I glance down at my lap. “Comparable.”
She rolls her eyes, then meets mine. “You can date whoever you want. I don’t care.”
I hum doubtfully. “You sure about that?”
“Like I said, you’re unbelievable.”
I laugh, then let it fade away, clearing my throat so I can tell her the truth. I want her to know, even if I’m not ready to facewhyI want that. “I’m not seeing anyone,” I say with no agenda, no games this time. “I’m not dating. But I do think you should pick the dessert. You’ve earned it.”
“For putting up with you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s saint work, really,” she says, then calls Esmeralda over. “We’ll take the mango sorbet with raspberry coulis.” Chloe turns to me. “Mango is the best fruit ever invented, and you can fight me on that.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “No fight.”
She flips her attention back to the woman behind the bar. “And I’d like a couple slices of your rosemary focaccia to go, along with a bottle of your best whiskey. Also, can you put a bow on the whiskey?”
“Anything for you, hon,” Esmeralda says, then gets to work.
“A bow?”
“Yes. My dad and his boyfriend like whiskey, so I thought it’d be nice to give them a bottle.”
Damn. She’s enjoying my tab a lot. Her boldness isn’t helping my cause to resist her. Then again, I’m not helping myself in that regard either. “And the focaccia?”
“It’s great for toast,” she says sweetly. “And I have an early morning. I need to meet my mom to go over her ideas for piano music for her fundraiser. So thanks for the breakfast.”
There’s a lot there I want to address, but I can also sense now’s maybe not the time.
“No problem,” I say, then nod at the bartender. “And some focaccia for me too.”
“Will do,” Esmeralda says.
When she brings the mango sorbet, I take my time, not wanting the night with Chloe to end, even though I know it has to. It’s the same way I felt at the hotel in San Francisco. This is getting to be an annoyance. Especially when a pang of loneliness digs into my heart when Chloe says, “I should get home to Captain.”
A pang of missing, too, for something I don’t have, as I say, “Bet he wants to see you.”
“He always does.” She pushes back on her stool, then stops, tilts her head. “Do you have a dog?”
I shake my head, disappointment coloring my tone as I explain, “Katya was allergic.”
Her lips part in surprise. “And that wasn’t a giant red flag of incompatibility?”
“In retrospect, it should have been,” I admit.
“Must love dogs is a, well, a must,” she says, but then studies me again. “But wait, that doesn’t explain why you don’t have one. You split a while ago.”
Fair question. “We did. I could have adopted. But I knew I’d be moving and settling into a new place. And I was sort of in…well, I was in a bad mood a lot. I guess I didn’t want to bring…that energy to a dog.”
She gives me the kindest, sweetest look. “That’s thoughtful. But I think the dog would be okay with your mood. Maybe even help it.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“When you’re ready, I can connect you with some great rescues. So you can find your favorite breed.”
Something tugs at my chest that she remembers. But I try not to read too much into the way I feel with her—the sheer weight of the physical desire, but also the sense that I could tell her anything. I’ve been fooled by my feelings before, so it’s best I ignore them.
