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“Sorry,” Phoebe said. “You never liked talking about that.”

“It’s fine.” He set down the pen he’d been fiddling with. “I’m not precious about it anymore. I’ve got thicker skin now. And I’ve learned that no one actually gives a shit when you tell them you’re a writer.”

“I give a shit.”

Jonathan nudged her. “That’s because you’re you. But yeah, no, I’m still terrible at planning things in advance. I jot down ideas here and there, but no outlines.”

“Hmm.” Phoebe tapped her chin.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I can see those wheels turning. Like you’re about to offer to help me write an outline or something.”

Phoebe gaped at him, about to proclaim her innocence, then said, “I definitely was.”

“I’ve got a handle on the screenwriting. Let’s focus on the task at hand, shall we?”

“We shall.”

They bent their heads over the notebook Phoebe had been writing in, silently rereading their mission statement.

“Overview of services?” Phoebe prompted, pen at the ready.

“Easy. We provide the market research and analysis, SEO, and ad campaign planning.”

“What about social media? Email marketing?”

Jonathan nodded.

Phoebe scrawled a couple of sentences under the heading “Overview of Services.” She glanced up and noticed that Jonathan was tilting his head as though reading her writing but actually looking at her face.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Is this weird?”

“Is what weird?”

“That we ran into each other after not speaking for eight years and now we’re sitting here writing a business plan?”

“Yes. Very weird.”

“Should I open a bottle of wine?” Phoebe asked.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

When Phoebe returned from the tiny kitchen with a bottle of merlot and two glasses, Jonathan had moved to the couch. He had one arm spread over the back of the sofa so that if Phoebe sat next to him, he would have his arm around her. She opted for the little armchair in the corner instead. Jonathan didn’t seem bothered.

“Cheers,” he said as Phoebe handed him a glass.

“Cheers.” They touched their glasses together, holding eye contact as they took a sip. In college, Jonathan had told her that it was bad luck to cheers without making eye contact, and Phoebe had made sure to do it ever since.

Now, looking into his dark brown eyes, rimmed with fluffy lashes she’d always been jealous of, as the full-bodied wine hit her taste buds, Phoebe shivered.

“I’ve missed you,” she blurted without thinking.