“Well, they’re famous for their ribeye.”

“I thought that cabbie said seafood was their specialty.”

I shrug. “He also thought Columbus Drive was the best way to get over here.”

“Alright, you convinced me.” Raylan grins. “Cabbie doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

Dean motions to the waiter.

“Go ahead,” I say to the men. “I’m still looking.”

“Ribeye, please,” Raylan says. “Bloody, with a baked potato.”

“I’ll have the chicken and capers,” Dean says virtuously. He hands his menu to the waiter and winks at me. “I plan to live past a hundred.”

“I’ll trade a decade or two for steak,” Raylan says, totally unconcerned.

I can’t help smiling a little. “I’ll have the ribeye, too,” I say to the waiter.

Dean looks betrayed.

I shrug. “I’m hungry.”

When the waiter leaves us alone again, an awkward silence falls over the table. Dean tries a new conversational tactic, which I suspect is designed to exclude Raylan.

“I saw the Art Institute is showing an exhibit of El Greco,” he says. “I got tickets for us.”

That actually does excite me. “Thank you,” I say. “I’d love to go.”

Dean looks pleased with himself. Not content with that victory, he says, “I guess we’ll need a ticket for your bodyguard, too. Are you a fan of painting, Raylan?”

“Not really,” Raylan says, shrugging.

“You don’t like Renaissance art?” Dean smirks.

Raylan takes a piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table and spreads a generous layer of butter.

“Well, El Greco isn’t really Renaissance, is he?” he says, taking a large bite of his bread.

“What do you mean?” Dean frowns.

“Well . . . ” Raylan chews and swallows. “The way he stretched out his people and made ‘em all dramatic. Wouldn’t you call that Mannerism?”

Now I really can’t help laughing, even though it turns the foolish look on Dean’s face to a downright scowl.

Raylan shrugs. “We got books in Tennessee,” he says blandly. “Even a museum or two.”

The steak comes to the table on sizzling, five-hundred-degree platters, drenched in butter and parsley. The two-pound baked potatoes are piled with sour cream and hunks of bacon. The scent of grilled meat is heavenly.

Raylan and I attack our food like ravenous dogs. I haven’t eaten a thing since coffee that morning. The rich, fatty rib-eye is soft enough to cut with a fork. It melts away on my tongue, intensely satisfying.

Dean cuts his chicken breast into small cubes, sour-faced.

I can see Raylan wants to tease him about his order, but he refrains.

Feeling just a little bit bad for Dean, since my own meal is so damned delicious, I ask him about his surgery that afternoon.

Dean perks up, launching into a long and detailed description of the complicated thoracotomy that was brought to his hospital specifically for him, because he’s the only surgeon in the city with a 100% success rate on that particular procedure.

On that topic, the rest of the dinner passes by.