Page 36 of Fifth Avenue Flirt

“You think they’ll find the cat a home?” she asks from beside me in the car. Her arms are folded, and she’s staring straight ahead at the back of the driver’s head.

“I’m sure they will.”

“If that were my cat, I would definitely have it microchipped.”

“Maybe it’s an indoor cat. The owner probably thought it wouldn’t ever escape.”

“Well, the owner was wrong,” she snaps. “They should have taken better care of her.”

“They said we can check back to make sure she’s claimed,” I say, trying to be reassuring. I’m learning that when Avril’s upset, it can quickly turn to anger. I’ve stuck that in my growing mental file all about Avril Huntington.

“Maybe I need to work off some frustration. Can I start weight lifting at your gym?” she asks.

“Change of plans,” I say, glancing at my watch. “We’re not going to the gym. If we go now, it will be packed.”

She wrinkles up her nose. “I’m sorry. I got us off track.” She glances over at me, and her gaze sweeps down my body like I’m withering in front of her and by the end of the day, without my Saturday gym attendance, I’ll be a seven-stone weakling. She can’t hide a thing in her expression.

“It’s fine. There’s a gym in my building if I want to go later. I thought you’d prefer the one I go to with Deacon.” I try and keep my gaze straight ahead, but every time I glance at her, my stomach lurches. She just looks so hot in her gym gear. I’ve seen this girl entirely naked, had my hands on every part of her, but now, covered in skintight Lycra, she looks absolutely delectable.

“How come we’re headed uptown?” she asks, without any kind of idea how good she looks. “We’re not going back to your apartment?”

I shake my head. “I’m covered in cat hair. I need a chance to get it off.”

She glances down to my crotch, where the cat was sitting, and then lifts her chin and meets my gaze, her cheeks turning a delicate crimson. “I wasn’t staring at your crotch,” she says.

“Hmm, I think you were.”

“To look for the cat hair,” she explains.

“That old excuse.”

She tamps down a smile and shakes her head.

When we pull up outside Grand Central Station, I pull the paper and pencils out of my gym bag and guide us both out of the car and into the station.

“Are we going on a trip?” she asks.

“I didn’t tell you? We’re going to Toronto.”

Panic sheets her face and she starts to splutter.

“I’m kidding. This is one of my favorite places in New York City. I thought we’d hang out for a bit.”

She purses her lips. “I saw your photographs in the hall.”

I scoop up her hand and pull her inside.

It’s not as busy as it can be on a Saturday morning, and I lead us over to the circular information desk, right in the middle of the main concourse. There’s a small ledge running all the way around, which we can balance our paper on and write.

“Are we waiting for something?” she asks. “A train maybe?”

I pull out the paper and pencil, along with the triangular folded parcels that I’ve already prepared.

“You’re going to write down questions you want to know about me.”

“I am?” she asks.

I nod. “These are mine,” I say, gathering the small triangles of paper.