This isn’t anything, I told myself, grabbing fresh clothes, stepping into the hall bath, lifting my dress over my head, and disappearing into the stream of water. I’d walk him around the block. I’d print him a map, send him to Times Square, come home, get on with my own life.

Drying off, I searched for my reflection in the mirror, but it was too blurred to make out. Ruby Chertok: A Portrait in Steam.

I swiped it clear and hurried to my room before vanity could seize hold. Still, I rebraided my wet hair three times, telling myself it was because I needed to practice looking presentable, dammit, not because of the first, second, and third impressions I must have made on Oscar Bell.

Hearing the living room so unmusical as I tromped down the steps, I wondered if I’d spruced myself up for nothing. But there he was, holding the door open to the street, gazing out dizzy-eyed, like he was trying to inhale the city.

It was my turn to smirk. Tourist.

Then he turned and saw me, and I could swear, his whole body ignited, a machine revving to life. Genius or no, the guy had excellent manners.

He motioned gallantly out. “Shall we?”

Case in point.

I led the way down the stoop.

“So what do I need to know?” He parked himself in the middle of the sidewalk, arms spread wide, summoning the seven winds.

“Can you give me a category?” I asked, instead of suggesting he tuck in his hands to avoid getting them smacked down by passersby. “Geopolitics? How to make soups and stews?”

“Category . . . ah, Day-to-Day Awesomeness.” He glanced back at the stoop. “I’m gonna be living here for two months.”

Six weeks, three days. I knew how long the summer program lasted.

“I need to know what’s good.” He clapped. “Where do I get my toothpaste, what’s the best place for a cheap lunch, where do you go for inspiration?”

I started us walking west. “Duane Reade on Columbus, for toothpaste. But who knows? You might find it inspirational.”

Oscar let out an easy laugh and I adjusted my bag to hide the thrill that shot through me.

“Seriously, though. What are your go-to places?”

“They pretty much all involve baked goods.”

“Yes.” Oscar gave an awkward sideways gallop. “This. Nobody tells you these things.”

“There’s literally an app for bakeries in New York.”

“Really?”

“All the apps have now been invented.”

He nodded solemnly. “We’ve reached the singularity.”

“We’ll need pastries to help stave off madness. Um, so, SweetStreets—the app—it’s pretty exhaustive, but I can, like, curate, if—”

“That would be great. I’m more of an analog person than an app person.”