Chapter 18
BEN
“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…”
“I’m serious,” I say quietly. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. About those few days we spent together. About how easy it was to just…” I take a deep breath. I’m not sure she’s going to do well with the admission, but I might as well try. “Be.”
There’s a moment of vulnerability in her gaze, and it hits me square in the chest.
“Do you do this a lot?” she asks.
“Chase women across boroughs and stalk their workplaces? Not really my style, no,” I say with a grin, and that finally earns me a full laugh.
“God, you’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called worse, Sunshine.”
She studies me for a long moment. The sunlight’s fading, the glass buildings around us catching the pink of early evening. I can see the reflection of the streetlights starting to come on in her eyes. There’s apprehension there, just like the night I met her at the beach bar.
“Letting it be has never worked for me,” I say simply. “You said you wanted that big, bold, beautiful love, and I think maybe we found it—you just haven’t let yourself realize it yet.”
Her breath catches. “Ben—”
“And maybe I’m wrong,” I continue, trying not to sound desperate. “But I’d rather find out than keep trying to erase something that felt magical.”
She exhales slowly, eyes flicking to the street before coming back to me. “You really don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when something feels right.”
We stand there in silence, the city moving around us. Someone passes us while loudly talking to their phone screen and saying something about someone being roommates. There’s a honk in the distance just as the wind picks up and tugs at the loose strands of her hair.
Finally, she breaks into a small, resigned smile. “I have to run something back to the office, but I’ll be free in about two hours. I can meet you here.”
My chest loosens. “I’ll wait.”
“Of course you will,” she mutters, shaking her head.
“I’m very patient,” I call out as she starts walking towards the corner.
She looks back once, hand on her bag handle, and that smile—the one that wrecked me in the Caribbean—is back. “You’re really not.”
She disappears before I can come up with a response.
Two hours later, I’m still there. I ran to my office but couldn’t get any work done, so instead I scrolled on social media and rotted my brain until it was time to leave.
The temperature dropped, and my fingers have gone numb, but I wait. I walk up and down the block twice, buy overpriced coffee from the corner shop, check my reflection in a storefront window like an idiot.
When she rounds the corner again—coat buttoned, lipstick red— the quiet confidence in her stride that makes my knees feel unsteady.
“You waited,” she says, eyes flicking over me.
“I told you I would,” I reply. “And also I don’t have your number yet.”
She chuckles, then nods toward the corner. “There’s a place two blocks away. You like Italian?”
“I like anything with you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her mouth curves, slow and deliberate. “You better not be this cheesy all night.”
“No promises,” I say, grinning as we start walking.
The city hums around us—car lights streaking gold, voices spilling from open restaurant doors, snow melting in thin streams along the curb. And I feel like I’m moving toward something instead of away.