I bite my thumb, eyes darting back to Emmitt. He keeps lowering his camera to check the photos, so his face keeps coming into view, as shadowed as it might be.

The girls are whispering now, quietly enough that I can’t hear them, but a chill passes over my skin all the same, especially since they keep inconspicuously looking back at us.

I subtly move closer to Emmitt, attempting to hide him from sight.

He falters from taking photos, raising his brows at me. “You’re blocking the shot.”

I grimace, opening my mouth to explain, but he raises his camera again, taking a picture of me instead. A sigh escapes me. I should have expected that.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say, rolling my eyes.

But after Emmitt takes a few more pictures of me, he lowers his camera again. “Love, as much as you’re a pleasant sight, I am trying to win a contest.”

Immediately, I hear a loud whisper of “Did he say love?”

And the sound of a camera shutter goes off again, but from behind me this time. Welp. That’s not good.

“I think we have to run,” I say, wincing.

Emmitt is distracted by his camera, looking through the film. “What?”

I put my hand on top of the screen, blocking his view. “I think we have to run.”

Then I grab his hand and start tugging him toward the building beside us, where we can quickly escape into Rockefeller Center. Our feet pound against the pavement, and I maneuver us around pedestrians with an ease that comes from navigating New York City on a daily basis.

As we start moving, though, the girls also begin to move, shedding their sleeping bags and getting to their feet.

“Oh, fuck,” I mutter, before I grip him tighter. “Run.”

I sprint toward the building, and Emmitt curses under his breath as he runs after me, still holding my hand. More and more people look at us curiously as we run by, past the Nintendo store and Rockefeller Plaza.

We pass through the glass doors beside a Citibank, and I immediately lock in on the escalator leading down to the Rockefeller concourse. “Come on, we have to hurry.”

Emmitt nods, and we sprint toward the escalator, though I take the stairs beside them instead, not wanting anyone to slow us down. He follows me readily. When we reach the bottom, the concourse bathrooms are in front of us.

I turn in the opposite direction, dragging him toward the ice skating rink, until we reach one of the opposing hallways that wraps around the other side of the concourse. There, I pull him quickly up a set of stairs that lead to the observation deck.

I glance behind us, and it looks like no one is following us for the moment—or they haven’t caught up yet, at least.