On the day of the gala, Brad puts on his best slacks and carries his Hugo Boss jacket into work, still wrapped in the cling film bag from the dry cleaner. He puts on his leather jacket as usual for the commute and tries to ignore the raised eyebrows as he hangs the suit jacket onto the back of the door in the incidence room.

He gets to the Bowery Hotel well ahead of time. ‘Arrivals’, whatever that is, aren’t scheduled to start until eight p.m., but Brad figures that if he arrives well before everyone else it’ll be easier to go undetected. He’ll have the chance to observe the other people and get an idea about what this crowd is like. That this feels more like preparing for a stake-out than a date does nothing to improve his mood.

It’s just past seven-thirty when he walks up to the hotel, feeling disoriented before he even reaches the entrance. A small army of photographers have set up camp either side of the door, and the racket and commotion are considerable. A bright red carpet is laid out across the sidewalk, and curious tourists clog up the little bit of space that’s left right by the curb. Brad squeezes past a large group of Germans, and before the paparazzi have time to train a lens on him he strides up to the door. At least two other guests had the same idea as him of beating the crowd and already stand before a security guard holding a clipboard. The man is at least six feet tall, and he scans his board with a scowl. Finally, he finds the two arrivals on his list and steps aside. The two women, both wearing skimpy dresses, totter into the lobby on their high-heeled shoes.

It's Brad’s turn with the security guard. “Name?” the man growls.

“Brad Moretti,” Brad says, feeling hot in his suit jacket. Only a few minutes ago the jacket had been barely enough to hold off the evening chill. Now, Brad can feel beads of sweat running down his spine.

The guard appraises him with narrowed eyes for a moment. It does nothing to help Brad feel like he belongs here. Finally, the man looks down his list, and after a moment gives a low grunt. With a squaring of his shoulders, he steps aside. Brad edges past the man and wonders belatedly whether he should whip out his shield, just to give the guy a little shock for his troubles.

Inside the lobby, Brad looks around. Nothing about the nondescript exterior of the hotel has prepared him for this. The lobby is high and softly lit by chandeliers hanging from the wooden ceiling. Sofas and armchairs covered in velvety fabric are arranged around a large fireplace, and expensive rugs cover the floor. The atmosphere is more that of a colonial residence in India than a hotel lobby in the middle of the Lower East Side.

Brad scans the room. There must be a bar here somewhere, but he can’t see it. He stops someone wearing what he hopes is a hotel uniform. “Is there somewhere I can get a drink?” he asks.

The hotel employee smiles. “Why don’t you take a seat?” He indicates the squashy seats by the fireplace. “What would you like?”

“Can I have a Budweiser, please?”

The man nods and smiles again, and departs down the lobby. Brad sits in a leather armchair a little off to the side rather than right by the fireplace. From here, he can see the entrance, and most of the lobby.

Not many people have arrived yet, and the numbers milling about don’t increase much over the next ten minutes. Most newcomers walk right past Brad and disappear down a corridor. Brad gathers that the gala dinner must be happening down that way somewhere, and that there are free drinks on arrival, or else more people would stop to start with a drink from the bar. Brad has figured out where that is now, too. The waiter emerges from between a pair of velvet curtains at the other end of the lobby with his Bud.

Unfortunately, the beer does nothing to settle Brad’s nerves. As he sits in his corner, he feels out of place in the plushy surroundings. This is not his kind of hotel; he knew that before he set foot in it, but seeing the parade of expensive evening gowns and hairstyles that probably cost a junior cop’s salary to maintain makes him more and more apprehensive about being seen with Damien, never mind being considered his official date.

Yet the thought of seeing Damien again also gives Brad a strange fluttery sensation in his stomach. Maybe he can put up with the glitz, and the scrutiny, if that means he can have that gorgeous, sweet man by his side regularly.

At last, Brad spots Damien’s dark curls in the middle of a group that just arriving outside the hotel. The paparazzi’s flashlights go wild for a minute, and then Damien steps past the security guard, who laughs at something Damien says. Brad peels himself out of the deep armchair and makes his way toward Damien and his entourage, his stomach flip-flopping with nerves.

“Hey,” he says, stopping before the group surrounding Damien.

Damien looks up, and their eyes meet. The moment Brad sees the expression on Damien’s face he knows that something is wrong. And he doesn’t have long to wait to find out what that something is.

From behind the people at the back of the group steps Vivienne, looking splendid in a flowing dress of a soft bottle-green fabric.

“Detective,” she says, surprised. She raises an eyebrow and turns to Damien, but still addressing Brad. “What are you doing here?”

Before Brad can speak, Damien says, “I invited him.” His gray eyes are on Brad. He looks miserable and a little alarmed. “As a thank you, for staying with me when I was ill.” His voice is kind of flat, like he’s annoyed with Brad. Brad’s hackles rise, but before he can say anything Vivienne speaks.

“Oh, of course.” She smiles a sweet smile that Brad finds unconvincing. “That was very nice of you, Detective. Now,” she adds, turning from Brad and taking Damien’s arm, “shall we go upstairs? I really need a drink.”

The whole group takes this as the cue to move on as one, and Brad is left standing, watching the smartly dressed men and women march past him. For a moment, Damien’s deep gray eyes meet his, and Brad is sure the other man will speak. But something, maybe Brad’s expression, stops him. Is that a blush Brad notices creeping up Damien’s face? He isn’t sure, and then the group sweeps Damien into the corridor leading to the gala room.

Brad keeps his eyes on Damien’s back until he and his entourage disappear from view. Nobody looks back at him.

For a minute, he just stands, not moving so his disappointment and rage have no chance to bubble up. People mill around him, but he’s hardly aware of it. Only when a tall, burly man bumps into him hard does Brad look up.

“Sorry, man,” the guy says, hands raised. Brad thinks he knows him from some TV show or another. He forces a nod.

“No harm done,” he croaks and turns toward the doors.

It takes him a while to navigate the torrent of people now arriving through the narrow entrance. When he finally regains the pavement, he stops off to one side and takes a deep breath. The air is crisp and fresh, and, contemplating the road choked with evening traffic, Brad pushes his hands deep into his pockets and sets off at a brisk pace.

He’ll walk until he’s too numb from the cold, then he’ll take the subway.

Maybe.