“We don’t know that. Because we don’t know what happened, or why.”

“That’s ridiculous. Dean’s a surgeon. He’s not—”

“What kind of surgeon?” I say.

Riona takes a slow breath, clearly annoyed with me. “He’s a thoracic surgeon,” she says.

“And how long have you two been dating?”

“Three months.”

“How did you meet?”

“Is this really—”

“Just answer the questions. It’s easier than arguing.”

Riona tosses her head, throwing her long, flame-colored ponytail back over her shoulder. Her hair is the most vivid I’ve ever seen—not orange or strawberry-blonde. A true bright red. Her eyebrows and lashes are much darker, like the black points on a fox’s ears and nose.

There’s nothing delicate or girlish about Riona. She’s a woman through and through. She has a long, straight nose, wide mouth, strong cheekbones, and poker-straight posture. Tall, and not afraid to wear heels to make herself taller.

“Do you think I do anything because it’s easier?” she says.

“Sure you do,” I say. “Smart people don’t do things the hard way.”

“Know a few smart people, do you?” she says mockingly.

“Why you tryin’ so hard to fight with me? We’re not enemies.”

“We’re not friends either.” She sniffs.

I just chuckle and shake my head at her, which annoys her more than if I’d gotten angry.

Riona may look like a fox, but she’s got the temperament of a thoroughbred—haughty and high-strung. I don’t think she’s bad-tempered. She just doesn’t trust easily.

I know how to handle thoroughbreds. I grew up on a horse ranch, after all.

“Come on,” I say gently. “Tell me where you met this Dean guy. Was it on Tinder? You can tell me if it was Tinder.”

“No,” Riona says, refusing to smile. “It wasn’t Tinder.”

“Where, then?”

“It was a friend’s birthday party. I was opening a bottle of wine. The stopper slipped. I cut my finger. He helped bandage it.”

“And he didn’t send you a bill after, so you knew it was true love.”

“No. He just asked to take me out for coffee the next day.”

“Who was your mutual friend?”

“Her name’s Amanda. We went to law school together.”

“How did Dean know her?”

“He plays racquetball with her fiancé Greg.”

We’re pulling up in front of the restaurant now. Riona says, “Satisfied? You’re not going to interrogate him, too, I hope.”

“Nah, of course not.” I grin. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse. You’ll barely even know I’m there.”

* * *

5

Riona

Dean is waiting by the host stand for me. He showered and changed after work, so he’s wearing a pale blue button-up shirt that brings out the blond in his hair. I think he shaved for a second time, because his face is perfectly smooth as he gives me a quick kiss hello. I can smell his aftershave and the industrial-strength antiseptic lingering on his hands and fingernails.

Dean could cosplay as a Ken doll without much trouble. He’s tall, fit, and handsome, with a cleft in his chin. He has a softness to his features that makes him look boyish, even though he’s almost forty.