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sweet.
    It took a few moments for her heartbeat not to thunderin her ears. For the world not to sparkle in the corner of her eyes.
    “Wow,” he breathed.
    She laughed, lifting boneless arms to wrap them around his neck.
    “Yeah, wow.”
    After a long, delicious moment he shifted to the side to take care of the messy reality of the condom, and she began the slightly excruciating process of getting up and getting dressed and getting gone. But he stopped her with an arm around her waist, pulling her back into the muscular curve of his body.
    “Stay,” he breathed, and she could sense him starting to drift away on sleep. So she turned around, facing him, running fingers through his pretty blond hair with the slight curl. She touched his cheek, tickling him until the dimple made an appearance and his eyelids fluttered open.
    “Hi,” she breathed.
    “Tell me another story,” he breathed, shifting against the sheets, burrowing into the bed. “About your entrepreneurial sister. And your brother who would tear down the world for you.”
    “Why?” She laughed.
    “It sounds nice.” He yawned so hard his jaw popped. “Sounds like a nice way to grow up.”
    “It was,” she whispered. “How did you grow up?”
    “In a bowl. Without air,” he whispered, but before she could ask him what he meant, he gave way to dreams.
    Just a few more minutes , she thought, and closed her eyes to better enjoy the astronomical thread count and his strong arms and the rare illusion of care.

Chapter 3
    She woke to a room thick with shadow. Alone. The white duvet pulled up to her chin. Her boots were gone—he must have taken them off her sometime in the night, because she didn’t remember doing that. She stretched her toes in the soft, sleep-warm sheets.
    Dawn , she thought, and listened for the sound of the shower, or of Harry quietly getting ready for the trip to find the man who would get his sister out of trouble. But then she realized the sunlight coming in under the blackout shades on the window was knife bright and she rolled over to see the clock on the bedside table.
    Nine thirty.
    Beyond the table, the closet was open and empty. The bathroom was dark. The sink counter empty of toiletries. Next to the TV were her bag and her clothes, folded and stacked.
    Harry was gone.
    The slice of pain was embarrassing and awful. And totally unexpected.
    She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest, trying to staunch the slow bleed of startling emotion.
    It was a hookup at a bar. You can’t go falling in infatuation just because he was sad and provided expert cunnilingus .
    Though the truth was she’d fallen in love for far worse reasons before.
    But there was a flash of white paper on top of her clothing, and she flushed with a sort of seventh-grade thrill.
    A note!
    She managed not to leap out of bed like the woman in a rom-com movie, but she couldn’t stop the hard chug of her heart as she picked up the note, the dark scrawl of his handwriting not quite legible in the shadowy room.
    She flicked on the light and sat down on the foot of the bed.
    Ryan Kaminski . His handwriting was like the way he moved—no flourishes, but graceful in its economy. I watched you for a few moments before leaving, debating whether to wake you up. But in the end I decided to let you sleep, because you are simply lovely and while sleeping you are only more so. Also I was in no great hurry to start a conversation about why I cannot see you again, or call you. Why anything more than this amazing night between us would be an impossibility. I arranged a late checkout, and breakfast will be arriving around ten. I hope you can stay to enjoy it .
    Thank you .
    Harry
    That had to be one of the most lovely kiss-off letters she’d ever seen. Really quite masterful.
    Her stomach full of a weird kind of regret and morning-after melancholy, she made a quick call down to the front desk to cancel the breakfast. She would shower at home; the #7 train to Sunnyside would