Chapter Six

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I sit beside Liam Davenport on the 7 train, bewildered that the other people on the subway right now seem oblivious to who he is.

When I asked if he'd prefer to take a cab, he told me to do what I would normally do. I thought he didn't actually mean it—that when he realized we were getting on the subway, he'd insist on a cab.

But he didn't.

I figured it'd be a shit show. That he'd be mobbed.

But, like Emilia at the Yankees game, here he sits and no one has batted an eyelash.

And he's not even wearing a hat like Emilia was.

It's strange.

My phone buzzes and I see an email come in from my editor. I wrestle with whether or not to read it now, but ultimately go with now, before the subway heads underground.

I scan the contents and, though I expected her response to be, "yeah, right, try again," instead it's filled with exclamation points and congrats on my luck and the fact that she saw the photos of me and Thad on Getty, adding in the fact that there are also shots of our table—proof that I met all three young Davenports—on the photo site. She ends the email advising me to look into an agent, which sends a thrill up my spine.

Not that I could write a book about this experience, if everything with Liam actually pans out. But the idea that this article is going to be successful enough that I could receive a book deal is exciting. Especially considering what it will do for my blog.

"What's going on over there?" Liam asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"Email from my editor. She loves the piece. Well, she loves it since there are photos that prove it."

"That's great news," he says.

"It is" I say, agreeing. I nearly tell him that it'll be a boon for me, career-wise, but then figure he probably already knows that. He's not stupid.

"So what should we do today?" he asks.

"Well, after I pick up my clothes, we'll grab lunch. What are you in the mood for?"

"Something horrible for me," he says immediately. "The greasier the better."

"All right," I say. "That can definitely be arranged."

"And I would like to walk through Central Park," he says.

"Wait," I say. "You've been to New York before, right?"

"Once with my parents when Ben and I were young," he says. "But I've never been able to do whatever I wanted. We were scheduled from our wake up calls to when we went to sleep."

"Central Park it is then," I say. "What else?"

"What do you think I should see?"

I wrack my brain for any actual personal information I know about Liam. What his interests are, what he does for fun. Other than playing rugby and polo, I actually have no idea.

I know facts about Liam. His birthday (October 14th), what he studied at Cambridge (international relations, obviously), the number of girlfriends he's had in the past two years (three), the organizations he's patron to (twelve). But I don't know anything real about him.

Well, in the past twenty-four hours I've learned that he drinks coffee in the morning, is a phenomenal kisser, a bit of a romantic, willing to take public transit, and unafraid of eating greasy food. But that's about it.

"You've seen the Metropolitan Museum of Art," I say. "Which is a big one. As is Central Park. Times Square should be avoided at all costs. The West Village is lovely, but very residential. However, there is a good Mexican place there."

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