“The funny thing is, I’ve driven past about a hundred times and never thought to eat here.”

“Yeah, it’s not particularly appealing from the outside.”

A loud gong bangs quickly five or six times and there’s a chant from the chefs in the open kitchen as a group of satisfied diners head out of the door.

“Do they really carry on like that every time anyone comes in or out?”

“Yep. You should see what they do when it’s someone’s birthday.”

Red lanterns and flags hang everywhere. Waitresses dressed in colourful Japanese kimonos float about looking completely unruffled as the worst pop music I’ve ever heard blares in the background. I’d have thought it would make me wish I’d never left home, but being here energizes me, makes me feel more alive and excited than I have done in weeks. It could also be because I’m sitting opposite a guy I’m finding it extremely hard not to throw myself at. I need to snap out of this. Fast.

“So, how long have you been running your own business?” I ask, watching Scott swallow yet another dumpling.

“About three years.”

“Did you always want to be an architect?”

“No. I thought I was going to be a famous wildlife photographer.”

“What happened?”

“I tried to photograph my neighbour’s cat and it attacked me. Viciously, I might add. I still have the scar.” He shows me the inside of his wrist and points to a faint white line. “Talk about being scarred for life.”

I want to run my finger over the scar. What is happening to me? I must act calm.

“How old were you when this savage attack took place?”

“Ten.”

“Where did you study architecture?”

Scott lifts his eyebrows. “Do you always interrogate people like this?”

My cheeks grow hot. “I’m just interested.”

“Trish, I’m hassling you. You looked so serious and earnest, like you were interviewing me for some report.”

“Thanks a lot.” I cross my arms and pretend to look cross, though I’m relieved he didn’t read something else into my expression.

Scott eyes me as he takes a gulp of water.

“How about you start answering some of my questions? Conversations are supposed to go both ways, you know. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that every time I ask you anything, you change the subject or turn it around into a question for me instead.”

Damn him and his overly perceptive ways. “I don’t really like to talk about myself.”

“Why not?”

“Because my life has been very boring.”

“Rubbish. What do you like to do when you’re not beavering away at work?”

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m the most boring person on the planet.”

“Again, rubbish. Spill.”

“All right. I love gardening. I’m like an old nana.”