room, then turned to Maribel with a wink. “You’re absolutely right. Let’s
go get some fresh air.”
*
* * *
Hot dogs. Fully loaded hot dogs. Now, this was perfect.
Miles glanced down at Maribel, who thought it was
perfect, too. They both indulged in the steamy, juicy hot dogs while gazing
upon in the ice skaters in outdoor rink in Millennium Park.
Maribel took another gluttonous bite. A mixture of
ketchup and mustard dotted the tip of her nose. Miles reached out with his
napkin and swiped it off with a smile.
“Slow down, or I might have to buy you a second
one.”
Miles was used to dining with women who ate like
birds and pretended they could barely eat dessert. But not Maribel. She
consumed her hot dog without apology and smiled wide when he suggested they go
for seconds.
“It’s just so delicious.”
“Better than octopus cooked in their own ink?”
“Please, don’t remind me.”
Miles laughed. Sassy when relaxed and well-fed ,
he thought. He could live with that.
“I have a confession to make…”
“Another one?” she eyed him.
“Yes, a zinger this time,” he quipped. “This is usually
where I come to eat my lunch during the week.”
He turned around and leaned against the rink’s
railing, taking in the full view of the city and its skyline. “That’s my apartment
over there,” he nodded. “I usually work from home in the mornings, then come
down here for a quick lunch break before heading over to the office.”
Maribel followed his gaze to the top of each
building. “It must be exhausting, living life at the top all the time.” She
chomped down on her hot dog. Ketchup smeared her cheek.
Miles fell silent. Herperceptive
comments disarmed him. It was exhausting . Isolating and exhausting .
He gazed at Maribel with her ketchup smudge and black earmuffs, and realized
she was the first person with whom he felt comfortable confiding in. “Yes, it
can be. That’s why I make sure to come down to the street every day,” he
acknowledged, wiping her cheek with his napkin, “to keep everything in
perspective.”
He watched as she finished her hot dog, and dodged
his playful advance to wipe her face again. She wiped it herself, then turned
back to watch the skaters, circling the rink with their brown rental skates and
wobbly, imperfect balance.
“I think that everyone is living their own private
lives of pain and isolation, you know? And we’re all trying to find ways to
come together to enjoy ourselves—if only for brief fleeting moments. Then, we
wake up the next day and struggle to do it all over again.”
Pensive, Miles chewed on his hot dog and studied
her. Her cheeks blushed from the cold air, and condensation escaped from her
lips when she spoke. She possessed such sophistication and maturity
for her age , he thought, and she was so authentic, inside and out . It
made him want to stare at her without restraint, waiting to discover a new
angle that would charm him even more. He already knew she had the ability to
be down-right sexy—images of her in high heels and fish nets in the lingerie
department had been permanently seared in his head. But he wasn’t prepared for
her to be so genuine, and their connection to be so intimate.
“Thank you for coming down here to meet me,” he
suddenly said. “I mean it.”
Something in his voice caught her attention, and she
flushed red. “Now, I’m the one who has a confession to make…” she slowly said.
“Shoot.”
“I’m very grateful that you invited me. It’s been
years— years ,” she stressed, less to him and more to herself, “that I’ve
spent my Valentine’s Day with anyone other than Keats and Tolstoy.”
“ War and Peace , really?” he flashed a smile.
“I much prefer Stephen King.”
“On Valentine’s Day?” she truly seemed horrified.
He laughed and grabbed her hand. He towed her towards him, but resisted the
urge to kiss her and