24

Sondra

“Everyone’s trying to figure out who you are,” I murmur to Nico. We’re sitting in the cafe of the Met, drinking espresso to revive ourselves from our long day of walking through the art museum. Yes, he flew me on a private jet to New York City this morning and demanded I show him all the best the Met had to offer. Considering it’s my first trip to New York, let alone the Met, my bucket is beyond full.

Nico’s as handsome as ever in one of his fine suits and he looks like some kind of celebrity amongst the tourists. He arches a brow. “Me? No, amore. They’re looking at you. I heard one couple whispering that you’re a famous actress.” He picks up my hand and runs his thumb over my fingers.

If I’d worried that Nico and I would have nothing to talk about if we actually had time to spend together, I was wrong. He told me all about growing up in Chicago—the things he misses from the city, the things he doesn’t. How and why he ended up in Vegas.

I told him about Michigan, growing up acr