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I feel the silent question rising with the beat of the next song, and with it a little flurry of activity in my stomach.

But no.

Surely he’s not. Surely he wouldn’t be . . . interested . . .

“Call me Will. And a good publishing house doesn’t just take care of their authors,” he says. “They take care of their employees too. I hope you know that.”

I feel a momentary rise of disappointment but just as quickly whisk it away. Of course. Of course this was all about work. Or liability, even. Maybe he just wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to step Pennington into a lawsuit. Enabling harassment. All of that. Of course.

As we drink in silence, I feel the need to turn the conversation. To say anything. Anything at all.

“So, I’m sure it was a big move coming all the way from the City,” I venture. “Do you miss it?”

The second I ask the question I regret it. The man was fired from his bigger, better job in New York City. The only reason he has returned, most likely, is a lack of other opportunities. Great, Sav. Just throw salt on his wounds.

He raises his hand for the bill, the expression in his eyes unreadable. “Sometimes.”

“I’ve been there a few times,” I say, trying to keep the tone upbeat. “Once when my father ended up on the TODAY show to make some baklava and talk about his new cookbook, and once when my sister was marching in the Macy’s Day Parade.”

“Your father is a chef?”

“No. Dentist,” I say, then catch myself. “A dentist with a penchant for pastries and a thriving YouTube cooking account with a Saturday baking class for underprivileged youths downtown.”

“A dentist with a sweet tooth,” Will muses, smiling slightly. “How ironic.”

“Good job security,” I say, grinning back.

“And your sister?” he asks. “What instrument did she play?”

“All of them.”

He smiles politely as though waiting for my real answer.

“No, really, all of them. I mean, in the parade itself she only juggled between flute solo and trumpet. But yes, all of them.”

His brows raise, and I see the same look I see in everyone’s eyes when I talk about my family. “A real go-getter family you got there.”

“You have no idea.”

“Well, I can see why Pennington Publishing must be glad to have you, then.”

“Oh no.” I almost choke on my gin. “No. I’m nothing like the rest of them.”

Will’s eyes widen, and a smirk slowly rises on one side of his face. “Ah. So you aren’t a high achiever. Too bad.”

“Wait, no,” I amend quickly, setting my glass down to focus on correcting myself. “I don’t underwork. I do just . . . enough.”

“A very satisfactory level, you might say.”

I see it now, in his eyes. They’re mirthful. He’s teasing me. My lips start to curl. “Pleasantly sufficient.”

“Perfectly adequate,” he says, his eyes crinkling too. “You could highlight that on your CV.”

“How do you think I got this job?”

Our eyes hold, and for a long moment we just smile. A warmth spreads through me. I can’t define it exactly, but if it were a scent, it’d be eggnog sprinkled with nutmeg. If a sound, it’d be the footsteps of a dear friend on your front porch.

“Or at least,” he continues, “you can throw it in your CV when you email Sterling.”