“Five out of fifty?” I say. “My houseplants have better odds of survival, and my houseplants live a dismal life.”

“Five items have made the cut,” Noah says, “if you can agree to my conditions.”

I feel my brows knit together. “Conditions?”

“Why don’t you sit back down and I’ll explain?”

“Thanks for the invitation,” I say, sitting back down in my own pink tweed recliner. He is so irritating. “Talk.”

“I can agree to the following,” Noah says, consulting the page. “The medieval gardens at the Cloisters; the Minetta Brook in the West Village; Seven Thousand Oaks in Chelsea; Breezy Point in Queens; and Poe Cottage in the Bronx.”

These are fine selections. I signal my approval with a slight nod. “And your conditions?”

“We’re going to alternate,” he says. “We visit one site from your list. And then one site of my choosing.”

No, no, no. My list was carefully selected. Intentional. Productive. I feel confident that if I agree to this condition, Noah Ross is going to make a joke of the endeavor. And I’ll end up wasting my time at some depressing outer-borough diner.

“I’ll take it seriously,” he says. “I promise.”

I swallow. I don’t really have a choice. “Then I agree.”

“Good. Condition number two,” he says, “we don’t meet here again.”

I glance around. “Here, meaning my apartment? What is your problem with my apartment?”

“It’s distracting. Can we just agree to meet at the sites from now on?”

“Fine,” I say. “Anything else, Highness?”

“One more,” he says. “Once we agree on an idea . . . assuming we can agree on an idea, you leave me alone to write it. No babysitting. No Fifty Ways to get Noah to Chapter Two lists, et cetera.”

I think about my trial promotion, how so many things will have to go right in order for it to become permanent. How hard it will be to trust this man to make them go right. Part of me would love a good long respite from interacting with him. The other part of me is scared he’ll fuck it up.

I take a breath and meet his eyes. “We will agree on an idea, because we have to. And once we do, if you can assure me I’ll have a draft in my hands by May fifteenth, you won’t hear so much as a peep out of me.”

“What about a squeak? Like the brakes of the M50 bus?” he teases. It’s the world’s driest tease, like a Vegas showgirl hairstyle from the eighties.

I give him a closed-mouth smile. “Let’s just say it’ll be like we’ve never met.”

Noah puts out his hand. “Then I think we have a deal.”

Chapter Nine