Some Like It Hotter. Isabel Sharpe

to be promoted to vice president of sales someday, maybe get into politics. He needed a woman who was— Who looked like— Who came across—

      Ugh. Was he really that shallow?

      No, not shallow, practical. He had to be honest about his goals and what he was looking for. Nothing wrong with that.

      They walked along Forty-Third Street to Eighth Avenue and the Port Authority subway stop. The air was crisp and energizing—fall was Ames’s favorite season. Maybe it was all those years of school, but to him September still felt like a fresh beginning.

      The subway took them south to Fourteenth Street. They emerged back onto Eighth Avenue and walked farther south to Bleecker Street, where they turned to start their stroll through the Village.

      The longer they walked, the more Ames had to admit he was enjoying himself. The weather was perfect, typical for October—cool but comfortable. Along the streets trees were turning colors and the buildings glowed with dark brick warmth in the fading light.

      And Eva’s eagerness was catching. Ames was something of a New York history geek, and this part of town had great stories to tell. He took her down Bedford Street to see a building Walt Disney had lived in, a detour to see the unexpected and peaceful private courtyard between two houses on Grove Street, then back on Bedford for a peek at number 86, a former Prohibition-era speakeasy and favorite hangout for writers that closed in 2007 when the facade crumbled into the street. Farther on, 75½, the narrowest house in New York, a mere nine feet wide.

      By the time they strolled over to Washington Square Park, the sun was down, and Ames was getting hungry. Nothing surprising about that—he’d eaten a small lunch on the go several hours earlier. What was surprising was that he didn’t want to ditch Eva and go home to eat. He wanted to keep their evening going.

      “Feel like some dinner?”

      “Love some.” She put a hand to her flat stomach, causing an avalanche of bracelets to crash at her wrist. “I’m ravenous.”

      “You like Middle Eastern food?”

      “Passionately!”

      “Okay then.” He liked that she answered with such...passion. He liked her enthusiasm for everything. It was easy in this town to become cynical, always in a hurry, to stop looking around and appreciating the small things. If nothing else came out of this bizarre forced date tonight, Eva had reminded him of that, and he was grateful.

      He let the way to Mamoun’s Falafel on MacDougal Street, a staggeringly popular place with minimal seating where he’d regularly stopped for late-night eats when he was a student at NYU. They bought falafel sandwiches with hummus and took them to eat on a bench in the park facing the small replica of Paris’s Arc de Triomphe.

      “Oh, m’gah.” Eva spoke through a bite of falafel. “These are ’mazing!”

      “Uh-huh.” He couldn’t think of another woman he knew who could talk with her mouth full and be somehow adorable.

      “This whole walk has been so much fun.”

      “For me, too.”

      “Oh, good!” She turned and grinned at him. “So you’ll ask me out again.”

      “What do you mean again?” He pretended to be mystified. “I didn’t ask you out this time. You asked me.”

      “Hmm, yeah, good point.” She looked perplexed for a second, then her expressive face cleared. “You can easily fix that by asking me out the first time and then again after that.”

      He snorted, getting used to her sense of humor. Enjoying it, in fact. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

      They finished their sandwiches, commenting on the scenery, discussing more of the Village streets she should explore on her next trip. A pair of NYU students passed them, backpacks on their shoulders, in earnest discussion. After them, a gay couple walking a terrier of some kind.

      “The energy here is really different from farther uptown.” Eva crumpled her sandwich paper.

      “Yeah?” He refrained from rolling his eyes. The energy? This was New York, there was nothing but energy here. Who cared what kind it was?

      “Funkier. Younger. More alternative. More like California.”

      He bristled, as any good New Yorker would. “Eva?”

      “Mmm?” She was watching a black-clad teenage couple making out. He liked the way her hummingbird clung intimately to the smooth skin of her neck.

      “Let me tell you something if you want to survive your time here. Other places are like New York. New York is not like other places. Especially California.”

      Eva turned to him, both eyebrows raised. He held her gaze, controlling any hint of a smile.

      “Well, then. Only one thing to do.” She leaned up and kissed him full on the mouth.

      His body froze. Her lips were soft and lingered longer than a brief peck, but not much.

      Then she sat back, took the last bite of her sandwich and crumpled the paper while he sat there like a dork loser with a half boner. “So what do you want to do now, Ames?”

      He stared at her. Who kissed someone for the first time then acted as if it hadn’t happened? How the heck did she keep catching him off balance like this? Just when he thought he’d reclaimed his terrain as Mr. Smooth?

      What was he supposed to do now? Mention the kiss? Try to explain that he wasn’t looking for any kind of relationship or romance right now (the phrase with someone like you didn’t need to enter into it)? He’d look like a dork—again—making a big I’m-still-a-virgin deal over an innocent peck. Or not innocent. Didn’t matter.

      But if he ignored it, he’d lose an opportunity to set her straight. In the meantime she’d asked him a question.

      “Uh. We could... There’s...um... I don’t know what...”

      Oh, good one, Ames. He wasn’t like this with women. Ever.

      Eva sprang to her feet and held out her hand. “Let’s find a place to have dessert. Or a beer. Or in your case, wine. How’s that?”

      He was surprised to find the idea appealing. “Okay, but on one condition.”

      “What’s that?”

      “No more kissing.”

      She looked astonished. “Why not?”

      “Because...we’re not the kissing... We aren’t...” He broke off in utter frustration. “We’re not supposed to be doing that.”

      Oh, God.

       Dork!

      “Ah.” She put her hands to her hips and stared down at him as if he had four heads. “I see. You are morally outraged.”

      “No, no, I’m not.

      “You didn’t like kissing me?”

      “No, that’s not it. I mean...” He wanted to drop his head into his hands.

      “Then...?”

      Ames stood abruptly. “Let’s get a drink. For God’s sake.”

      “What a great idea. Wish I’d thought of it.” She took his hand and swung it as they walked.

      He was too grouchy to spar with her further. Her hand felt soft and warm and good in his. It had been a long time since he’d strolled holding hands with a woman. His last girlfriend, Taylor, had objected to walking that way, said it made her feel as though she was his daughter. That was strange, but whatever. Everyone had something that bugged them. Before Taylor he’d dated Patricia, who wouldn’t go out on days she’d had her nails done. Before Patricia there’d been Ashley, who was so tenderhearted she couldn’t handle movies with