Page 35 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
“Sol.”
Her name leaves my mouth before I can decide whether it’s a good idea or not.
She stops mid-stride, one hand gripping the strap of her bag, head turning just slightly. For a moment, she doesn’t recognize me—just another stranger calling out on a crowded Manhattan sidewalk. Then her eyes widen.
“Ben?”
It’s disbelief and confusion and something else. Something softer, flickering beneath the surface. Her skin is still growing with the sunshine of three weeks ago even on this dreary winter day.
“Hey,” I manage, breath coming out in a puff of cold air. “Hi.”
She blinks once, like she’s still processing. “What are you doing here?”
I laugh, a short, nervous sound. “Honestly? I’ve been asking myself the same thing for the past three weeks.”
The man next to her—a coworker, I assume—glances between us, clearly catching the shift in tone. Sol waves him off gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, and he gives me a wary nod before heading toward the subway at the corner.
And then it’s just her. Standing there under the pale blue construction tarp, the faint smell of concrete dust and winter in the air. The street noise fades, replaced by the dull rush of blood in my ears.
“I know this looks—” I start.
“Weird?” she cuts in, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Maybe we can say I’m persistent.” I try to smile but my heart is hammering so fast in my chest that my fight or flight mode is getting activated. “I remembered what you said about the hotel you were working on. So I started walking around Tribeca trying to find it.”
Her brows lift, amused. “That’s…”
“I know. I sound insane. I realize that now.”
“You kind of do.”
“Worse things have been done.”
That earns me a laugh, small but natural. She tucks a piece of her styled hair behind her ear, and I notice how different she looks; professional, polished, confident. A beige wool coat, black boots, a designer work bag draping from one shoulder. She looks like New York—composed but never still.
“Let me guess,” she says. “You were in the neighborhood?”
“Not quite.”
Her lips part in surprise. “You’ve been coming by here?”
“Every few days,” I admit. “On my way to meetings. After work. Just in case. My office is ten blocks that way.” I gesture with my hand in a random direction even though I’m not entirely certain is accurate.
“In case of what?”
“In case you walked out that door.”
That stops her. For a second, the only sound is the rumble of a delivery truck pulling away from the curb. She looks at me like she’s weighing whether to be impressed or call the police on me.
Finally, she says, “You found me.”
“I did.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “And I’d like to take you to dinner.”
She laughs under her breath, like she doesn’t quite believe me. “Dinner?”
“Yeah. A real one with a large menu and maybe candles on the table. No room service trays or burnt coffee.”
Her eyes soften. “Ben…”
