Ryan was, of course. Nevertheless I felt trapped, stuck in town like a moth on a pest strip.

I leaned forward, arched my back, and rotated my head. Things crunched in my neck.

Ryan sat up and scootched close.

“Turn.”

I did.

Ryan began kneading my shoulders with strong, circular movements.

I closed my eyes.

“Mmm.”

“Too hard?”

“Hm uhm.” I hadn’t realized how tense I was.

Ryan ran a thumb along the inner edge of each shoulder blade.

A tiny groan curled up from my throat. I cut it off.

Ryan’s thumbs moved to the base of my skul .

Ohgod.

Up the back of my head.

Ohmygod.

Back down, across my shoulders, and along the muscles to either side of my spine.

Ful groan.

Seconds later the hands withdrew, and I felt the couch cushion change shape.

“Here’s a plan.”

I opened my eyes.

Ryan was leaning back, fingers laced behind his head. The chip bowl was empty. Boyd had crumbs on the side of his mouth.

“I’m buying you dinner.”

“No argument. Where?”

“Your town, your choice.”

An hour later Ryan and I were munching bruschetta at Toscana. The night was Hol ywood-summertime perfect, the moon a ful O overhead.

Toscana is an Italian eatery hidden in Specialty Shops on the Park, an enclave of cafés, spas, and boutiques at which Charlotte’s elite sip Silver Oak Cabernet, get wrapped in mud, and purchase bandannas for their dogs.

While the establishments are a bittoospecial for my budget, I do enjoy Toscana, especial y in the outdoor dining months. It and Volare are my favorites of the Italian places, and are roughly equidistant from Sharon Hal . Tonight I chose Toscana.

Ryan and I sat at a smal wrought-iron table in the restaurant’s cobbled courtyard. Behind us, a fountain tinkled softly. To our left, a couple debated the mountains versus the beach. A female threesome on our right compared golf handicaps.

Ryan sported tan Dockers and a crisp cotton shirt the exact cornflower blue of his eyes. His face was tan from the Kings Mountain outing, his hair stil shower wet.

He looked good.

Very good.

I wasn’t chopped liver myself.

Man-eater black linen sundress. Strap sandals. Guatemalan Victoria’s most secret thong.

The last few days had served up too many corpses and too much death. I’d made a decision. Like my neckline, I was taking the plunge.

“Does everyone in North Carolina play golf?” Ryan asked, as a white-shirted waiter handed us menus the size of legal briefs.

“It’s state law.”

The waiter inquired as to our cocktail preferences. Ryan asked for a Sam Adams. I ordered Perrier with lemon. Barely masking his disappointment, the waiter withdrew.

“Do you?”

I looked at Ryan. He dragged his gaze from my chest to my eyes.

“Play golf.”

“I’ve had a few lessons.”