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Her eyes trail back to mine, and then to the table set for dinner for two. “We’re having dinner here?”

I nod, unable to take my eyes from her. She’s so beautiful. So full of life and enthusiasm. The more I know her, the more I like her, and the more I like her, the more I want her. Having the Met to yourself isn’t something that happens every day, but I’ve barely noticed anything but Avril. I can’t concentrate on anything else when she’s around.

Our guide talks about the origin of the house and how different generations of the same family would have shared the space. All I can think about is how I can’t wait for the two of us to be alone.

Avril asks questions about the calligraphy on the wall and repeats what the guide tells her it means. “‘The lightning saw the darkness frown and smiled. It skimmed and wafted over the flowers of the hills.’” She turns to me. “Isn’t that pretty?”

I nod and shove my hands in my pockets. She’s pretty.

Eventually, we sit down at the table, surrounded by the wood paneling and historic architecture. As soon as we’re seated, Avril jumps up. “I can’t wear sneakers to dinner here.” The guide has dropped our bag at the entrance to the room, and Avril quickly slips off her sneakers and replaces them with the shoes she wore the first night I met her—at Aurora and Deacon’s engagement party.

Was that deliberate?

Did she want to remind me of that night? Like I could ever forget it.

Is she trying to seduce me or is that just wishful thinking? Everything feels so easy between us. It’s like we’ve known each other our entire lives—like we have some kind of fundamental connection. But maybe this is all in my head, all in my imagination. She’s been living with me and I still can’t read her. The only person in my history I haven’t been able to put in a box with a label on it is this beautiful woman in front of me.

I’m losing my focus. Avril has me losing my goddamn mind.

She retakes her seat opposite me. “This is very romantic,” she says on a smile. “If any date could make me fall in love with you, it would be this one.” She shakes her head, still smiling. “You’re good.”

“Good?”

“Like with the seduction stuff. The clothes, the private viewing of the Met, the dinner in here…it’s all very…you know, the kind of thing you read about in romance novels.”

“I don’t read romance novels,” I say.

Her eyes twinkle as she smiles at me. “Well, I do, and this is the kind of stuff that heroines really like.”

“Good to know.”

“Being your girlfriend must be…something else. Unless, you’re not like this with your girlfriends.”

She’d be right about that. Not that I’ve had any serious relationships, and nothing recently. I’ve certainly never taken anyone to the Met before. Relationships always seem like a big risk. New York’s a small city and everyone knows someone you know. I need to be the man people have no doubts about—that people trust completely. I knew I couldn’t do that if I had a trail of exes scattered across Manhattan. But it hasn’t felt like a sacrifice. I’ve never met anyone I particularly wanted to share my life with. And now, with Avril in my apartment, I’m being forced to share my life with someone, and instead of running away from it, I want more.

“Are you fishing for information?” I ask her, as our appetizers arrive.

She laughs like she’s been caught out. “Maybe. What is your relationship history?”

I pick up my knife and fork. “Nothing much to tell. You?”

She sighs. “I seem to be on this merry-go-round where I meet guys who are okay and we date and then he’s an asshole or I’m bored or they’re bored, and we break up and it’s fine and I just get back on my carousel horse and start again.”

“I can’t imagine any man ever being bored with you for company.”

“Right?” she says and then dissolves into laughter. “I’m kidding, but there’s always something, you know?”

Who are these men she’s dating? Is it possible that New York is inhabited by a bunch of idiots?

“Some with mommy issues. Some money issues. But a lot of them just don’t know what they want. They think they know, but they don’t. Or they pretend to want a relationship when what they really want is sex. And that’s fine. If you want to bang your way through your thirties, I’m all for it, just don’t pretend you want anything more, you know?”

“And what do you want?” I ask. “You want to bang your way through your thirties, because, seriously, I’d be happy to help you with that.”

She laughs. “I’d be happy for you to help me with that too.” She pauses and pulls in a breath. “That’s a night I won’t forget anytime soon.”

My chest expands at her memory. It was an incredible night. “Same,” I say.

She clears her throat. “But we’re not fixated on it. We can be professional. No waters need to be muddy.” She looks up at me. “Right?”