[Maverick’s POV]
The hotel lobby in New York is all marble floors and ambient lighting designed to make wealthy people feel at home. I've seen a hundred lobbies exactly like this one, which is why I notice immediately when something doesn't fit the aesthetic.
Floris, standing near the concierge desk, frowning at a tourist map like it's personally betrayed her.
She's turned the map sideways, then upside down, then sideways again. Her lips move as she mutters to herself—probably narrating her own confusion. She's wearing simple blue jeans and a soft sweater, hair down in soft waves.
Nothing like her crisp uniform and professional appearance at the flights.
And something about seeing her out of context makes my chest do inconvenient things.
I should walk past. Go to my suite. Review the contracts James sent over. Pretend I didn't see her standing there looking lost in a city that eats lost people for breakfast.
"Planning an expedition, Miss Blossom?" I find myself saying, crossing the lobby.
She jumps, nearly dropping the map. "Mr. Finley! I didn't… I was just… This map is defective and I'm convinced of it. Either that or New York has rearranged itself since this was printed, which honestly wouldn't surprise me. Cities are sneaky like that."
"Where are you trying to go?"
"Central Park. It seems simple enough, right? Big rectangle of green. Can't miss it. Except apparently I can miss it, because according to this…" she jabs at the map accusingly, "I should walk directly into the Hudson River."
I glance at the map and she's… holding it upside down. I don't mention this, because watching her wage war against cartography is oddly entertaining.
"I have a meeting in that direction," I hear myself say. "I can walk with you."
The meeting is a lie. There is no meeting.
I don't examine why I told it either.
"Really?" Her face lights up like I've offered her something precious. "You don't mind? I know you're busy with important billionaire things—mergers and acquisitions and whatever else billionaires do on Saturdays."
"Mostly we count our tones of money and practice looking intimidating in mirrors," I say flatly. "The meeting can wait."
She laughs, bright and startled, and falls into step beside me as we push through the revolving doors onto Fifth Avenue.
The city hits us immediately—noise, motion, and the particular chaos of Manhattan. She talks constantly as we walk. About the architecture, about hot dog vendors and their potential turf wars, about a pigeon that she swears gave her a dirty look.
"That pigeon was personally offended by tourists," she insists. "I saw it in his eyes. He's seen things, Mr. Finley. That pigeon has stories."
“Maverick,” I hear myself say.
She looks up, pink flush on her cheeks, deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes. “What?”
“Call me Maverick.” I clarify without even knowing why I’m doing that. But we have an arrangement to fulfill, so… “We’re supposed to be believable.”
“Oh! Right-right, of course… Yeah, sure. Maverick,” she repeats, and my name on her tongue sounds like the sweetest sound.
I make a noncommittal sound that might be an agreement. She continues theorizing about pigeons while I find myself actually listening. Actually wondering what it would be like to see the world through her eyes—everything new, everything interesting.
Then she nearly steps into traffic.
My hand shoots out before conscious thought, landing on top of her head again and steering her sideways to safety. A cab blares past, close enough that I feel the displaced air. Her hair is soft beneath my palm—even softer than the last time, I think.
I notice, and I'm annoyed that I notice.
"Oh my God." She presses a hand to her chest. "That was… thank you. I didn't even see it coming."
"Clearly." I release her, but my palm retains the warmth.
We keep walking and she resumes her commentary. Slightly more subdued, and I find myself watching for any possible threats now—the thousand small dangers she seems magnificently oblivious to.
My hand finds the top of her head again when a delivery bike nearly clips her.
And again near a crowded intersection, guiding her through the chaos.
Each time, I tell myself it's practical.
She's a liability. I'm protecting an investment. But somewhere beneath the justification, I know the truth: this is my apology.
For the weeks of coldness. For making her invisible. For setting the temperature that left her freezing. I can't say it aloud, I've never been good with words that matter, but at least I can keep that incredibly beautiful and oblivious woman safe.
Wait. Since when I…
"What time is your meeting?" she asks suddenly as we near the park, dragging me out of my thoughts.
I check my phone—an elaborate performance of scrolling through a calendar I'm not actually reading. "Huh. Cancelled."
"Really?" She brightens immediately, practically bouncing. "That's perfect! I mean… not perfect for your business things, sorry about that, but perfect for… Are you hungry? Please say yes. I found this place online, a dumpling restaurant that's supposedly incredible, very authentic, probably a health code violation but in a charming way—"
"I could eat."
She grabs my wrist without thinking—actually grabs it, like we're friends, like touching me is natural—and tugs me toward a side street. "This way. I memorized the route. Mostly. Seventy percent confident."
Her fingers are warm and small and I shouldn’t mention that or think about squeezing it tighter, I should pull away and keep appropriate distance.
I don't.
The dumpling place is a hole-in-the-wall establishment that my grandfather would call "concerning." The tables are cramped, the lighting questionable, and the menu is handwritten in three languages, none of them entirely legible.
But Floris looks happier than I've ever seen her.
She practically vibrates as she scans the menu, freckled nose scrunched in concentration, full heartshaped lips moving silently as she tries to pronounce dishes she's never heard of.
When the server brings out a bamboo steamer, she gasps—actually gasps—like she's witnessed a miracle instead of pork dumplings.
"Look at them," she breathes. "They're perfect. Little pleated presents."
Something dangerous shifts in my chest and suddenly I want to keep making her react like this. I want to memorize every expression, catalog every delighted sound she makes.
I also want to leave. Immediately. Before this becomes something I can't control.
"Okay," she announces, staring at her chopsticks with fierce determination. "I've got this. It's just physics, leverage and grip strength."
She attempts to pick up a dumpling, but it does not cooperate. The dumpling squirts sideways, bounces off the edge of her bowl, and lands on the table with a sad little splat.
Something escapes my throat—a sound that might be a laugh if I were the kind of person who laughed at dumpling-related failures. Which I'm not. Obviously.
Her eyes narrow. "Are you laughing at me?"
"I don't laugh, Miss Blossom. It would ruin my reputation."
"You're definitely laughing, I can see it in your eyes. They're doing a sparkly thing!"
"My eyes don't sparkle. They intimidate only."
"They're sparkling right now!" She points at my face with her chopsticks and smiles so brightly, that my focus suddenly is on that small dimple on her soft flushed cheek.
Then she tries again, tongue poking out in concentration, and fails even more spectacularly. The dumpling launches itself toward my side of the table like it's making a desperate bid for freedom.
I reach over without thinking and adjust her grip, repositioning her fingers around the chopsticks. "Here. Like this. Less death grip, more gentle pressure."
Her hand goes still beneath mine. The restaurant noise fades—clatter of dishes, hum of conversation, all of it suddenly distant. I'm aware of exactly how small her fingers are, how warm and soft her skin feels beneath my fingertips.
How close we're sitting, how small the distance between us.
I pull back too quickly and she blinks, clears her throat, and tries again. This time, the dumpling makes it halfway to her mouth before escaping, which she counts as victory.
After the dumplings are consumed without much damage from the chopsticks on both of us, we leave for the hotel. The walk back takes less than it should. Or less than I want it to. But that’s a dangerous thought.
Or maybe time just moves differently when she's filling the silence with observations. She starts drifting toward a lamppost, lost in a theory about subway buskers, and my hand finds her head again.
She laughs—a real laugh, warm and unselfconscious. "Am I really that bad? Do I need a full-time handler?"
"You're a liability," I tell her. "A walking insurance claim waiting to happen."
"But you keep saving me, Maverick." Her voice is light, teasing, but something in her tone makes my chest tight. "That's becoming a pattern. But not the bad one, though."
My hand falls away from her head, and the absence feels wrong. Like I've lost something I didn't know I was holding.
By the time we reach the hotel, I realize that hours have passed without me noticing. The lobby feels too bright after the golden afternoon light, too polished after sidewalk grime and authentic grease stains.
"Thank you," she says softly. "For the navigation. And the dumplings. And the not letting me become a New York City traffic statistic."
"Don't mention it."
She smiles, that full-wattage smile that makes the lobby chandelier look dim, and disappears toward the elevator.
I watch her go, hand still warm, chest still tight, and realize with perfect clarity that I'm in trouble.