It tells me how to win—a one-two punch with my queen and my bishop.

  I wonder whether Noah based that character on himself in other ways. Whether I might revisit the pages of that book to better know the man before me.

  But maybe, to know Noah, all I need to do is pay attention. To the paintings he’s chosen for his walls—bright and urgent, each full of its own story. To his generosity—Saturday sushi, second-draft-effect tulips, Swiss Army knife treatments of my ex’s window pane. To his confession at the bar last weekend that, when it comes to romance off the page, Noah Ross is as lost as anyone who’s ever searched for love.

  “Checkmate,” Noah says.

  My jaw drops. He’s got me pinned between his rooks. How did I let this happen?

  I want to be a gracious loser, but I honestly can’t believe this. The only thing that makes it bearable is looking up at him and confronting The Eyebrow.

  We both start laughing. Noah reaches for the sake, and we’re surprised to find the bottle drained.

  “Guess I should go,” I say, though my dignity wouldn’t mind a rematch.

  Noah rises and gets my coat. He walks me to the door, then down the walk, where two old-fashioned streetlights have come on and make the place look like we’ve dipped back in time a hundred years. It’s cold and our breath clouds the air.

  “Thank you,” he says as I hail a cab on Broadway.

  “For what?” I turn to say.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt inspired.”

  “Me, too,” I say before I can stop myself. Because even though my being inspired has nothing to do with our mission, it’s true. The chess game, the Cloisters, Noah’s surprising apartment, and the invitation to Positano—it all mingles in my mind and makes me feel a little dazzled as I wave good night to Noah through the window of the cab.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Meg: Last-minute stroke of genius. Meet me at Color Me Mine in Tribeca at 11 a.m. Yes, it’s a kid birthday party. But it’s hosted by our class’s one and only Hot Dad. And he’s single. Boom.

  Rufus: And I’m on this text thread because . . . ? It is a known fact that I do Pilates Saturday a.m.

  Meg: Because if you vote that Lanie should go, and I vote that Lanie should go, then we out-vote her ass two-to-one. Ruf, you can meet us after Pilates for cake.

  Rufus: Lanie, your resistance is preemptively overruled. See you ladies 12:15ish. That cake better not be gluten-free.

  I see my friends’ messages as I’m getting out of the shower. I’m running late to meet Noah in Brooklyn in an hour, so I dash off an apologetic response.

  Me: Sorry, y’all. Plans today. Maybe I can catch Hot Dad at the next party.

  Meg: That is not how Hot Dad–physics work. If you don’t move on him at this party, a wiser woman will. Come on, Lanie! Blow off your plans so you can blow Hot Dad. Someone needs to confirm our class’s suspicions of his well-endowment. I’ll throw in a ceramic unicorn. . . .

  Me: I can’t blow off my plans. They’re with Noa Callaway. Remember—the book that’s five months late . . . and that all our jobs depend on?

  My phone rings with a FaceTime from Meg. When I pick up, Rufus is already on the call.

  “You’re wearing that to Noa Callaway?” Rufus says, taking in my jean jacket with the fleece lining through the screen. “I mean, you look fresh, but . . . it’s Noa Callaway. I would have thought BD’s Fendi suit?”

  I laugh to myself because, great minds, but also—I can’t tell Rufus that Noah has given me something of a dress code for today’s mystery adventure in Red Hook. Jeans and a “sturdy jacket.”

  I know my friends assume that I’m having a regular, business style meeting with Noa Callaway. One where we sit in an office with two laptops between us, a gallon of coffee, and pencils behind our ears.

  “What’s the status of the book?” Meg says. “Is she writing yet? Can my kids go to college or what?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “We’re still circling the right concept. That’s what today is about.” I find that I don’t have to inject optimism into my voice. I truly feel optimistic. I know Noah and I have next to nothing of an idea yet, but at the Cloisters, inspiration felt near.

  “I can’t believe Noa Callaway has writer’s block!” Meg says, shaking her head while flipping pancakes. “Maybe she’s going through menopause and can’t be bothered with sex scenes? My sister’s libido during menopause just . . .” She whistles the sound of a plummeting bomb. “Oh, I need Noa Callaway’s sex scenes. The world needs Noa Callaway’s sex scenes!”

  “You have to fix this, Lanie,” Rufus says. “Send over a gigolo!” His handsome-devil smile spreads across his face. “You know it’s been done. Back in the sixties, editors probably hired sex workers for all their authors who were blocked.”

  “I’m working on it, believe me,” I say. “Not the gigolo, but the inspiration. And I’m late, so—”

  “Hold on,” Rufus says, squinting into his phone. “Did you get laid last night? You look all flushed and happy.”

  “OMG,” Meg says. “And you did say no to meeting the hottest Hot Dad in Hot Dad Land! You got laid! Who is he? Is he still in your apartment?”

  I roll my eyes, but when I take a last look in the mirror, I have to admit they’re right. I do look flushed and happy.

  “I’m just excited,” I say. That’s the right word, isn’t it? “I have this funny sense that Noa and I are close to getting somewhere great. I’m . . . flushed and happy that a new love story is about to be born.” I smile at them. “Gotta go!”

  “Bullshit—” Meg is calling as I hang up the phone.

  * * *

  Noah’s instructions said to meet him in Red Hook at ten a.m., at a double-wide trailer behind the Ikea.

  When I get there, in my sturdy jacket, full of questions, a woman is sitting in a lawn chair in front of the trailer. She waves like she’s been waiting for me.

  “Lanie, I’m Bernadette,” she says, standing and sticking out her hand. She is sixty, buxom, with long, windblown, blond hair, a smoky eye, big smile, and a patch on her leather jacket that reads IRON BUTT ASSOCIATION. “You can call me B.”

  “You’re Aunt B!” I say, remembering Noah’s story about the women who had raised him.

  Her smile widens. “He told you about me?” she says, in a husky twang reminiscent of Dolly Parton. “I guess that’s only fair, because I’ve heard all about you.”

  “You have?”

  “You’re the editor. The Magic One, he calls you. Oh dang, Bernadette.” She slaps her tan cheek twice. “He’ll kill me if he knows I said that.”

  I brighten. On my best days, editing does feel like channeling magic, and it feels good to know Noah said that.

  “It’ll be our secret,” I tell Bernadette. “So, what are we doing today?” I glance around the Ikea loading dock at the eighteen-wheelers parked there. Does Noah want to write a book about star-crossed semi drivers?

  “You don’t know?” Bernadette tilts her head. “Well, I’ll let him explain,” she says and points over my shoulder where Noah is walking toward us across the lot.

  He wears torn jeans, a white T-shirt, black boots. I don’t know if it’s the time we spent together last weekend, or the natural course of moving on after my breakup with Ryan, but Noah looks different to me today.

  Maybe it’s as simple as this: For the first time, I let myself fully enjoy the sight of him. The way he ambles. How his thin T-shirt ripples a bit in the wind, revealing an unexpectedly defined chest, lean and muscular. How his hair shines in the sun. When his eyes find mine, I don’t look away. By the time he reaches me, I’m a little out of breath.

  “Morning,” he says, his green eyes bright. “Are you ready to ride?”

  “Ride what?” I say, as Bernadette rumbles around from the back of the trailer on a vintage Moto Guzzi motorcycle.

  “Are you serious?” I gasp.

  Tears burn my eyes. I try and fail to fight them back.

  Noah’s face falls. “Was this a mistake? I thought . . . after that story about your ex, I hoped you could reclaim the motorcycle for yourself. I never meant—”

  “No,” I say, blinking maniacally, “this is a very cool idea. I’m in.”

  His smile is wide, relieved.

  “Do you ride?” I ask, getting an interesting mental picture. He does wear the boots well.

  “Once upon a time I did,” he says, “but I could use a refresher. And B happens to teach a master class.”

  “There could definitely be a book in this,” I say, remembering the reason we’re here. Making sure Noah remembers, too.

  “Yeah, of course,” he says. “That’s the point.”

  “Right.” Somehow the conversation got awkward. It got too close to me. We’re here for professional purposes, bonus points if I learn to do a thing I’ve long wanted to do.

  Bernadette cuts the Moto Guzzi’s engine and climbs off the bike. “I hear you’ve got a trip to Italy coming up, Lanie,” she says.

  “A possible trip to Italy,” I clarify.

  “Well, just in case, Noah asked if I could get you ready to ride the Amalfi Drive. Better safe than sorry.”

  We follow Bernadette inside the trailer, which is set up like a classroom, a few desks and a whiteboard at the front, posters of motorcycles on the walls. Bernadette hands us both a liability waiver and a thick packet titled Motorcycle Safety for Beginners.

  “For our first couple of hours together,” she says, “I’m legally obligated to bore the pants off you. But after that, I’m going to light a fire under your ass.”

  Our morning is fifty percent Bernadette plowing through the course material for the written exam—and fifty percent Noah and I locking eyes as she takes off on wild tangents and hilarious personal anecdotes.

  “I learned the hard way,” she says, looking at me, “that it’s a bad idea to cry on a motorcycle. No free hands for tissues. So promise me, Lanie,” she says, wagging a finger, “that you’ll never board your bike in a sorrowful mood.”

  In the afternoon, we suit up: hard-knuckled gloves, helmets, goggles. I barely recognize Noah inside all his gear, and it’s kind of a shame. We leave the trailer and walk to the far side of the lot where three customized motorcycles await.

  I choose the red Honda because it’s smaller, easier to handle. Bernadette keeps her black Moto Guzzi. That leaves Noah with a sleek Suzuki street bike.

  I mount the bike, grip the handlebars, and lean forward. A strange vibration passes through me. I’ve ridden hundreds of times with Ryan, but the joy of wielding a motorcycle by myself is new.

  We do practice drills with the engines off. I learn how to walk the bike in neutral, how to let out the clutch smoothly, how to brake with my right hand and foot.

  “Ready to fire ’em up?” Bernadette finally says.

  I grin at her, at Noah.

  “We’re going to ride in a smooth, straight line across the lot,” Bernadette says. “Ease the clutch out. Pick your feet up when you’ve got your balance. When you’re ready, roll that throttle.”

  My engine hums. I put the bike in neutral, press the start button, and ease the clutch out, but my arms are shaking, not relaxed. I lift my feet and roll the throttle, but I roll it too fast, and the bike lunges like a mechanical bull.

  My heart catches. Out of my mouth come curses I can’t decipher. I become aware that I’ve lost control, and in my panic, I grip at everything that can be gripped and slam on everything that can be slammed in hopes I’ll somehow find the brakes. I do—but too fast. My back wheel locks. The bike jerks to a stop and twists to the left. It slides out from under me and I hit the ground with the engine grinding into my left ankle. The pain is a fiery pop that spreads all the way up my leg.

  A moment later, the bike lifts off me, and I see Noah’s face over mine.

  “Are you all right?”

  I’m so embarrassed, I’m in shock. “How do I know if I’m all right?”

  He helps me up carefully, studies me from head to toe. “You shake it out, and see what hurts. Wounded pride or wounded hide.”

  I’m worried about my ankle, but when I stretch it, there’s only a dull pain. My jeans are shredded and a scrape bleeds through. But he’s right, my real injury is a sprained ego.

  Bernadette appears with a first aid kit. I roll up my jeans and clean the scrape.

  “I panicked,” I say.

  “Fear is enemy number one on a bike,” Bernadette says as Noah hands me a bottle of water. “Noah would say that’s a metaphor for something or other.” She playfully punches his arm. “You want to talk about panic, you should have seen him at sixteen.”

  “No, B,” Noah says, “Lanie doesn’t need to hear about—”

  “The boy didn’t know a throttle from a thyroid,” she goes on, turning her back to Noah so he can’t shut her up. “Matter of fact, he’s the reason I got my certification to teach.”

  “You were that inspiring?” I say to Noah.

  “Hell no!” Bernadette cackles. “I figured if I could teach him, I could teach a rock. Three days after I gave him a lesson, he took off on some used piece of crap for Colorado. His mama almost killed me, but he made it!”

  I try to imagine Noah at sixteen, riding through the Rocky Mountains. Something twists inside me. “Why did you go to Colorado?”

  “Why does anyone do crazy things?” Bernadette says. “For love.”

  “Her name was Tanya,” Noah says, wincing at the memory. “She played volleyball and was in Colorado for a tournament. Let’s just say, neither she nor her coach was impressed when I rolled into town.”

  Bernadette hoots. “He came back with his tail between his legs.” She sighs and rubs at a smudge on her windshield. “Ah, well. Loving a human is nowhere near as simple as loving a bike. That’s why Noah sticks to fiction now, and I stick to porkin’ torque.”

  I bite back a laugh then turn to Noah, expecting him to do the same. But when he meets my eyes . . . is it two hours of riding in the sun, or is he blushing? I feel my own cheeks getting warm as Noah turns away and starts fidgeting with his motorcycle gloves like they really need his attention.

  Bernadette glances at Noah, then at me. “Why don’t you two take the bikes for a spin around the neighborhood while I set up the course for your riding test? A little street practice wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Want to?” Noah says to me.

  I’m already starting my engine.

  We take it slow around the neighborhood, gliding through quiet streets and back alleys. Noah knows where to go to avoid the traffic, and soon I start to see Bernadette’s wisdom: This is much better practice for Italy than making circles in a parking lot.

  I like looking at Noah on the bike. His olive skin glows against his white shirt. His hair is just long enough to peek below his helmet. As my eyes travel downward, I stop myself—

  I’m still his editor, and we still need a book idea. So even if Noah looks distractingly good, and even if I am now single enough to notice, I need to try, for the sake of our careers, to rein it in.

  The sky is gold with late-afternoon light by the time Bernadette gives us our tests.

  “Remember,” she says over the rumble of the engines, “your eyes should always be where you want to be twenty seconds from now. Don’t look down at where you are, only out at where you’re going.”

  “I think that’s a metaphor for something or other,” I say to Noah.

  I keep my eyes ahead as I demonstrate how I’ve learned to turn, to weave, to smoothly shift gears, and to make a short stop. It’s glorious. It’s exhausting. It’s more fun and more challenging than anything I’ve done in a long time.

  I roll to a stop before Bernadette. She jumps up and hugs me to let me know I passed. When she goes inside to print out the certificate I’ll take to the DMV, I stand before Noah, wondering, are we also going to hug . . . or?

  “Nice weaves,” he says. “Very smooth.”

  “Yours weren’t so bad, either.”

  My eyes catch on his lips, and I notice that one of his bottom teeth is a little crooked. It’s charming. So charming I start to wonder things I shouldn’t wonder, like what it would be like to touch those lips, those teeth, with my own—

  Bernadette comes out of the trailer, two certificates in her hands. “Who wants to get a celebratory beer at the Ice House—”

  “I don’t know,” Noah says quickly, using the clipped tone I haven’t heard in weeks. “I’ve taken up enough of Lanie’s time.”

  “Right,” I say—though if Noah hadn’t shut it down, I would have loved to grab a beer with Bernadette. She’s fun. And I enjoyed the insight into teenage Noah’s romantic lunges, maybe a little too much.

  Did Noah see me staring at his lips a moment ago? Did I freak him out? Or maybe he has plans tonight?

  “Yeah, I should get back,” I say.

  “Next time then,” Bernadette says and hands me a card with her email address. “You’d better send me pictures from Italy.”

  * * *

  “I never said that!” I insist to Noah on the subway ride home.

  “You absolutely said it!” Noah laughs, his smile big and open as he leans against a framed map of the MTA. “I remember it clearly—you were storming past the gates of the zoo. I was chasing after you. You spun on me. You had your hands on your hips, your cheeks were flushed”—he’s acting all of this out, badly—“you glared, and then—oh no!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t you live on Forty-Ninth Street?” Noah points at the open subway doors, at the sign, which reads Lexington and Sixty-Third.

  No way. Not possible. I missed my stop? I, Lanie Bloom, who has never, not once in my seven years of living in New York, not even before I knew the difference between Amsterdam and Park Avenue, ever missed my stop?