“Two weeks ago, you hadn’t broken into my ex-fiancé’s brownstone,” I tell him as we pause before a series of elaborate unicorn tapestries. I read that they were dyed with the same plants cultivated in the garden outside, but I am keeping that fascinating tidbit to myself.

He smiles. “It’s rare that I get to put those skills to use.”

We stop before an apse, whose recessed walls are all stained glass. Noah studies a panel of a Madonna and child. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture. “This place is really special.”

I’m tempted to take a stab at pronouncing the Austrian city where I read these windows came from, but I can tell Noah is absorbing the atmosphere, and so, I leave a tender moment alone.

I can’t help sneaking glances at him. Things I’ve noticed about Noah without realizing I was noticing: His curly hair is always wet when he shows up someplace. His eyes are this dark, mysterious green, which matches the cool ivy print on his button-down today. His smile is slow—like it really wants to be sure about things before committing—but once it’s there, it holds you close.

He’s nothing like Ryan, who was inarguably handsome in a People’s-Sexiest-Man-Alive kind of way. There’s nothing inarguably anything about Noah, and I’m beginning to realize that’s the root of his appeal. For starters, he’s a fashion chameleon. He dresses one day like an indie rocker, one day like an Italian film producer, one day like a hipster on vacation. Even his physique—long and lean—is a body type that defies classification into a single sporty build—does he do triathlons to stay fit? A combination of basketball and yoga?

The man is an enigma—one minute reserved, the next, totally game to commit a felony in the spirit of doing someone a favor. You’d never know how successful he is from a glance or a casual conversation. But when he opens up, his spark is bright. He is full of complexities one wants to know more about.

That is, if one weren’t wagering their entire future on getting a book out of him.

“Let’s see the gardens,” he suggests, and I’m down.

We step outside, walking along a colonnaded loggia that opens to a garden so charming it borders on the miraculous. Neat stone paths divide it into quadrants. A fountain burbles at the center. The air is fragrant with herbs and small red flowers, swaying on the boughs of pomegranate trees. It’s transporting. Standing in this oasis, I feel as if we haven’t only left Manhattan, but have journeyed back in time to medieval Europe. I want to linger, to make the most of this respite from my everyday concerns.