Page 43 of Most Eligible Billionaire

Then I realize it’s Henry they’re watching. Even outside! Young starchitect billionaire Henry Locke. Sure, they’re looking at me, but only to see who he’s with.

And then somebody snaps a picture of us.

My heart starts to pound. It’s okay if someone takes my picture, but what if they put it online? I look very different with my glasses and dark hair, but it’s not like I’ve gotten plastic surgery. Discreetly, I slide on my sunglasses. And then he looks over at me and I wonder if he noticed the cause and effect of that.

My thoughts are interrupted by a fight up ahead—two guys have gotten out of their cars. There’s glass on the road. Fender bender. Voices are raised.

Henry grabs my arm and puts me on the other side of him and sweeps Smuckers up in his arms, all this without even breaking stride. He mumbles something about the menace of texting while driving, but I’m stuck on the weird chivalry of him.

The crowds thicken even more near the subway station, but he keeps Smuckers under control. Strangers usually can’t hold Smuckers right. Henry gets Smuckers.

“You’re good with him.”

“We grew up with these dogs,” he says flatly.

Just then I recognize the corner we’re on. “Hey, we have to walk up the next street. Come on.” I lead down the block and turn, and there it is. “Griffin Place.”

“What?”

“Griffin Place, my fave building.” I point at the statue halfway up, the crouched winged lion. “See? My sister, Carly, and I…it’s just one of our favorites.”

“Oh, the Reinhold building,” he says.

“Right,” I say. “You probably know all the names.”

“Being a smirkitect, you know. It goes with the territory.”

“The Reinhold,” I say, trying it out, like finally learning the name of an old friend.

We’re moving closer to it. “In all of Manhattan? You like the Reinhold best?” He sounds incredulous.

“What? It’s great.”

“Hmm.” He seems to view it as an odd choice. Looking at it through an architect CEO’s eyes, I suppose it is. The building isn’t tall, it’s not special in terms of fancy flourishes, it’s not even old—it’s the 1940s kind, all blocky gray stone and deep rectangular windows. But the griffin is cool. Brave protector friend, mouth open in a silent roar.

He slows across the street, in the middle of the block from it. “What about it?” Like he’s trying to see it. He really wants to know.

“It’s the griffin,” I tell him.

“What is it about the griffin? A lot of buildings have them.”

“I don’t know,” I say, but I do know.

“Aesthetically?”

“No.” I feel his gaze on me, and I know I’m going to tell him. I want to. I don’t know why. “Symbolically.”

“What does this one symbolize?”

“A moment in time,” I say. “When my sister and I first got here, we got lost. We took this bus and it was a disaster.” I smile, like it wasn’t any big deal, but it was terrifying. “She was crying, and I pointed this griffin out and made up this stupid story about him being our brave protector friend.”

There’s this silence where I wonder if I’ve said too much.

“Did he help? The griffin?”

“A lot,” I say. “She stopped crying and we took pictures of him. I printed one out and put it in the kitchen. If nothing else, he scared the cockroaches back down into the drain.”

“You came here after your parents died.”

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