At the bottom of the steps, Jamie crouches and lowers me to the ground. It involves a painfully delicious slide along his body that leaves me a lot more breathless than I should be, seeing as all I did was get carried down the stairs like a sack of potatoes.

“It helps lots of things,” he says, picking up where our conversation left off. “Sleep. Anxiety. I’m restless if I don’t exercise.”

“What kind of exercise?” I ask.

He stares down at me, then starts backing away, opening the building’s front door. “Running and weights. What does Beatrice do to burn energy?”

“Beatrice walks. Does yoga. And swims sometimes.”

An almost smile tips his mouth.

I poke his stomach. “What are you grinning about?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“What’s so funny about my exercise? I’m sorry I’m not an ultramarathoner like you, James.”

He coughs a laugh. “I didn’t say anything!”

I lunge for his side, trying to find a tickle spot. An inhumanly high shriek leaves him. “Oh shit.” My eyes widen with evil glee. “You’re ticklish.”

“Beatrice, no.” Jamie puts up his hands, increasing his backtracking pace. “No tickling.”

“You laugh at my baby exercises, you pay.” I lunge and tickle him more, making him shriek again. I’m cackling. Jamie’s tickle-shriek is the best sound ever.

“Beatrice! Stop!”

I lunge for his other side, which he barely dodges. “Make me.”

Jamie narrows his eyes, then takes off in a sprint down the sidewalk.

“James!” I yell, huffing and puffing. “I do not run! I am not fit like you! I’m going to break my face!”

Jamie stops and spins, but I’m not quick enough to pump the brakes so I bounce into him. “Oof.”

“Can’t risk you breaking your face,” he says. “Even to escape the tickle monster.”

I giggle. He laughs. We’re a little buzzed. And something’s different now. Something unspoken.

“Come on,” he says, wrapping his hand around mine. I don’t miss that this makes tickling him virtually impossible unless I twist and try with my far hand, which, with my limited reach, is not going to happen.

“I think I want pizza,” Jamie mutters.

“Pizza!” I gasp. “Who are you and what have you done with the real James Benedick Westenberg?”

“Ha!” He gives me a playful glare. “Boring Jamie isn’t so boring after all, is he? Hmm? He can order a pizza on a Friday night when there’s a little too much tequila in his system.”

“One shot, James.”

“I’m a lightweight,” he admits.

“And that’s wood-fired, artisanal pizza you want, isn’t it?”

He grins and tucks me under his arm. “Maybe.”

Hustling through the chilly night air, it’s like a time warp—the speed with which we power down the sidewalk, laughing like goofs about nothing, before we’re safe at his place.