We walk the booths lining the perimeter of the fountain, currently replaced with a giant Christmas tree that must be two stories tall. It’s packed with people, and we dodge other patrons with my hand still firmly in Sawyer’s. At one booth we find dog treats for his parents’ dog, whose name is Sam, by the way. We compare notes on growing up with mothers so obsessed with reading that they name their children and pets after literary characters or authors. About how much it annoyed me as a first grader to be saddled with an old-fashioned name like Beverly, so I dropped the B and insisted everyone call me Everly until it stuck. But that secretly, I loved every single book ever written by Beverly Cleary and still have each paperback stashed in the attic hideaway above my childhood bedroom.

We try Glühwein, a spiced mulled wine which I love and Sawyer wants no part of, and stollen, which I assume will be dry like a biscotti but turns out to be closer to a heavy cake—and delicious. We laugh when we stumble upon Christmas ornaments made from old library cards and immediately buy them for both of our mothers.

The atmosphere is undeniably romantic, the city lights a backdrop to this little slice of the North Pole, popped into a city park as if by magic.

I spot a tent selling bratwursts and drag Sawyer over.

“When I said dinner I meant a reservation at Del Frisco’s,” he says, looking a little bewildered by my request.

I shake my head. “Can you cancel it? I want to stay here and eat brats standing up in a crowd of people,” I plead.

He agrees, and I order two brats, mustard only for both of us. He steps back with his hands up when I elbow in front of him to pay.

“Sorry, I had to buy you dinner,” I explain while I unwrap half of my brat, like a burrito.

“Why’s that?” he asks, taking a bite of his.

“My roommate insisted it’s the polite thing to do before I fuck you.” I say it just loud enough for him to hear. He clears his throat, mid chew, then swallows before speaking. A slow, sexy grin follows before he speaks.

“Will you call me in the morning?” His eyes flicker with amusement.

“No.” I shake my head slowly. “I won’t have left yet, as I’ll be expecting you to make me breakfast after I bought you this expensive dinner”—I signal the brats—“and made you come.”

He nods, and suddenly the mood changes from lighthearted to intense. His gaze on my face is all-consuming and the crowd of people and lights and noise is reduced to a dull buzz on the periphery of my mind. I like the way he looks at me, like he gets me. Like he wants more of me. Like I interest him.

He slides a hand around my lower back and bends closer. His breath brushes my ear and it sends a shiver through me. “I’d be happy to,” he murmurs and then brushes one kiss on the skin behind my ear.

I’m wet. Like I’m gonna have to ditch these panties before he sees them wet. From a simple kiss. He didn’t even say anything dirty, but my heart is racing.

I want him. Right now. And the fact that we’re outdoors in a public park is slowly coming back to me. I’m doubtful I can convince him to have his way with me behind Santa’s workshop surrounded by a crowd of people, so I better pull myself together.

We finish our brats and walk the booths aligning JFK Boulevard, grabbing hot chocolate at one as the temperature starts to dip. I wrap my hands around the paper cup, watching the steam rise off and dissipate in the cold air. I scrunch my shoulders to ward off the chill and take a sip.

“You’re cold. We should head out.”

Yes! Yes, yes, all the yeses.

I play it cool and simply nod in agreement, turning to the direction we came in from. It’s a short walk, and in minutes we’re inside the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. A moment later, before I know what’s hit me, we’re being seated. In the lounge. For drinks. Why? Why are we having drinks? This is not where I thought we were headed. I thought we were on the same page, the sex page. A really hot, dirty sex page that’s earmarked so you can read it again and again.