Free Perfect Match by J. Minter Page A

café in my neighborhood, a tiny hole-in-the-wall that sold local art off its walls and had a never-ending stream of West Villagers rushing through its velvet-curtained entrance. The place was famous for the number of gourmet hot dog options on the menu, which was surpassed only by the number of body piercings sported by the waiters. I liked it because of the seasonal veggie plates, massive pots of tea, and out-of-this world carrot cake.
    I grabbed a table by the window and was in the midst of talking myself into skipping the meal and moving straight to dessert, when the door chimesjangled, the velvet curtain parted, and my Prince of New York stepped into the bustling restaurant.
    I once overheard my mom tell my aunt that every time my dad walked into the room, even after all these years, she still felt a little bit of a rush. I’d been about ten at the time, and remembered making a theatrical gagging motion while sprinkling crushed red pepper flakes on my microwave popcorn. But now, watching Alex scan the tiny restaurant for my face—then light up when he spotted me—I totally understood where my mom had been coming from. Something about the sensation made me feel really lucky to be exactly where I was.
    â€œThat’s quite a load of books,” Alex said, taking off his peacoat and black Agnès B. scarf and sliding into the seat across from me.
    â€œMaybe it only seems like a lot because you didn’t bring
any
.” I laughed. “Don’t you ever have homework?”
    Alex shrugged. “You say ‘study date,’ I hear ‘alone time.’ ” He leaned over the table to kiss me. “It is sort of hard to reserve you sans entourage sometimes.”
    â€œHey,” I teased, sliding down so Alex could hang his coat on the hook next to mine. “It takes an entourage-haver to know one.”
    â€œTouché.” Alex laughed.
    I was eagerly awaiting an appropriate moment to pump him for details on Phil. Amory had practically bombarded me after French this morning for information about Phil’s status, relationship history, mother’s maiden name, blood type, etc.
    The waiter arrived, tongue ring flashing, and delivered Alex’s medium-rare cheeseburger, no onions, and my large, gorgeous three-tiered slice of carrot cake. In fact, it looked so amazing that I took out my well-worn camera to snap a few pictures for the food assignment in my photography class.
    Alex raised an eyebrow at me. “I know you like cake, but what are you now—the dessert paparazzi?”
    â€œIt’s for a class,” I told him. “And don’t make fun of my crappy camera. It’s practically vintage. Here, take a look.” I pulled out the portfolio of Balthazar shots I’d developed in the darkroom at school earlier. Spread out on the empty table next to us, all the black-and-white photographs of shiny croissants, dramatic layered napoleons, and crusty brioches did look pretty striking.
    Alex examined the pictures and then me. “You took all these yesterday? And developed them today? I’m impressed.”
    â€œThanks,” I said, glad that he thought they looked okay. “Morgan and I went to Balthazar after schoolyesterday. I didn’t know the pics were going to turn out so well. I’ve never worked in a darkroom before.”
    I realized I was blushing. Even though I was really into the class, I felt sort of funny talking about it to Alex so seriously. So instead of getting all technical, I found myself blabbing about my
other
recent hobby.
    â€œI left the restaurant with a roll of pictures,” I said lightly. “Morgan left with a date. Well, it was sort of an impromptu date. And it didn’t even turn out that well. She actually got sort of mad at me because—”
    I looked up and could tell that I’d lost Alex somewhere along the way. He was giving me that smile that meant he was just this side of utterly