“Clearly, it’s time to move on to Kate Mosses,” he says.

I take the drinks from his hands and we all down our Kate Mosses. My eyes water. “I’ve got about one more teeth-puller in me before I turn into a pumpkin.”

“We could mosey down the street,” he says. “Go dancing?”

“Dancing, yes,” Meg says, bouncing on her heels, arms stiff at her sides. “Preferably Irish.”

“I like it here,” I say. “It’s just . . . would it be okay if we put Operation Get Lanie Laid to rest for the night? I’m more in a sip-my-drink-and-try-to-keep-Meg-off-the-bar kind of mood.”

“Say no more,” Meg says, and loops an arm around me. “We’ll just pretend we’re the only ones here—”

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Is that . . .”

I rise on my toes, because a dead ringer for Noah Ross has just walked into the bar. Which would be three times the man has stumbled into my life in a single week. Surely some sort of world record.

But then, when he turns, I see it isn’t him. Not by a long shot. Just some dark, curly-headed stranger in a pea coat. I’m surprised to feel disappointed.

Meg is studying me, following my gaze. “You like that guy over there because he looks like your Man of the Year. What is your deal with him?”

“What do you mean? I have no deal.”

“Lanie. You hid from him at brunch.”

“You don’t think he’s attractive?”

I did not mean to ask that. I’m not sure why it would matter to me whether Meg thinks Noah is cute. Still . . . does she?

“His attractiveness is not in question,” Meg says. “Your awkwardness is. You like him. You should go for it—”

“It’s a nonstarter!” I say, more forcefully than intended. But it is true, even if I can’t explain in more detail to Meg. Even if I can’t explain to myself why a tiny part of me feels disappointed.

Chapter Thirteen

“Did you know,” I say to Noah as we enter the castle-like museum the next morning, “that this place was built out of the reassembled pieces of five legitimately medieval French cloisters?”

He stops walking and turns to me, a smile held in his eyes. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do.” He presses his palms together. “We’re going to stand right here, and you’re going to unleash all your museum docent facts. Every single one. Just nail me with them. Purge your system, Lanie. After that? We’re going to walk around like regular people and enjoy our time at this place.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll shut up. I can take a hint. Even a very overt one.”

We start walking again, our footsteps echoing through the gray stone arches of the abbey. “You know, two weeks ago you would have reamed me for ribbing you like that,” he says.