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Then he turns back to the bar.

I walk away very carefully.

This time I avoid every puddle on the terrace.

I make it three steps before I let myself glance back.

He's already at the bar, broad back to me, perfectly still in the middle of the rooftop's noise, like the noise made room for him.

Two women at a nearby table have stopped talking to watch him.

Apparently, the effect is universal.

There's only one open spot at the bar.

Of course it's two stools down from him.

I don't look at him.

I can't.

The cocktail menu is propped against a candle. I scan the right-hand column first, out of habit. Twenty-four dollars for a Manhattan.

I order one anyway.

"Manhattan, please," I tell the bartender. "Easy on the whiskey. Two cherries."

The bartender nods without listening.

The stranger says nothing. He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, and I make the mistake of noticing his throat move.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head tilt, just slightly, like he's filing something away.

Then Mark waves at me from a high-top near the railing.

I take my drink and go.

For the first time in weeks, I feel beautiful.

Mark hadn't started out like this.

He remembered my presentations, brought dinner to my office, and never made me feel guilty for being busy.

When I told him I wanted to take things slowly, he said there was no rush.

I believed him.

"Eight months, Isabella. I'm done waiting."

Mark says it loudly enough for half the rooftop to hear.

His mouth flattens. "I'm a grown man. I have needs. I'm not waiting around for a special moment that might never come."

He lowers his voice, as if the couple at the next table can't hear every word anyway.

"You know what my friends say? That I'm dating a nun with a corner office."

I lift my Manhattan. "Congratulations. You finally managed to make this date about you."