But mercifully, Blake appears to be just fine. He admires some of the pieces in the glass case, asks Sophie about where she sources some of her materials, and sends me a sunny smile when he sees me holding the overflowing vase.

“I wanted to drop by to see if I could take you out tonight,” he says simply, as if men who could pass for male models swing by for surprise date nights all the time.

“I’ll close up,” Jess blurts out before I can answer.

Blake shrugs like it’s a done deal.

I do a mental check of my life. True, at least my engagement ring is off, but I definitely did not shower this morning and not a soul on this planet would describe my underwear as “cute.” I have, like, a solid amount of armpit stubble. It’s not the most ideal moment for a date. But I can’t turn him down.

“Uh, yeah, I guess I’m free?” I say. And then, more persuasively, “Yes, I’d love to go out with you tonight.”

Walking with Blake feels like floating. He slips his hand into mine and our fingers interlock seamlessly. He rubs his thumb along the inside of my palm as we wind through hip Williamsburg, into stately DUMBO, and toward the majestic entrance toward the Brooklyn Bridge. Somehow, walking across one of the most romantic stretches of steel in the world, toward the glittering Manhattan skyline—of course, it’s glittering, Blake probably arranged for the sun to set at the exact right time, because he would—feels natural with him.

That doesn’t mean I’m comfortable. Oh, lordy, no. I’m well aware that our conversation is a minefield; it’s entirely too possible that he’s seen my boastful Instagram Stories taken inside his apartment (maybe a friend tipped him off?) or that he’s stumbled across my engagement announcement. Maybe he’s even turned off by how aggressively I arrived at his doorstep the other night. (Unlikely, but still.) I feel bad for lying to him. I feel like I’m teetering on a high wire, one step from doom: I have to lead Blake away from conversations about my personal and professional lives while simultaneously entrancing him into falling for me. The thought of it leaves me breathless.

“I figured it was my turn to surprise you,” he says, breaking my reverie as he steers us around a group of tourists. I have to speed-walk in order to keep up with his long legs.

(It’s too easy to spot tourists. The sensible sneakers, maps, and cameras are one dead giveaway. But the real trick is to watch their eyes. New Yorkers don’t bother swiveling their gaze to take in the whole view anymore. Tourists walk around with gawking eyes like soup spoons, ready to slurp everything up.)

“Your turn?” I ask.