They did, both dressed in those down coats with patches that announced them as explorers of Antarctica. The woman crossed her puffy arms. “Are you shitting me, Dallas?” she practically yelled.

“Oh,” murmured Alexander. “Maybe this will be fun after all.”

“I never said I wanted to be exclusive! That was all in your head!” the unfortunately named Dallas answered.

“How many women have you been seeing, you cheating bastard? Belinda? Are you seeing that whore again?”

“She’s not a whore!”

“So that’s a yes! Jesus! We’re done, asshole. If I have an STD, I will slit your throat and burn your apartment to the ground.”

She stomped past us, cutting us a look. “Hi,” I said.

“Fuck you,” she snapped.

Alexander laughed. The cheater skulked past us, arms folded, head down against the wind.

“Okay, so that was fun,” Alexander said. “They do have the right idea about leaving, though. This cheese is almost frozen, and I don’t really see eating it here. What do you say, babe? Shall we go? Grab a drink somewhere with heat?”

Do or die. “Right. Okay.” Shit. We were sitting. I scrambled to my feet. “Um, can you stand up for a second?”

“About time. Do you want to go out for dinner?” The cold wind whipped his blond hair, and his ears were bright red.

“Just one thing first.” I looked into his eyes, which were watering a little from the wind. Just then, the sun slipped behind a bank of clouds that had come out of nowhere. So much for fiery skies burnishing the moment.

It didn’t matter. I loved him. He was rock solid, this guy, and we . . . we had such a good thing going. Before I changed my mind, I knelt down. Felt my tights catch on the rough surface of the walkway.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Alexander Mitchum, will you marry me and make me the happiest man—shit, I mean woman—alive?” The wind gusted again, blowing my hair into my face.

“Uh . . . what are you doing, Sadie?” His face was incredulous.

“I . . . I’m proposing.” My heart felt like the sun, abruptly swallowed in clouds. Do not make me go back on those dating websites, Alexander Mitchum.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to propose.”

“Okay! Sure. Go for it.” Thank God.

He laughed a little. “Well, babe . . . I’m not ready. There are things I need to have in place. A ring, for one.”

“We can get one later. Cartier is open till seven. Probably. Not that I checked.”

He laughed. “Well, I’d like to surprise you. When the time comes.”

“I’m down on one knee here, Alexander.”

“Get up, then! This is crazy.” He pulled me to my feet. I felt my tights tear. “You nut. It’s the man’s job to propose.”

Sexist, really. “It seemed like a good idea. I mean, we’ve been together two years. We’re the right age.” I forced a smile.

“What is the right age, really? Is there an age that’s wrong?” he asked, but he kissed my forehead. “I’ll do it when the time is right. Okay?”

Well, didn’t I feel stupid. “Okay.”

“I want the moment to be when we’re not freezing our asses off in the dark. Don’t worry. It’ll be perfect.”

My heart felt weird. Happy weird, or disappointed weird? “I mean, now that we’re talking about it . . . you could just . . . ask.”

“No. I want it to be really romantic. Not on a night so cold my balls are retracting.”

“Got it.”

In case there was any doubt that my plan sucked, those dark gray clouds opened and a cold rain started to fall.

“I’m gonna pass out if I don’t eat soon. Want to grab something, then go back to my place and fool around so we can salvage this night?”

“Sure.”

Feeling like a dolt, I followed him to the stairs that led to street level.

Alexander’s phone chimed. He studied it, then looked up. “Shit, babe,” he said. “I have to go up to Boston. That idiot Patriots player is pitching a fit over a painting of himself that was supposed to be hung on the ceiling over his bed, and the designer put it on the wall instead. What time is it? Damn. I’ll have to drive up tonight.” He looked at me. “Want to come? We could grab some fast food on the road and stay overnight. A suite at the Mandarin with some spa time tomorrow, maybe?”

That was the thing about Alexander. He was so thoughtful. But my feeling of ineptitude lingered.

“I think I’ll just go home. I have a painting due Sunday.”

“Gotcha.” We stood there awkwardly. “Want me to drive you home?

“Subway’s faster,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Well. Drive safely.”

“I will. Talk to you, babe.” He kissed me quickly and strode off.

It really was cold. I started walking toward Eighth Avenue to catch the subway. Soon, I’d be home. Maybe I’d take a shower to warm up. Order Thai food and work on that blue-and-white “like Van Gogh except not as swirly” painting I’d been commissioned to do. Bitter sigh, followed by the reminder to be grateful that I had these gigs at all and wasn’t living in a paper bag.