We didn’t talk much as we worked at our respective desks, sifting through boxes and setting things up. For lunch we stepped out, stopping at a vendor selling hot dogs from a stand on the corner. This took some persuasion on my part.

“You go to the one with the longest line,” I explained, patiently waiting my turn. “Don’t you ever watch the Food Network? See how there’s a huge wait for this one and only two people in line for the one across the street? The short-line hot dogs are probably made out of feral cat.”

He sighed, muttering something in his posh accent about how he’d probably be dead by the end of the day, and throwing a “You call these chips?” in there, too.

“How does your brother survive in a city with such meager offerings?” I teased.

“No idea.”

“What are you doing?” I asked, stopping him as he went to put some fancy vomit-colored mustard across the bun. It had seeds, for God’s sake.

He blinked at me, bottle held aloft over his hot dog like we weren’t even speaking the same language.

“You can’t put that on a street dog,” I told him. “There are rules about these things.”

“You enjoy your generic, artificially colored mustard,” he said, and I could practically see the air quotes suspended above his head, “and I’ll use mine.” Our new marriage could already use some counseling.

I moaned a lot while eating my dog, just to prove a point: it was way better than his.

He closed his eyes in suppressed amusement, shaking his head at me.

“You know,” I said after swallowing a giant bite, “if I didn’t occasionally catch you smiling in that little secret way you have, I might assume you were either the most disciplined emotional being on the planet, a Replicant, or Botoxed.”

“It’s Botox.” He took an enormous bite of his hot dog.

“I knew it,” I said. “You can barely hide your vanity.”

He choked-laughed, and reached to steal the napkin I had in my hand. “Too right.”

We returned to the office, but with the phone lines not working yet and the heat (I may at one point have complained that I was melting), nothing was really getting done. Meetings started the next day, we’d unpacked a few boxes of files, but we both seemed distracted—for different reasons, I’m sure—and by two that afternoon, he was already packing his things up to go.

Niall had plans he needed to look at and phone calls to make, all of which he could take care of in the hotel.

We walked back in silence, on the opposite side of the street from Radio City, but I could have sworn I saw his lips twitch the tiniest bit as we passed.

The next morning, I woke before my alarm clock, anxious to start the day and—you know, because I’m pathetic—walk to work with a certain someone. But there on my phone, next to a text from my brother and three from Lola, was one from that Someone: Take a car and go on without me. I’ve a few things to do and will be there later.

The hope inside my chest crumbled like a dry cracker. I replied that I’d see him there and then walked the few blocks instead of taking a car, choosing a different route and taking a few photos for my mom along the way. When I reached the office it was still sweltering, and I sent a silent prayer of thanks for the short sleeves I’d worn and that I’d been smart enough to ditch my Spanx. It wasn’t like there was anyone there I’d need to look marginally slimmer for, anyway.

It was boring as hell being there by myself, but the phones were working and I was finally able to get some work done, assure Tony that we were here and everything should be up and going soon, and meet a few of the other people sharing the offices with us. Niall showed up around noon, his arms full as he walked into the office.

He unloaded everything on his desk and chair, and I watched him with curious eyes.

“Morning,” he said, hanging his coat on a hook near the door. “Or, afternoon, rather. Still hot as Hades in here, I see.”

“I’ve called someone and they’ll be here to fix it tomorrow, but you’re lucky I kept my pants on.”

“Debatable,” he mumbled.

Or at least I thought he did.

“Pardon?”

He ignored this, putting a large shopping bag on his desk, and getting distracted by whatever he had inside. He wore his glasses, today. Good God. On anyone else, those particular frames—dark rims and a thin band of chrome slicing down the arms—would communicate a certain carefully crafted designer individuality. But I knew Niall Stella dressed impeccably because he bought the best and probably had a really picky, perfectionist tailor—not because he paid much attention to trends.