I already don’t want it to be tomorrow, Monday, when I need to go back to my place and return to the hectic pacing of work.

I’m loving it, but I’m loving the off times I get to spend with Christos even more.

After eggs, toast, and the most delicious dark coffee I’ve ever tasted, we head to Brooklyn. I don’t see him for the rest of the day because I’m busy downstairs selecting the fabrics that we will use for the first House of Sass collection.

I end up leaving to walk Milly and shoot him a text saying

I missed you. Did you have a good day?

Busy but good. See you tomorrow?

BTW missed you too.

I smile and sleep peacefully in my bed, hardly remembering why I need to set my alarm clocks at 1 a.m. when I start my routine.

I meet him early in his office the next morning, full of ideas and curious about his reactions to them.

“Do you think we could eventually expand the software to service men? I was talking to Jensen and he was complaining about his closet. And I remembered seeing this study proving men’s capability of decisions diminishes with each small decision taken, which is why many successful businessmen, including yourself, always wear the same shoes, same suits, similar ties, all to simplify the small decisions, so that their big decisions regarding their multimillion-dollar businesses are taken with all the brainpower available. That’s what you do,” I tell him. “So with House of Sass software, even for men, the task of choosing their outfit is removed.”

He leans back in his chair, interested. “Go on.”

“I’ve also thought of offering skin-color-tone readings from our staff to suggest a complimentary skin-tone palette. The best colors that suit you. We could also have body-shape-style suggestions, suggesting the best cuts.”

“Inventory my closet.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take my inventory. Let’s add it to the software when it’s ready. Let’s see what you’ve got for men…like me.” He winks, and I smile happily and scoot down along his desk, where I’m seated, to sit a little bit closer to him.

“What do you think of our representatives visiting the homes of our clients in edgy modern mechanic outfits in blue. Kind of the one you used to wear. We’re tuning up their closets, it makes sense.”

He smiles, glancing at my little dress for a hot second before looking into my eyes. “I’m more for suits.”

“You didn’t see yourself.”

He laughs and reaches for the New York Times, which I happen to be sitting on. “Let’s stick to basics. The software sells your product, not the mechanic outfit your reps wear.”

He opens the paper to continue reading what he was reading before I arrived. On the back of the paper, I spot an article about the release of Café Society. “Woody Allen is my favorite director,” I tell him. “We should go watch that movie.”

He eyes me above the top of the paper. “You like his one-liners?”

“I like everything. I feel like he’s the only one doing his own thing, without chasing trends or catering to others. I like that.”

“He lives just down the block.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“He plays clarinet at the Carlyle every Saturday.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he says.

“My God! Annie Hall is like my favorite movie ever!”

“You want to go?” Before I can protest, he reaches around me and lifts his desk phone. “I’ll get us premium seating right now.”

“You’re joking.”

His lips curl, arrogantly so. He punches an extension, gives instruction to his assistant, then hangs up. “Yeah. Maybe I am.” He turns sober, staring at me with an unreadable expression. “I guess Saturday night we’ll see.”

We arrive early at the Carlyle hotel and take our seats, front and center a few feet from the stage.

“You know Woody Allen is obsessed with death too? It’s really obvious when you watch his movies. I watched a documentary where he talks about it. I suppose it made me feel less alone, like I wasn’t the only one thinking those things.”

I flush.

“Do you feel changed after your mom died?”

“Sometimes. I find myself thinking things I never would have,” he answers.

“Like.”

“Like people who have it bad. Like whether we have as much control of our lives as we think we do.”

I look at him. “Christos, I’m having a great time this weekend.”

“So am I.”

We laugh and then fall sober because we were teasing but the topic maybe wasn’t something to tease about. I’m really serious about him; and I think he’s serious about me.

Correction: I hope, I really want him to be serious about me too.

The music starts and Woody fucking Allen takes the stage and begins playing. He looks just like he does on TV. Except real…and so close. My eyes are wide in disbelief, and I blink several times. I feel like I’m staring at a legend.

Christos’s arm is around my shoulders and I lean into him with my hand on his thigh. I look at my hand, how proprietary its position is. When did I get so possessive? I look up and find him watching me with a curl of his lips.

“What?” I ask.

He smiles, silent. I’m pretty sure he won’t share what he’s thinking with me. He leans close to my ear so I can overhear him through the music. “You’re so cute, Miss Kelly.” His breath bathes warmly across my ear.