"I'm not going in there," Roman protests, dead serious, hands on his hips.

We're standing in front of a taco shop wedged between a fancy smoothie palace and Starbucks, a stone throw away from Bryant Park. I know... This isn't Roman's usual scene, but he only has an hour, and this is the best taco house in town.

"Don't go in then." I shrug. "I'll take everything to go."

Roman squints, trying to see through the shop's blurry windows. "What's the hygiene rating of this place for God's sake? One out of ten?"

"It's ten out of ten." I point at the yellow sign on the door.

"Abby..." His frown deepens as he begs with his eyes. "I'm not a fan of tacos."

"Just give it a try!" I pull his hand, making him step closer. "I tried oysters... And scotch! Guess what? I loved them."

Roman sighs, looking down at his light blue dress shirt and beige pants. "It'll spill—"

"You're overthinking." I run my hand up his arm. Behind him, a group of white-collars is heading our way. If we don't go in now, we'll miss our chance. "Wait here. I'll be in and out," I suggest, but of course, Roman doesn't wait. He follows me into the shop and stands behind me in the crammed space as I order.

"Chicken, pulled pork, plain cheese, and veggies please," I tell the cashier, then shoot a glance at Roman over my shoulder. "How hungry are you?"

He holds his breath and shakes his head. His eyes are fixed on the smoky grill behind the counter. "We'll smell like beef and onions," he complains into my ear.

"It'll clear once we're outside," I assure him—and I'm right! Once we are out in the open, neither of us worry about the smell anymore.

As we stroll to the park, Roman's mood gets lighter and lighter. His hand grazes against mine every now and then. He's trying to act casual and keep it cool behind his sunglasses, but I can tell that he's enjoying our brief contact as much as I am.

The park is busy—as always. Just as we're looking for a spot for two, a table clears right in front of us. Roman hesitates for a second, glaring at the ketchup splatters on the table.

"Come on, it's not that bad," I say, cleaning the surface with a napkin.

Roman sighs and takes a seat at the edge of his chair.

"If you don't like it, it's not the end of the world," I say, trying hard not to giggle. "There's always the hotdog cart."

Roman shoots a panicky glance over my shoulder and makes me laugh.

Of course, I won't feed him salmonella. Who eats that shit other than rookies and tourists?

Roman places his glasses on top of his head then grabs a taco, looking me in the eyes. "This isn't the first time I'm eating street food. You know that, right?"

I shrug, trying to stifle my laughter.

He turns the taco around, searching for a place to bite. I'm enjoying watching his inner struggle too much. When he finally takes a bite, his eyes widen. His chewing slows down as he stares at the taco in his hand, as if it's the first time he's seen such a thing.

"I know." I smirk.

"This— Wow. I didn't expect it to be this good," he says, stuffing the rest of his food into his mouth. Then letting out a moan, he leans back in his chair and lifts his face to the sunny sky.

"Told you," I say, licking the tip of my thumb.

Roman relaxes. His smile grows as he gazes up at the clouds. "I can get used to this," he says, still chewing. "Simple life. No obligations. No stress. Just enjoying junk food at the park."

"You should do it more often," I suggest.

Roman nods, then straightens up and grabs a napkin. He wipes his fingers, one by one. His warm smile is contagious. I catch it without a warning.

There's a greasy spot above the dimple on his chin. I reach over the table and run my thumb through it. Roman's eyes move to my lips, then glide lower, tracing the curve of my neck.

"Wish I met you sooner," he says in a heated tone.

"Why?" I breathe out.  "So you could eat more tacos?"

The fire in Roman's eyes flicker. His face goes blank for a second, and his lips start quivering. Then without a warning, he throws back his head back bursts out laughing.

I can't help but laugh with him. A couple of tables look at us and smile.

Olga can call me crazy. Say, there's no such thing as twin flames. But what we have is real. I'm not delusional!

When our lunch is over, we stroll toward Roman's office. He steps closer, running his fingers down my back.

"Do you like the opera?" he asks with that same challenging look in his eyes.

"I've never been to—"

"Friday. Seven thirty. The Met Opera House."

Before I can say anything, Roman grabs me by the waist. Next, I'm flush against him. My arms loop around his shoulders. I shut my eyes and lift my head, searching for his lips. Roman pecks the corner of my smile. He's grinning, teasing me for the kiss I'm dying for.

Are we swinging? Are my feet even touching the ground?

It's our souls.

They are swaying above our bodies, dancing again, burning with expectation. Left, then right. Left, and right...

Roman's grin disappears. His breathing escalates. When I slowly tilt my face, he cups my cheek, and finally, presses his lips on top of mine.