I remember our first handshake. How it sent a bolt of lightning through me. His touch now, even accidental, still does the same.

I tell myself to pay closer attention to his hands so as to avoid grazing them, but that backfires, because then I pay too close attention to them and lose my knight. I’ve never noticed how strong they are.

Lanie. Remember your career on the line? The precarious balance you are in with this man? Stop gazing at his meet-cuticles. Win the game and go home.

I swig another glass of sake, because something needs to take the edge off. Because, is it just me or is it getting a little too Thomas Crown Affair in here?

I focus on my tactical approach. Noah’s strategy is different IRL than it is online. He castles on his left and brings his queen out daringly early. I find this style familiar, though, and after half a dozen turns, I realize Noah plays chess like the character he wrote in the chess scenes of his novel, Twenty-One Games with a Stranger.

It tells me how to win—a one-two punch with my queen and my bishop.

I wonder whether Noah based that character on himself in other ways. Whether I might revisit the pages of that book to better know the man before me.

But maybe, to know Noah, all I need to do is pay attention. To the paintings he’s chosen for his walls—bright and urgent, each full of its own story. To his generosity—Saturday sushi, second-draft-effect tulips, Swiss Army knife treatments of my ex’s window pane. To his confession at the bar last weekend that, when it comes to romance off the page, Noah Ross is as lost as anyone who’s ever searched for love.

“Checkmate,” Noah says.

My jaw drops. He’s got me pinned between his rooks. How did I let this happen?

I want to be a gracious loser, but I honestly can’t believe this. The only thing that makes it bearable is looking up at him and confronting The Eyebrow.

We both start laughing. Noah reaches for the sake, and we’re surprised to find the bottle drained.

“Guess I should go,” I say, though my dignity wouldn’t mind a rematch.

Noah rises and gets my coat. He walks me to the door, then down the walk, where two old-fashioned streetlights have come on and make the place look like we’ve dipped back in time a hundred years. It’s cold and our breath clouds the air.

“Thank you,” he says as I hail a cab on Broadway.

“For what?” I turn to say.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt inspired.”