“Thanks,” she murmurs, with a snort that says she doesn’t believe it. “You too.”
I grin. A flash of teeth—a real smile. My nerves pop like a soap bubble. I open the door for her, and we slide inside.
The hostess is five feet tall, wearing a black cardigan with the restaurant logo embroidered in gold script over her left breast. “Name?” she asks, scanning the crowd behind us.
“McKnight,” I say. “Reservation for two.”
The old lady glances at her iPad, then leads us past a double row of booths, the tables jammed with college kids and silver-haired professors alike, all of them gesturing wildly or shouting over the Frank Sinatra soundtrack. I catch a few stares, but nothing unusual. Kat keeps her eyes straight ahead, her hand brushing mine for a second, then gone. The hostess deposits us in a corner booth—red leather, checkered tablecloth, a candle.
“Enjoy,” she says, and I catch a whiff of her perfume, something powdery and grandmotherly that lingers as she floats away.
I slide in, trying not to stare as Kat unbuttons her coat and shrugs it off, folding it over the back of the seat. Her dress is simple but devastating, the fabric hugging her waist and cupping her bust with a loving precision that makes my ears buzz. I watch her fidget with the menu, tucking her hair behind her ear again, and realize that I’ve missed every one of her nervous tics.
She glances up. “You okay? You’re staring.”
“Just—” I start, but the words evaporate. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually show.”
She smiles sweetly. “Me either. But I figured you’d do something dramatic if I stood you up. Like send a food basket to my apartment. Or egg my car.”
I laugh, and the tension between us cracks, just a little. “I’m more a passive-aggressive email guy. You’d have gotten at least three ‘per my last email’ communications before midnight.”
Her lips twitch, and she looks down at the menu. “I have a friend who can trace IPs. Don’t try me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, but now my eyes are stuck on the side of her neck, the little spot where the skin dips and pulses. I want to taste it, to run my tongue over the scar she told me was from a childhood bike crash. Instead, I unfold my own menu and pretend to be very interested in the pasta section.
The waiter shows up, pencil tucked behind his ear. “Drinks?” he asks, notepad at the ready.
Kat doesn’t hesitate. “Cabernet, please. House is fine.”
“Old Fashioned,” I say, and he nods, already gone.
I watch her scan the appetizers. “You ever been here before?” she asks, not quite meeting my eyes.
I shake my head. “No, but I googled it. Best lasagna in a hundred-mile radius. Or so they say.”
She huffs, amused. “Who’s they?”
I lean in, dropping my voice. “Yelp. The true arbiters of taste.”
Kat giggles and gives me a sidelong look. “You know, it’s weird seeing you like this, Talon. Not, like, in a flannel and writing cave. You almost look like a different person.”
I feign offense. “I’ll have you know this shirt was a gift from my publicist. She said it would make me seem more ‘approachable.’”
“Does it?”
I shrug. “You tell me.”
The golden girl studies me for a second, her gaze flicking down to my hands, up to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Yes. Maybe.”
The drinks arrive, the waiter setting them down with a flourish. Kat sips hers, eyes over the rim, and I want to ask her what she’s thinking, but I know better. The wine stains her lips a deeper red.
We order, trading food choices with the easy banter of two people who already know each other’s worst habits. She giggles when I order a salad as an appetizer (“I know you don’t like salad”), and I tease her about the way she says “bruschetta” like a Food Network host. The waiter disappears with our menus, and for a minute the world seems to settle.
I lean back, relaxing for the first time all day. “Thank you for coming, Kat,” I say, more serious than I intend.
She shrugs, lightly smoothing the condensation on her wine glass. “Figured it was time. You already know everything about me anyway. Or at least, you wrote it down.”
Oof. I wince, but she softens the blow with a smile. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”
