises, its cables and gears churning above us as it makes its slow ascent.

And thank God, because it masks the sound of my pounding heart that’s probably audible in the cramped space.

A moment later there’s a soft ding and the doors open to a warmly lit hallway. Nathan starts forward and turns right, walking down to the apartment at the end.

The door is metal and the sound of his key in the lock seems to echo in the space beyond it. I want to make a snide comment, something about the size or sheer luxury of this place, but then the door is open and Nathan nods for me to enter. I keep my mouth shut and walk inside ahead of him.

It’s dark except for the city skyline illuminated in the enormous window on the far side of the room.

The lights from a hundred different buildings expose the large space, the sofa in the center dividing it in two.

There’s a long dining table on one side, its glass top reflecting pinpoints of light from the window onto the walls and ceiling.

I make it to the center of the room before Nathan flips on a lamp, revealing the tobacco-colored leather of the sofa and the crowded bookcases facing it.

The walls are stark white, punctuated by tall black-and-white art prints and a massive TV.

The sprawling kitchen is to my right and open to the rest of the room.

It’s white, too: white marble, white cabinets, white appliances.

The entire place is immaculate, but there are signs of life here and there.

The haphazard way books are stacked in the bookcases.

A bouquet of peonies with a card sticking out the top in the center of the dining table.

The expensive-looking espresso machine marred with coffee stains on the kitchen countertop.

I turn as Nathan makes his way around the room, turning on a few more lamps.

“Not the penthouse,” he says.

“Not far off, though.” I let my hand glide along the leather sofa as I wander to the window.

He chuckles, that deep sound that’s barely a sound at all, just a vibration in his chest. Then he walks to a door between the kitchen and the hallway.

“I don’t think there’s much in the fridge, but help yourself to whatever you can find,” he says, opening the door to reveal a linen closet.