“That’s true. You can absolutely see it through the window. But you can also take a tour if you know the right people.”

My eyes widen as surprise courses through me. “You arranged for a tour?”

He shrugs happily. “I thought you might like that.”

I do. I do like it.

And I like him.

Which is the thing I most can’t afford right now, and the list of things I can’t afford is miles long.

16

Sabrina

Scads of New Yorkers scurry off the six line at the last stop. They exit, heading above ground or making connections, continuing with their day. But we stay on.

“Come here,” Flynn says, offering his hand as the doors close.

I take his palm, standing, and he guides me to the scratched, dirty window of the closed door. We peer out, staring at the tiled wall of the platform, his hand pressed to the small of my back. It’s hard for me to not think about his touch. It’s gentle and firm at the same time, and my mind can’t help but assemble images of his hand sliding under my shirt, along my flesh.

I suppress a tremble as the train chugs out of the station, heading into the curving loop at the bottom of the line. “You have to smush your face against the window to get a really good view.”

“Commencing smushing,” I say mechanically. I look at him. “Am I like the robot you built as a kid?”

He scoffs. “If I’d designed a robot that looked and sounded like you, I would still be building robots.”

A blush creeps across my cheeks. A flutter skids down my chest. I will them away, doing my best to ignore these sensations. It’s pointless to linger on them. When this story ends, I’ll still need to focus on work, finding a job, and perhaps covering his business regularly—a direct conflict of interest to any flutters, no matter how they make me feel. I can’t entertain the idea of whether we could try again then, because it’s not a possibility. I’m simply going to enjoy the time with him for what it is.

An interview. A fun interview. The phone in my hand, recording us, is a reminder of that.

We stand by the window as the train rumbles forward at a more leisurely pace this time, as if it knows that its job is to let us catch a glimpse of the past.

“Look,” he whispers, almost reverently, pointing to what’s beyond the scratched glass as the train curves into the loop.

I gasp quietly. It’s like entering a time warp. We’ve slipped back decades. The old, abandoned station is a marvel of days gone by. It’s New York in another era, with vaulted ceilings made of glittering tiles, and stained-glass windows, with mosaics lining the walls. Brass chandeliers hang from the ceiling, hearkening to days when New York was a city of splendor and gold.

“It reminds me of where we met. The hotel. It had that olden glamour feel,” I say.