“Let me be in charge of dinner,” Gabriel said, linking his fingers with hers as the A train swayed and bumped them through the 81^st Street station without stopping. They were standing, as the seats had all been full when they boarded, and Lily was rather enjoying hanging onto the overhead bar with him, feeling his body nudge hers from time to time with the motion of the subway car. Every contact gave her a little zing, and because he didn’t seem to be aware of it she loved it all the more—loved the way her every molecule sat up and took notice when he was near, even when he genuinely wasn’t trying.

She looked up at him and smiled. “Tired of being a poor person already?” she asked.

He smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made her whole body flush, and shook his head. “No, I could quite enjoy being poor with you. But it occurs to me if we get off at Columbus Circle, there’s a restaurant I’d love to show you only a few blocks away.”

“I’m not really dressed for—”

“You look gorgeous no matter what you’re wearing, and it’s not formal,” he said. “Plus they know me there. Marigold, on 54^th.”

“I’m not dressed for Marigold,” she said. “NYC Monthly did a spread on them last month, and I saw the prices on the menu.”

“You’re not paying, and you’re dressed perfectly fine,” he said. “Would I take you somewhere you would be embarrassed?”

There was a woman clinging to the overhead bar beside them, a black woman maybe five years older than Lily, who had been killing time with a thin paperback romance novel since she got on at Amsterdam. She sighed a little, looked up from her book, and nudged Lily with her elbow. “Look, lady, if you don’t want to go have a fancy dinner with him, I’ll go in your place—and you can go home and make hot dogs for my kids, seeing as that’s all they’ll eat. Sound like a plan?”

Lily stifled a giggle and shook her head. “I’m sorry, no,” she said, solemnly. “I think I’m gonna keep him.”

The woman nodded, looked resigned. “I figured,” she said, and went back to reading her book.

They came up from underground at Columbus Circle and turned to head down Broadway, still holding hands. Gabriel was quiet, perhaps lost in thought, and she was content to watch the people stream by, wondering as she always did where they were going, what they were doing. This four- or five-block stretch of Broadway had a branch of every bank in the known world, or so it seemed, plus hundreds of office buildings, so a lot of the people streaming by were in business suits of varying degrees of severity. But mixed in with the expected were flashes of the unexpected: a boy and girl, maybe sixteen, dressed in artfully ripped head-to-toe black, looking into each other’s eyes and grinning the idiot grins of teenagers in love; an old, old woman, paper-thin and wearing a baggy housedress, walking—or perhaps being walked by—an enormous barrel-chested bulldog in a pink collar; an honest-to-goodness clown in full costume and face paint, headed who knew where, smoking a cigarette and ignoring everyone around him, even as he was repeatedly hailed by passers-by.

“I love this city,” she said.

“Even though it suffocates you?” he asked.

“Even though,” she answered.

He smiled down at her, brushed the ends of her hair back behind her shoulders and ran his fingers across her collarbone. “You’re a woman of contradictions,” he said, and leaned down to take her mouth in a scorching kiss, right there in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Get a room,” snarled a banker-type trying to get past them, and Lily broke out in giggles.

“Still love the city?” Gabriel asked.

“You bet I do,” she said.

Marigold, which was currently riding high on a gimmick of serving everything with edible flowers, was very low-key on the inside, which she had seen in the NYC Monthly spread. She hadn’t been prepared for the sprightly music, though, or the cheerful demeanor of the wait staff. Manhattan waiters ran the gamut from surly to coldly competent; they were not, generally, what she’d have called nice.

But the waiter who greeted them and walked her through the selections on and off menu was downright friendly. And he knew his business, suggesting an amuse-bouche of meltingly tender steak tartare sprinkled with peppery mustard flowers, and a cheese course consisting of a single pristine smear of goat cheese adorned with sweet pea shoots, served with brittle but piping-hot crostini.

“He decanted the champagne,” she whispered across the table, when he’d served their cheese course and not-so-bubbly champagne.

Gabriel smiled. “Taste it, and you’ll see why,” he said, “It’s a young vintage, and will benefit from trading some of its liveliness for extra expression.”

A week ago, she’d have thought him hopelessly pretentious. Now, she knew when he said stuff like that he actually knew what he was talking about, so she did as he said and had a taste. Having been allowed to lose a bit of its fizz, the wine had opened up a bit, developed an interesting, earthy sort of note she wouldn’t have expected to get from a champagne.

And when she followed it with a bit of that goat cheese, it was sublime.

She could feel Gabriel watching her intently as she ate, which was a little weird, but if he wanted to see her eat she was happy to oblige him. When her halibut was set in front of her, garnished with nasturtium blossoms and wild radish flowers, she was extra happy to oblige him, and had to remind herself to put her fork down between bites before she embarrassed herself by just shoveling everything in as fast as possible.

Apparently, putting her fork down didn’t fool Gabriel. “If you don’t slow down,” he said, “I believe you might eat the pattern right off the china.”

She sat back, surprised he would say something like that to her, and trying not to let it show on her face.

From the immediate look of regret on his, she could tell she’d been unsuccessful.

“Please don’t blush,” he said, and laid his hand on hers. “I’m sorry I said anything. I hate it when women order three pieces of lettuce with no dressing and pick at them. I only mention it because there’s still dessert to come.”

“Oh,” she said, and smiled at him. “I don’t think I can make any room for dessert, to be honest. I just about did eat the pattern off.”

“You’ll make room,” he said. “There’s a rice pudding that has to be eaten to be believed.”

“Rice pudding?” she said. “I can get rice pudding at home, from my mom.”

“Not like this,” he said, and gestured to the waiter, ordered the pudding.

It arrived chilled and silken, smelling like a wedding bouquet. She took a long sniff when it was set in front of her, then looked up at the waiter. “Roses?”

“Indeed,” the waiter said. “A splash of rose water, just before serving, folded in just slightly, but not stirred.”

“I’ve had something like it,” she said, “at an Indian restaurant.”

He nodded. “The Indian version is made with pistachios, and cardamom. Ours is nothing but the cream, rice, and sugar, cooked, then pressed through a sieve, then the rose water. Taste it.”

She complied, spooning up a small bite and letting it melt on her tongue. “Oh, my,” she said.

“Indeed,” the waiter said again, and smiled.