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His sunglasses are stowed away in the pocket of his vest, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, showcasing his muscular arms I was desperate to peek at that night when he stood on the stage at Lunasia and the sexy veins traversing over his muscles, which flex as he brings the hot dog in front of his lips.

“I could be having foie gras and filet mignon cooked by a Michelin chef right now,” he grumbles before he swallows, as if he’s trying to dislodge a lump in his throat. His lips flatten in displeasure.

“Ew. Do you know how they make foie gras? They fatten up a duck or a goose just so they can harvest the liver. It’s barbaric! That’s why they banned it in the city for a few years.”

He arches a sardonic brow. “You and your bleeding heart. Why don’t you become vegan then? They do the same things to chickens.”

I throw my hands into the air. “That’s different. Just eat the damn hot dog. How do you even call yourself a New Yorker without having a street dog?”

“Technically, I’m an Angeleno,” he retorts, a smirk on his face.

Swallowing a laugh threatening to break free from my throat, I watch him wince as he takes a big bite of the hot dog ladened with ketchup and mustard.

We bought it from a random street vendor who was parked in front of the entrance.

Steven looked squeamish as I paid for his birthday meal, muttering about how unsanitary everything probably was and how he could have his chef fix us gourmet hot dogs if that’s what I was craving.

Steven chokes, his face turning a tad green. “This is revolting. The meat is so overcooked…if you can even call this meat. God knows what’s inside it. The bread is soggy, and don’t even get me started on this wannabe ketchup.”

He grabs the bottle of water next to him and chugs half of it down in a matter of seconds. “Fuck. This is nasty.”

“Really?” I take a bite out of my own hot dog and cringe. Of course, the day I take the King to eat street fare, I’d buy from the wrong vendor. This hot dog tastes stale, even I have to admit it’s pretty disgusting.

I slap him on the back as he chokes down the rest of his dinner because I lectured him beforehand about the perils of wasting food. “Think of it this way. This is a birthday you’ll always remember. Instead of spending it surrounded by glass windows and piles of work…”

“And air conditioning,” he mutters, sweat dripping down his forehead.

I snicker, watching him take out a tissue from his pocket and blotting his face.

“And gourmet food,” he continues, his brow lifting higher, almost touching those luscious black strands of hair. “God, how will I ever survive the tragedy?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.” I grin, even though I feel a pinch of guilt, since I dragged the king out of his comfortable castle to experience the call of Mother Nature with us serfs.

“But look around you…see those tourists walking around. Even though sweat is dripping down their faces, they are wearing smiles because they get to enjoy the sun in the middle of the day. And look at that woman walking her cute little dog…or those kids sunbathing on the lawn. You don’t need money to enjoy yourself. ”

Turning to him, I ask, “When was the last time you took a few hours off work and sat in a park to just…be? Enjoy the stillness? Savor the warmth of the sun hitting your skin and the way the breeze carries a hint of freshly mowed grass?”

He stares at me like I grew two heads.

“Well, my present to you this year is the gift of a new experience. And a reminder there’s more to life than money and work. ”

“But isn’t that why you want to work at Pietra? To make money…just like the rest of us?” Steven’s eyes are piercing, glinting almost gold in the bright sunlight and I look away as the flutters, which have subsided for the last twenty minutes, begin anew in my gut.

Staring at a little girl with pigtails and her dad playing frisbee on the grass, her giggles filling the air, my heart clenches, the old ache resurfacing. “The difference is, I make money because I want to move into a better neighborhood and to go to Paris.”

And pay off the loan, Taylor’s tuition, find the identity of my father, and ask him why he left us.

But I don’t tell him that because even to me, it sounds so sad, so pitiful, and I don’t want sympathy from him.

I add, “Because I want to enjoy life, not slave away for the sake of making money.”

Steven is silent as a soft cool breeze flitters by, much welcomed in the sweltering heat.

The smooth notes of jazz music carry through the air, and I turn, seeing a street musician playing his saxophone by a stone bridge, the sultry sounds echoing in the short tunnel, lending an air of romance to the park.

The high notes mingle with the low chords, the music ebbing and flowing in a sensual rhythm, reminding New Yorkers to slow down and take a breath, that amidst the chaos and commotion in the city, we should all take a few moments to relax and enjoy these little moments in a beautiful park and celebrate the joys of being alive.

I see four people slowly rising to their feet—one elderly couple, a thin old man wearing red suspenders, clutching his wife or lady friend to his chest, the other a younger couple looking to be around my age, twin smiles on their faces.

They twirl on the pavement, moving their bodies to the smooth notes of the music.

Worries seem to elude them, and their life is not about the past or the future, but only about the present and these magical moments spent in your lover’s arms.

I smile, a sudden wistfulness creeping inside me, a different ache forming in my chest. Romance, when it works out, is beautiful. It’s the reason I keep flipping the pages of my books in pursuit of the elusive happily-ever-after.

Too bad reality is often uglier.

Clearing my throat, I look away, finding Steven’s eyes on me, his brows crinkling at whatever he sees on my face. His gaze trails over to the dancing couples and I see his throat rippling as he swallows. He balls the hot dog wrapper in his fist, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“What?” I whisper. The whimsical wings of unrealistic dreams beat harder inside my chest as a sudden heat spreads to my cheeks.

“You don’t ask for much.”

A statement, not a question. His words are a quiet murmur, a heaviness lacing through his voice.

His beautiful hazel eyes ensnare mine, holding me captive as the magic of the jazz music swirls around us, threading the sweet, scented air with a dash of enchantment.

For a moment, I want to ask him to dance, to let our bodies guide us into a world without troubles, without storms and winds, without sleepless nights.

Instead, I give him a shaky smile as my heart clenches, a slither of pain snaking its way through me.

If I don’t ask for much, I never get disappointed. And life, oftentimes, is one giant ball of disappointments.

I can’t look away.

Instead of staring at the giant screen in front of us, watching the classic The Sound of Music, while we lounge on my suit jacket, which no doubt will be ruined after tonight, I’m watching her instead .

She huddles close to me, our bodies not touching, as we sit next to hundreds of strangers at Pier I of Riverside Park South.

I remember how her lips curled into a smug smile when she told me she’d bet I didn’t know you could watch movies for free in the city, before whisking me here to take part in my first Summer Nights on the Hudson: Movies at Pier I.

After my birthday dinner of the atrocious hot dog, we took a stroll around Central Park, walking past Belvedere Castle, the granite tower and parapet walls sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of the metropolis yet somehow blending in seamlessly all the same—one of the city’s magical abilities.

We stopped by Turtle Pond, watching the little suckers swim in the dark waters or sunbathe on rocks.

For once in my life, I didn’t feel the itch to return to work, to bury myself within the world of dollars and cents, where winning was everything that mattered. My mind wasn’t occupied by thoughts of TransAmerica and my father.

As the day bleeds into the night, the sunset washing the skies in a brilliant array of colors, I find myself raking in the sweet scent of jasmine with each breath, my lungs expanding with air with each inhale.

I can finally breathe.

And the irony of it is, it hasn’t cost a thing.

The last few hours spent with Grace, wandering the city like tourists, I wonder if the emptiness inside me has something to do with my relentless pursuit of success, to climb higher on Mount Everest, to be the first person to ascend to the top.

And for what? So I could wake up in the dark, staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night?

Grace lets out a sigh, drawing my attention away from my thoughts, and I glance at the screen, watching Captain von Trapp dancing with Maria in the dark gardens, where anyone can tell love is brewing in the air, that the normally stoic man is falling for the charms of his sweet governess .

My chest clenches, and a heat unfurls in my gut, spreading to my loins. My skin feels warm as I sneak a glance at the beguiling woman next to me, who, without an ounce of artifice, without beautiful clothes or fancy hairstyles, shines brighter than any woman I’ve ever met.

Grace’s eyes take on a dreamy gleam, her body swaying softly to the music as if she’s dancing alongside the couple.

I remember seeing the wistfulness in her expression when she saw the couples dancing on the lawn at Central Park earlier.

My fingers twitch, an irrational impulse burning through my veins.

I want to tug her in my arms and swing her in circles to the sound of the music.

I want to see how the violet of her eyes sparkles under the moonlight.

I want to see how she looks when she melts in my arms.

I want to taste her lips at the source.

I want to bury myself deep inside her body and never resurface.

My body jolts as my mind finally catches up to my thoughts. My father’s crying face as he stood out in the rain in front of his other family floats to the surface.

Years later, when I was in high school, having my first and probably only heartbreak when the girl I liked said no when I asked her to the Valentine’s Day dance at our fancy prep school, Father sat me down and told me it was best not to allow our hearts to become attached.

Because once a woman slipped in and captured the tender organ, she’d never let it go, even if she were no longer in your life.

And for the rest of your life, you’d lose part of yourself, knowing you’d never be able to reclaim it.

I knew he was talking about the mysterious woman, the one who broke his heart. I could see the sadness radiating from his hazel eyes, the way he’d cradle his favorite mug with the handprint, tracing the imperfections on the ceramic.

At the time, I was glad my heart wasn’t ensnared yet, and was still in one piece. It was one of the few occasions Father truly spent time with me outside of academic events. We looked at the bright stars from our backyard deck, sipping on hot cider. His warning to me came from his broken heart .

Kingsley men don’t let emotions get the best out of them.

A cool breeze sweeps through the pier, and the couples around us shift closer, with the women burrowing themselves in their partners’ chests.

Grace shivers, the tremor so slight I’d miss it if I wasn’t staring at her.

A thickness forms in my throat and my heart kicks into a rapid rhythm, pounding so loudly I’m afraid she’d hear it.

I slowly shift behind her before drawing her into my arms. She freezes, her muscles tense, and I can feel her eyes staring at me before I shift into position.

Wordlessly, I cradle her, my fingers trailing over her arm, drawing out a sigh from those beautiful lips.

Closing my eyes, I breathe in the sweet scent of jasmine, an aroma I want to bottle up and carry with me always, because it’ll forever remind me of her, the only woman who has tempted me, dismantling my barriers as if they were made from paper.

Grace’s body softens against mine, her head lolling to the side, baring her smooth, slender neck.

Unable to resist, I lean down and press my lips against her fluttering pulse, where her scent is the strongest. She lets out a soft moan, the sound shooting straight to my groin, and I increase the suction, letting myself be selfish one more time.

If I can’t taste her lips yet, and I shouldn’t until she knows about the job offers, at least I can taste her skin and feel her tremble against me.

“Steven.” Her breathy voice is light as the breeze and her hand clutches my thigh.

My tongue dips out, swirling around the pulse, which is dancing with my lips, tasting the sweetness, the saltiness, the delicious flavor of her. Her fingernails dig into my muscles and I hiss in the pleasurable pain.

My skin is on fire and I want to touch her without all the clothes between us.

I want to see her writhe in pleasure. My teeth scrape across that tender spot on her neck and her chest arches, her breathing quickening into deep pants.

Her hips gyrate on my jacket on the ground and I know she’s wet.

I can satisfy her, make her come with no one knowing.

A desperate need claws inside me, but I know I can’t touch her.

Not until Friday, if she’ll still have me.

It’s dishonest, not that I’m a paragon of integrity.

I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop, and I’ll pull her into the abyss with me, snuffing out the flame shining brightly within her.

I’m damaged, irreparable, and my broken pieces will slice and stab her until there’s nothing left.

My nerves spark alive in those small areas where our bodies graze each other, and all my senses are alert. Reluctantly, I pull back, a surge of satisfaction rushing through me at the pink mark on her slender neck.

Mine.

Grace stills and turns toward me. She doles out a shaky smile, her eyes shining with unsaid emotions, emotions I’m afraid to read or recognize, because I won’t be able to give her what she’s looking for.

My nostrils flare and I hold her gaze for a few more seconds before I tear my attention away from her to focus on the screen once more.

My heart threatens to escape my rib cage, my pulse hammering in my ears.

For the first time in my life, I finally feel the agonizing want of needing another person more than I need my next breath.

And I want more. I want to leap into the flames and put my heart in her hands.