Page 47 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
James:
I was hoping you’d say that. I want Hallie Woods’ best breakfast suggestion in all of New York City.
Were we breaking yet another rule that I’d laid out before we started all of this? Yes. Did I care? I fired off the address of my favorite breakfast spot over on the Upper West Side, only realizing the stupid grin on my face when I looked up to see Roxie staring at me with raised eyebrows.
“What?” I asked.
Roxie raised her hands. “I’m not saying anything.”
“Your face is saying something,” I argued. But instead of responding, Roxie crammed her mouth full of popcorn and reached for the remote to find something else for us to watch. But her message was loud and clear when she settled on a movie about a woman that hired a manas her date to her brother’s wedding, only to fall in love in the end.
“How long have you been waiting here?” I asked James as I slid out of the taxi. He was standing on the curb in front of my new favorite breakfast spot. I was starting to love seeing him dressed down in a pair of designer jeans, a gray sweater over a collared shirt, and loafers.
There was something different about him—warm, approachable charm that made my heart flutter in an unfamiliar way. His business-like demeanor softened, replaced by a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
What doesn’t this man look good in?
“I live a few blocks from here.” He offered me his hand as I stepped onto the sidewalk. “I’ve walked by this place a hundred times since it opened, but I’ve never stopped in. I should have known that it was good, judging by the line out the door.”
I imagined James’ apartment would be dark wood, minimal, modern furniture, floor-to-ceiling glass windows high in the sky, with only a few personal touches. Not that I’d ever get to see it. Of course not.
“We have reservations.” I said, shaking the thought off.
We passed the long line snaking out the door, and I gave my name to the hostess. She grabbed two menus and ushered us to one of the last open tables at the back. An awkward silence hung between us now that we were alone. The air seemed to hum with the unspoken memory of last night’s kiss. It had consumed my thoughts ever since I’d fumbled for my keys, trying to unlock my door and still reeling from how James had pressed me againstthe building. His kiss, raw and urgent, had made my skin burn with a longing I couldn’t explain.
I tugged at my collar, feeling suddenly too warm.
“Maybe one day you’ll have a permanent table at places like this.” James pulled my chair out for me. His unexpected acts of kindness outside of our dates threw me off every time. Was this a date? How was I supposed to act? What did this mean?
The questions whirled in my head as I glanced over the menu, trying to distract myself. I already knew what I wanted, but reading the words helped me avoid any eye contact.
“Maybe,” I mused, inhaling the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee as the waiter placed a ceramic pot, complete with tiny creamers, on the table.
“So, what’s good here, Miss Expert?” James asked me as he studied the menu.
Sitting here with him, surrounded by the sounds of sizzling bacon and the cozy hum of Saturday morning, felt unexpectedly intimate.
“Their chicken and waffles are some of the best in the city but huevos rancheros are my favorite,” I offered, trying to sound casual.
The waiter returned and took our order—two huevos rancheros and an order of bite-sized pancakes to share.
