“Second door on the right,” Eric said.

“Thanks.”

I used the bathroom (which was pretty amazing. No tub—this was New York, after all—but lots of granite and a bunch of high-tech water jets in the shower) and then, unable to resist, peeked in his open bedroom door. His bed was as big as the rest of his furniture, his nightstand and dresser top as neat and organized as the kitchen before service. Next door, another room with a dormitory-size twin and a futon. The price of a two-bedroom in Chelsea must be over the moon. I guessed Gusto was doing well.

There were pictures on the wall. I stepped closer to see them. A younger, beardless Eric holding a scrunch-faced newborn in a stocking cap. A standard beach shot, two little boys playing at the edge of the water. A more recent photo of Eric and both boys, squinting into the sunlight against the background of an unfamiliar city. In Germany, maybe? I didn’t know. I’d never been to Europe. Something about the last pose tugged at my heart, the easy way Eric hooked his arm around his older son’s shoulders, the way the younger one leaned into his side. My father the minister had rarely touched his adolescent daughters.

“Do they ever visit?” I’d asked.

“Not often. It is difficult to find time,” Eric had replied.

But here was their room, kept in readiness, just in case.

And here . . . Another photo. Their mother, Eric’s ex-wife, smiling into the camera, the boys—maybe seven and ten?—beside her. She was dark eyed, dark skinned, and very beautiful. I felt oddly . . . jealous. Depressed. Which was stupid. I knew he’d been married before.

I whisked myself out of the room, my heart pounding. Served me right for snooping.

Eric was plating in the kitchen.

“Can I do anything?” I asked.

He shook his head, smiling. “It’s all done.”

He’d pulled a small, square table in front of the fire. There were place mats. Candles. Everything soigné. Very romantic. I stared down at my plate arranged like an artist’s palette, pink slices of crispy skinned duck with maroon cherries, golden pierogi, haricots verts, and wondered what the hell I was doing here.

Eric raised an eyebrow. “Everything all right?”

“Great. Thanks.” I pulled myself together and dug in. “So. This is your idea of home cooking, huh?”

His eyes crinkled. “My heart on a plate. For you.”

I almost choked. Swallowed hard. He ought to be careful about saying stuff like that. If I were somebody else—somebody pretty and sweet, somebody like Meg—I might take him seriously. “The napkins are a nice touch.”

He laughed. “It is all just stuff, yeah? That’s what my father would say.”

“Mine, too.”

“Military families. Every time my father was transferred, my mother would have a yard sale.”

I chewed, relaxing. “We didn’t move so much. My dad didn’t join the army until after 9/11. But he’s a minister. You know, ‘Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things’?”