A playful grin crosses his face. “That’s fair. In my favorite memories of you, you were only partly clothed, so I guess we’re even.”

My insides stir in a toasty way as a few of those memories come to mind. “Okay, move it along, freak. Let’s quit while we’re ahead.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He’s reaching for the door when he suddenly turns and picks up a small paper bag that I didn’t notice on the entryway table/bike rack. “I almost forgot,” he says, walking back over and handing it to me, “I got this for you when I took Duke for a walk this morning. I remembered they were your favorite.”

I take the bag, noticing the logo of a bakery a few blocks away printed on the front. I reach inside and pull out a delectable cinnamon scone that’s somehow still warm. I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face. When we were at school, Ryan would surprise me with cinnamon scones at least once a week after he found out how much I loved them. The act itself was considerate, but what I loved most about them was that they meant he was thinking of me when I wasn’t there.

The memories leave me feeling slightly off kilter as I place the scone onto the table. “Thank you,” I say, trying to sound less affected than I am. “They’re still my favorite.”

“I’m glad,” he replies.

“By the way, I can’t believe they let you in with Duke. I’ve been there a bunch of times and they never allow pets inside.”

“Come on, Sullivan. There’s not a person alive who can resist that face.”

I follow his gaze and look over at Duke. He’s sitting on the floor a few feet away, vigorously scratching behind his ear as he stumbles over a bit onto his side. Ryan’s right. Duke is too adorable to be real.

“All right,” he then says, “I’ll leave you to enjoy that. Shoot me a text if you have any questions.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll see you tonight. Good luck.” Ryan gives me a goodbye salute as he exits, and Duke follows his path to sit by the door, already waiting for him to come back.

“Duke,” I groan as I drop my head down on the table. “What the hell am I doing?”

An hour later, Duke and I arrive at Maggie’s studio apartment in the Theater District. Teeming with rehearsal spaces and theatrical agencies, this is the neighborhood where Maggie can potentially bump into musical cast members in their down time. She claims she lives in the area for the competitive rent, but I think the selfie she took last week with half of the ensemble of Hamilton in a local tapas restaurant speaks for itself.