She looked at it. “Elise Dutton.” She looked at the receipt on the box. “Elise Dutton. Very good.” She handed me back my license, then the box. “Let me get you a bag for that.” She lifted the famous robin’s egg blue bag and set the box inside. “Thank you for visiting us.”

I walked back to the Montblanc store and picked up the pen, then walked the four blocks back to the hotel. My feet were getting sore from all my walking. My phone rang on the way. I was excited to talk to Nicholas but disappointed when I saw it was Dan calling.

“What do you want, Dan?”

“We need to talk, Elise.”

“No we don’t.”

“I’ve discovered some things about your new friend. So open your door.”

“I’m not home.”

Don’t lie to me. I can see your car.”

“I’m not home, Dan. I’m in New York.”

He paused. “What are you doing in New York?”

“Living,” I said. I hung up on him. He called back, but I  didn’t answer. Then he texted me.

We need to talk about your lawyer “friend.” Crucial

I shook my head. There wasn’t a thing he could tell me that I would consider crucial. Still, his text did make me curious. What could Dan possibly know about Nicholas? Then my phone rang again. I was going to tell Dan to stop calling when I saw it was Nicholas.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi. Are you at the hotel?”

“Not yet. I’m just walking back.”

“How was your day?”

“Amazing.”

“Good. We have dinner reservations at six. We should leave a half hour before.”

“I’ll be ready,” I said. “What are we having for dinner?”

“How does Italian sound?”

“I love Italian.”

“You’ll love this place,” he said. “See you in a few minutes.”

Nicholas knocked on my door at five-thirty. He smiled when I opened. “Hi.”

“How was your day?” I asked.

“Challenging. But let’s not talk about it.”

“Let me grab my coat,” I said. “Just a minute.”

He held the door open. “Did you get a chance to run by Tiffany’s?” he asked.

“Yes. Let me grab that for you.” I put on my coat, secretly put the Montblanc box in my purse, then brought over the Tiffany bag. “Here you go.”

“Thanks for picking that up for me.”

“No problem.”

“I better leave it in my room,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He walked to his room, then returned empty-handed. “Shall we go?”

We had to wait awhile for a cab, and we arrived a few minutes late for our dinner reservation. The restaurant Nicholas had decided on was called Babbo, and it had a famous chef, Mario Batali, who was sometimes on television. The atmosphere was elegant with, incongruently, loud rock music.