“Daisy!” Sinclair raised his voice. I shut up. He held out a single red rose. “This is a date. A romantic date. No way I was going to let you drive. Okay?”

“Okay.” I accepted the rose, hiding my face in it to conceal the fact that I was blushing a little. No one had ever given me a rose before. I peeked over it at Sinclair. He was wearing a fitted black T-shirt that showed off his torso, neatly creased khakis, and a pair of huarache sandals. Upscale casual. It looked good on him. “You look nice,” I said. “Did you bike down here wearing that?”

“Nah.” He grinned. “Spare clothes are in the saddlebag. I changed in the bathroom. You look great, too.” He crooked his arm. “Ready, sistah?”

Although I don’t have anything to compare it to, I’m pretty sure that as potentially awkward post-hookup dates go, this one was close to perfect. The hostess seated us on the patio near the gently splashing fountain. It was an intimate space, and the surrounding buildings blocked the light of the lowering sun, giving us a jump on candlelit ambience. The music of Édith Piaf was piped in at the exact right level to enhance the French bistro atmosphere without overpowering it.

From the first time we’d met, small talk had come easily to Sinclair and me. There was an affinity between us. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that we were both only children raised by single parents coming from adverse supernatural circumstances, although it’s not like I’d known that until just the other day. Anyway, I was glad to find that the easy connection was still there, that the new level of physical intimacy between us just took it to a different, more charged level. We held hands atop the table and played footsy under it. We pored over the wine list and pooled our limited knowledge of French wines. We talked about favorite movies, an inexhaustible topic, over salad and bread. We exchanged stories about our respective days over salmon almondine (me) and coquilles St. Jacques (Sinclair), debating his prospects for running a scaled-back tour in the coming fall and winter months, the antics of vengeful hobgoblins, the depths of Jojo the joe-pye weed fairy’s crush, and exactly who the hell St. Jacques was and what the hell he had to do with scallops.

I thought about asking Sinclair back to my place, which I hadn’t done yet. This whole boyfriend–romantic date thing was awfully seductive. Based on the steady heat in his eyes, he was thinking about it, too.

But . . . yeah. There was a pretty big elephant on the patio with us. And every time I tried not to think about it, I did.

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?” Sinclair asked me over dessert. “Not asking about it.”

I winced. “Is it that obvious?”