It got so much worse.

The next morning, a note on the counter informed us that Andrew and Laura had already left because Andrew had been called in for a work emergency. With Marianne having her best friend over for their traditional Black Friday date, John was taking me into the city.

I had had to promise him we weren't going to go into Macy's or any of the other big department stores. I had vowed I wasn't there to shop. I had never been to New York City and was thrilled to walk the streets of the Big Apple and to get a stiff neck from craning it to take in all of Manhattan. It was no big deal to John, of course. He'd been to the city countless times, had maps with his favorite pizza joints saved on his phone and all.

I didn't know what he had in mind for us, but I had all but bounced down the stairs at 7:45, seemingly the first one up, and started scrambling eggs and toasting bread to make myself useful. A few minutes in, thumps came down the stairs, consistent with someone who had heavy footsteps but was trying to be quiet. I looked over my shoulder when John entered the kitchen, wearing only a gray V-neck t-shirt and a pair of white basketball shorts. My heart beat a little faster as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair. He wasn't even trying, yet looked arresting. Snap out of it, Grace!

John squinted against the tentative rays of sunshine through the window pane. "Good morning." His voice was husky from sleep. "Thank you for making breakfast. Smells great."

My breath hitched in my throat when he approached me and came to a halt less than a foot behind me. Suddenly holding a spatula was a challenge. Or maybe the challenge was to not let myself melt into him.

"And thank you for the note." His whisper was so low, almost inaudible, that I wasn't sure if I had really heard it. Eventually, I settled for turning my head and sending him a smile. I shouldn't have. The intimacy of his gaze made me want to throw myself at him. But I couldn't. Wouldn't. Didn't want to. Obviously. I had a boyfriend.

Then his lips twisted into a grin.

"What?" My face fell.

"Have you looked into a mirror lately? Your hair's a little..."

I cringed. "Damn it. It's a bird's nest, isn't it?" I had planned to brush my hair before coming downstairs and had then forgotten. How could I have forgotten?

He could barely hold back the laughter. "I'm just teasing you."

I shot him a dirty look.

"It's really not," he defended, "only a little tangled."

He reached out and took a lock of my hair between his thumb and forefinger. I flinched and immediately wished I hadn't. He pulled his hand away as fast as he'd extended it and mumbled a 'sorry'.

"No, it's okay," I retorted quickly. Ugh, Grace, why are you like this? What the hell are you even doing here?

A couple of seconds of awkward silence passed before he said: "I've gotta jump in the shower, but I'll be out in 5 minutes," and headed back upstairs to the bathroom. The door softly shut behind him.

What was it with guys' blitz showers? I mean, 5 minutes? Come on.

***

My cheek was as cold as the ice on the small skating rink they put up on campus in the winter. I was slumped against the chilly glass of the train window, not being able to suppress a yawn every now and then. Thankfully, the day had passed much less awkwardly than the morning had promised. Outside illuminated blops rushed past, blurring into yellowish stripes. I loved the city at night, not that I got to see much of it. The enchanted atmosphere veiled everything in a haze of unreality, creating a space in which everything seemed possible.

"You seem pretty beat," remarked John.

I turned toward him and smiled through fatigue. "It's been quite a day."

"You mean to tell me walking 10 miles around Manhattan from Penn to Grand Central Station to Times Square and Central Park and Levain's, then across the High Line to Strand Bookstore and the Brooklyn Bridge until finally taking the subway back to Penn made you sleepy?" His smirk lit up the train car more than the fluorescent overhead lamps that flickered every so often.

The weather had been merciful and spared us from the impending rain that was now beginning to hit the window pane in little colorful droplets reflecting the city lights. Manhattan was truly something else. But to see the city through his eyes had been remarkable. I couldn't think of a single person with whom I would have rather experienced the day.

Thinking about the grand finale of the day, I was thrown right back to Brooklyn Bridge at quickly approaching nightfall.

The lights, the city, the noise from the traffic below, the view of the river—I was starstruck, still. It was beautiful. I didn't usually take many pictures, but this moment up there on the bridge, the wind lightly running its cool fingertips across my cheeks, I wanted to preserve it forever. If I could have, I would have put the scene into a Mason jar and sealed it to put on my shelf. Instead, John took a couple of pictures of me that I would send to Dad and Grampa before asking a trustworthy-looking passerby to take our picture together.

The twenty-something Hispanic woman stopped the stroller with her adorable toddler and accepted his phone from him. John scooped me up in his arm and pulled me close and I had to grab a fistful of his coat to keep from falling over upon the abrupt movement. My cheeks burned, my waist where his hands laid burned, my hands that touched his chest burned, all through our thick winter clothes, but I fought the reflex to pull my hand back.

Right away, our photographer dove into it: she got on her tiptoes, knelt down in search of the perfect angle, then experimented with distances. Clearly a social media pro. "Don't move," she yelled before jogging over to show us the pictures she had taken. She offered to take more if we didn't like them, but they were perfect.

In the pictures, the faintest blush was recognizable on my cheeks in the warm yellow light of the illuminated bridge, and John and I looked—happy. The photos were precious and we both thanked her emphatically. Part of me wanted to share them with the whole world, but I knew these were just for us, at least for now. The buzzing lightness within me droned out the small pit of guilt on the bottom of my stomach. A perfect ending to a perfect day, right there on Brooklyn Bridge.

Although, not quite: at the subway station on the way back, we had a minute to listen to a street musician playing "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce and singing to it. Grampa had often played it for me when I had been little. Engulfed in the music, I leaned against John and almost turned into putty when he placed a hand on my arm. That had been the perfect ending to a perfect day.

His waving hand in front of my face snapped out of my memory. "I asked if your mind was on the train with me or still in the city." In lieu of a reply, I just blinked. He laughed. "Are you ready to fall into bed or are you up for something else tonight?"

I ignored the first, inappropriate thought that popped into my head and responded with a sigh. "Should we cook pasta and watch a movie?"

He smiled. "Sounds perfect. Do I get to pick the movie? I bet you're too tired to do that."

I lightly punched him in the arm. "Nice try, Jay. But fine, you can pick. I'm too exhausted to argue at least."

***

By the time the huge gray couch in the basement TV room engulfed me, my stomach was filled with linguine, marinara, and confusion. I had cooked the pasta and the sauce and John had 'helped' by repeatedly asking what I was doing, poking his head over my shoulder, pulling my ponytail, or threatening to tickle me. When he hadn't been doing any of that, he had been standing distractingly close behind me.

Us sitting so close that our upper arms touched was the logical culmination of all the touching that had been going on. I was glad I'd left on my t-shirt and bra when I had changed into my gray and pink plaid flannel pajama pants. His body to mine would have been way too close had I not been wearing a bra.

John opened the streaming website on the TV. "In honor of our first movie night together back in September, the movie I picked is... drumroll, please—" He waited for me to do a drumroll, but I just arched my eyebrows. "Fine then, leave me hanging, I'll do it without the drumroll. I picked Love, Actually!" His face was lit up like the Christmas trees in the movie.

"But it's Thanksgiving."

"Yes, but: A, I don't happen to know a good Thanksgiving rom-com and B, I doubt we're spending Christmas together and I'm not watching it with my parents. Thus, now, you and I."

"You and your romantic movies," I mumbled, but grinned. "Why do you like them so much anyway? They're entirely predictable, they always have a happy ending."

He smiled. "Exactly."

Fair point.

I had seen the movie before, but it had been a long time, and I knew it was a classic. So was the fuzzy blanket he draped across the both of us and his arm around me after the first fifteen or so minutes, apparently. The firm muscles of his arm pressed against my shoulder. Fuck. This was definitely not what Liam had agreed to.

When John's fingers began to brush the bare skin on my arm, I closed my eyes, forcing myself to stay alert and not relax into his inviting arms. He had a girlfriend. That he wouldn't leave. The way I saw it, I had two choices: stay with stable, reliable, sweet Liam or pursue John, hurting his girlfriend and Liam and myself in the process. The way I saw it, I didn't have a choice. What else could I have done? This madness would stop.

"Where did you go just now?" John murmured and tapped my temple with this fingertip.

My eyes were pinned to the screen although I had no idea what was happening in the film. I inhaled, exhaled. Then again, and again. "You scare me," I finally whispered back, almost inaudible.

He sat up a little straighter, evidently unsure what he'd heard, but didn't withdraw his arm. "What?"

His curious eyes traced my profile, liquid gaze hot and heavy against my temple, my cheekbone, my jaw. It scares me how much I want you. I rubbed the side of my face where he singed the fine hairs on my skin. But John's firm hold, John's gentle fingertips, John's hot breath, John's rough voice—his magnetic field was too strong.

"Nothing. Let's just watch."

This madness would stop tomorrow.

"Okay." Now his own voice was barely more than one single hushed tone.

His featherlike touch on my upper arm gave way to his strong arms pulling me closer into him so my back was against his hard chest. In the most bizarre way, my nerves seemed to be compensated for by howsafe I felt inJohn's arms. Even now, at this vulnerable moment, even when he wasn't aware of my vulnerability, he managed to calm me down with my heartpounding in my chest at the same time. I didn't know how that was possible. AllI knew was that my problem was ten times bigger than I had anticipated.