Chapter 6
BIX
Sam opens the door for me, and we step out into the warm night air, jasmine heavy on the breeze.
A gentleman. I guessed as much.
But as I turn to thank him, a sudden flash nearly blinds me. “What the—” I blink rapidly, trying to clear the spots from my vision.
A man with a professional-looking camera darts across the street. He disappears around a corner before I can process what happened.
“Did he just take our picture?” I ask Sam, bewildered.
Sam’s expression darkens briefly before smoothing into something more casual. “Yeah. New York is crazy that way. Photographers lurk around hoping to catch someone worth selling to the tabloids.”
“But we’re nobody,” I say, shaking my head.
“Speak for yourself,” he jokes, but there’s tension beneath his smile. “Sometimes it’s just about catching attractive people coming out of odd spots. “
I frown, not entirely convinced. “That’s weird.”
“That’s New York,” Sam says with a shrug. “Forget about it. We have more interesting things to talk about.”
Above us, a full moon bathes the city in silver light, transforming ordinary streets into something magical.
Sam’s fingers occasionally brush mine as we walk side by side. Each contact sends electric tingles across my skin.
As the neighborhood grows more polished, the Mandarin Oriental rises before us, seventy stories of gleaming glass and light dominating the skyline.
“Gorgeous hotel,” I say, taking in the dramatic entrance with its black marble and subtle lighting.
“Wait till you see the view from the bar,” he adds with that easy smile that makes my stomach flutter.
Two doormen snap to attention as we approach. “Evening, Mr. Slater.”
“Hey, guys,” Sam responds, casual but kind. They swing the heavy doors open in perfect unison like we’re royalty entering a palace.
The lobby takes my breath away—soaring ceilings, fresh flowers, everything sparkling. Total glamor.
The concierge looks up. “Welcome home, Mr. Slater. Room service this evening?”
“We’re heading to the bar, actually.”
“I’m afraid it closed thirty minutes ago, sir.”
Sam turns to me, apologetic. “Ahh…I lost track of time. But I have an excellent wine collection in my apartment, if you’d like.”
My eyes widen. “Your apartment?”
“I live here,” he explains. “The top floors are residences.”
I should hesitate. Should probably say goodnight. But I’ve watched three different hotel employees greet him like family,
And there’s something about the way he’s letting me choose, not pushing, just offering... “One drink,” I say, and his smile makes my heart skip.
The private elevator rises silently, all mirrors and brass. Sam stands just far enough away to be polite, Yet I’m acutely aware of his presence, his cologne reminiscent of leather and something woodsy.
“Seventieth floor,” he says as the doors open to a hushed hallway. “Welcome to the quiet part of Manhattan.”
He unlocks his door, and my first thought is sky. His home is endless sky through walls of glass. The lights of the city spread below us like fallen stars.
“This place must cost millions!” I blurt before I can stop myself.
“Something like that,” he says with a slight shrug, as if the cost is irrelevant.
I study him more closely. He’s definitely not some random businessman. Sam’s casual confidence around luxury suggests old money, but there’s an edge to him.
Something rebellious that doesn’t fit the trust-fund stereotype.
“May I take your wrap?” He gestures to my light cardigan.
I let him slide it from my shoulders, shivering pleasantly as his warm fingers brush my skin.
“The view,” I manage. “It’s incredible.”
“Come see it up close.”
He leads me to the windows. “There’s Times Square, and over there, Madison Square Garden.”
I step closer to the glass, my reflection ghosting against the cityscape. “It’s like having all of New York in your living room.”
“Would you like a drink? I have Champagne I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”
“That sounds great.” I turn from the windows, taking in the rest of the space. White leather and crystal chandeliers, minimalist but somehow warm.
A wall of wine bottles glimmers behind glass panels, looking more like an art installation than storage.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to a sleek white sofa, then moves to the wine wall.
“I’d rather look at your wine collection,” I say, joining him instead. “Tell me about these bottles.”
“Every one has a story,” he says, his fingers trailing along the glass. He selects a Champagne and works the cork free with quiet expertise.
I notice his hands, strong but elegant, with calluses that seem out of place for someone who lives in such luxury. “You really know what you’re doing.”
“Spent a few summers bartending,” he says, pouring two flutes of Champagne that catch the light like liquid gold. “Best education I ever got.”
“Bartending? With all this...” I gesture around the apartment.
“My rebellion phase. Dad wanted me at the law firm, Mom wanted me at Connecticut country club functions, but I wanted something real.”
His smile turns wry. “Turns out people tell bartenders everything. Better than therapy.”
I can picture it. A younger Sam, bristling against wealth’s expectations, finding freedom in pouring drinks for strangers.
It explains the contradiction I sense in him—his comfort with luxury but his resistance to its conformity.
He hands me a flute. “Happy birthday to you and Hilary. I should order a cake...”
“No, please. Had cake with my roommates earlier. This Champagne is more than enough.”
“Did you make a wish?”
“Yes. But that’s private.” I blush, remembering Zaza’s teasing about my birthday man. Interesting to think she might have been right.
Sam’s eyes darken slightly, and the air between us feels charged. “Tell me more about yourself,” he says. “At the noodle shop you mentioned San Diego.”
I nod. “After her divorce Mom remarried a military man when we were ten. Suddenly we had a new dad, new rules, and new bases every year.”
I pause, wondering why I’m telling him this. “But what about you? What do you do to afford all this?”
He shrugs playfully. “Just your average drug dealer.”
“That thought crossed my mind. But then I was thinking actor. You’re certainly attractive enough.”
Before he can answer, his phone rings. He checks the screen and frowns slightly. “Sorry, I have to take this. Back in a minute.”
He steps through a door, closing it behind him.
Well, look at me, I think to myself. Having noodles with a stranger at 2 am, going home with him—an interesting way to start my 21st year.
I take out my red notebook and jot this down—after all, the most insignificant of notations could turn into the lyric of a hit song.
Back when Hilary and I had an act, audiences loved it when we’d read from our diaries, or even from the day’s newspaper, and turn it into a song.
I step away from the window to explore. The apartment feels vast and pristine, like an art gallery more than a home.
Champagne in hand, I wander the apartment and discover a small alcove tucked away behind the main living area.
A sleek bookcase filled with ancient-looking leather volumes contrasts with the surrounding white modernism.
Beside the books stand black beeswax candles in antique silver holders, their surfaces rippled from previous use.
I step closer, drawn by the rich bindings. My fingers trace leather-bound spines with gilt titles on alchemy, sacred geometry, Renaissance mysticism, and Carl Jung.
Intrigued, I note a few of the titles in my notebook.