pushed his plate away. “Has all this relationship talk ruined your appetite? Or are you just hungry for something else? We can go to Steve’s.”
Her mind got stuck on the whole idea of being hungry for something else. All she could think of was dragging him back to his place.
“Steve’s Authentic Key Lime Pies—they’re awesome. Or if you’re in the mood for something richer—there’s always the Lobster Pound. They have the best lobster rolls anywhere.”
She raised her hand to get the server’s attention. “Check, please.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “What’s it gonna be?”
“Key lime pie to go, and then you—the combination has definite possibilities. I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”
* * *
After spending the day running all over Red Hook, Simon took Fitz to his favorite food find in his neighborhood—the Ball Fields, where dozens of lunch trucks sold the best Latino food in New York. You could get anything from tacos to huaraches and ceviche. There was always great food and a fun atmosphere but it had never been as much fun as it was today. He stood in line and watched Fitz sweet-talk the usually brusque food vendor into tasting something for the third time. Something clicked, and he knew this wasn’t the first time he’d marveled at Fitz’s habit of taste-testing everything before deciding what to eat. Again he had a vision of his mother’s kitchen before he lost it. He hadn’t really spent time at home since he graduated, and before then, he wasn’t much for bringing friends home. He ran through the list of his old girlfriends, the list of his friends’ girlfriends, and then the list of his girlfriends’ friends trying to place her. He came up with nothing. He shook his head and turned his attention to the people behind them in line, waiting for someone to start an uprising. But everyone else he saw watching her wore the same expression he’d seen on his own face when he wiped off the remains of the key lime pie he’d licked off her stomach hours earlier. Every man was charmed, and the women, whom he expected to get uppity about the attention she garnered, seemed to get a kick out of her.
Fitz finally placed her order, looking over her shoulder at him and laughing at something the big guy in the truck said. She threw her head back, her long hair flying in the breeze, and answered him in fluent Spanish. The guy staring down at her wore a goofy grin, and Simon knew enough Spanish to know he was telling Fitz how beautiful she was, which only earned the poor sap another snort of laughter and a smart retort Simon wasn’t able to follow in Spanish. He might not have known what she said in Spanish, but he knew what she would say in English. Fitz slid beside him, wrapping her arm around his waist, and when she looked at him with laughter in her eyes and a pink tinge to her cheeks, he knew he loved her.
He’d known her less than twenty-four hours—that he could remember—and it hit him like a sledgehammer, stole the breath from his lungs, and set his head spinning.
He remembered his father telling him what falling in love was like, back when they were still speaking. He’d watched his father needle his mother until he drove her to call him a detektiv-kopf—a dickhead in German. Once she did, he’d smile at her, and she’d smile at him, and the two of them would disappear upstairs for at least an hour.
When Simon was sixteen, he finally got up the nerve to ask his dad what the deal was. His father told him the first time Simon’s little bit of a mother called him a detektiv-kopf, he fell head over heels in love with her. And every time she called him a dickhead in German, it reminded him how he felt the moment he fell in love for the last time.
“What’s wrong?”
Simon tried to smile through his shock. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Really? You look like you have a bad case of indigestion.” Fitz looked toward the crowd in line behind them, still waiting to place their
Her mind got stuck on the whole idea of being hungry for something else. All she could think of was dragging him back to his place.
“Steve’s Authentic Key Lime Pies—they’re awesome. Or if you’re in the mood for something richer—there’s always the Lobster Pound. They have the best lobster rolls anywhere.”
She raised her hand to get the server’s attention. “Check, please.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “What’s it gonna be?”
“Key lime pie to go, and then you—the combination has definite possibilities. I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”
* * *
After spending the day running all over Red Hook, Simon took Fitz to his favorite food find in his neighborhood—the Ball Fields, where dozens of lunch trucks sold the best Latino food in New York. You could get anything from tacos to huaraches and ceviche. There was always great food and a fun atmosphere but it had never been as much fun as it was today. He stood in line and watched Fitz sweet-talk the usually brusque food vendor into tasting something for the third time. Something clicked, and he knew this wasn’t the first time he’d marveled at Fitz’s habit of taste-testing everything before deciding what to eat. Again he had a vision of his mother’s kitchen before he lost it. He hadn’t really spent time at home since he graduated, and before then, he wasn’t much for bringing friends home. He ran through the list of his old girlfriends, the list of his friends’ girlfriends, and then the list of his girlfriends’ friends trying to place her. He came up with nothing. He shook his head and turned his attention to the people behind them in line, waiting for someone to start an uprising. But everyone else he saw watching her wore the same expression he’d seen on his own face when he wiped off the remains of the key lime pie he’d licked off her stomach hours earlier. Every man was charmed, and the women, whom he expected to get uppity about the attention she garnered, seemed to get a kick out of her.
Fitz finally placed her order, looking over her shoulder at him and laughing at something the big guy in the truck said. She threw her head back, her long hair flying in the breeze, and answered him in fluent Spanish. The guy staring down at her wore a goofy grin, and Simon knew enough Spanish to know he was telling Fitz how beautiful she was, which only earned the poor sap another snort of laughter and a smart retort Simon wasn’t able to follow in Spanish. He might not have known what she said in Spanish, but he knew what she would say in English. Fitz slid beside him, wrapping her arm around his waist, and when she looked at him with laughter in her eyes and a pink tinge to her cheeks, he knew he loved her.
He’d known her less than twenty-four hours—that he could remember—and it hit him like a sledgehammer, stole the breath from his lungs, and set his head spinning.
He remembered his father telling him what falling in love was like, back when they were still speaking. He’d watched his father needle his mother until he drove her to call him a detektiv-kopf—a dickhead in German. Once she did, he’d smile at her, and she’d smile at him, and the two of them would disappear upstairs for at least an hour.
When Simon was sixteen, he finally got up the nerve to ask his dad what the deal was. His father told him the first time Simon’s little bit of a mother called him a detektiv-kopf, he fell head over heels in love with her. And every time she called him a dickhead in German, it reminded him how he felt the moment he fell in love for the last time.
“What’s wrong?”
Simon tried to smile through his shock. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Really? You look like you have a bad case of indigestion.” Fitz looked toward the crowd in line behind them, still waiting to place their
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