Emmitt’s lips are curled in amusement as he pokes one of my puffed cheeks. “You don’t have to be so stubborn all the time.”

I reach up and roughly bite off the piece still in my mouth. I would never admit it aloud, but the pretzel is really fucking good, and I immediately want another bite. “You are such a dickhead.”

“I offer you food out of the kindness of my heart and I’m a dickhead?” Emmitt pouts far too dramatically, but there’s still a sharp awareness in his eyes that I don’t trust. “There’s no winning with you.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, turning away. When he isn’t looking, I take another bite of the pretzel stick.

It’s clear I’m not as discreet as I think I am, because seconds later, Emmitt places the entire cup in my lap and walks away, whistling quietly. “All yours, sweetheart.”

It seems he’s slipped from asshole mode to heartbreaker mode, even with me. I can’t say I have much of a preference for either one.

I stare after him with squinted eyes, but he only heads in the direction of the bathroom, absently toying with the strap of his camera.

By the time he returns, I’ve finished off the cup of pretzels, hungrier than I realized.

Emmitt flashes me a quick grin, and I flip him off in return, but it doesn’t feel as hostile as the last time I did it. The thought leaves me disgruntled. I can’t let Emmitt Ramos win me over with pretzels.

A few minutes later, they call on passengers for the next ferry, and we both gather our things and head for the entryway. There are too many bodies packed around us, and Emmitt holds his camera almost protectively as we press forward.

“No one is going to steal your camera right off your neck,” I say, maneuvering my way through a gaggle of businessmen.

Emmitt slants me a look. “I know that. I just don’t want my lens to get scratched.”

I open my mouth to reply, but nothing rises to the tip of my tongue. I press my lips together, irked that he managed to leave me speechless.

In a matter of minutes, we board the Staten Island Ferry, and I lead Emmitt to the middle of the deck, where the windows lend a clear view out to the ocean. The weather is still bright, the skies clear of clouds. The waves sweep steadily against the side of the ferry, a rhythmic beat that exists on the edge of time.

“Knock yourself out,” I say, setting my stuff down on one of the seats near the windows. The inside of the ferry reminds of me of a subway car, if it were expanded to fit hundreds of people. “I’ll be here if you need me.”