The waitress fills our water glasses, gives us time to look at the menu, and Sal and I chat casually about the area: the weather, the sports, why I follow the Mariners over the Blue Jays (they were my mother’s favorite team), how often I make it down to Mariners games (as often as I can, which is hardly ever).

Harlow remains quiet—making note of useful information but otherwise aloof—and Sal doesn’t push her to engage. I wonder how much he knows about what’s happened between us. I want to catch her eye, tell her with my expression that we aren’t finished here, that I have my shit together and my words have bubbled to the surface, but she hardly looks up.

The waitress returns to take our order and she’s standing so close to me I feel her skirt brush against my arm. I slide over in my chair to give her more space, and Sal gestures to Harlow to begin.

“I’ll order for the table, actually,” she says and out of the corner of my eye I can see Sal look up in surprise and delight.

Pointing to him, Harlow says, “He’ll start with a Caesar, have the chicken caprese for his main course, and iced tea, no sugar.”

His eyes twinkle. “I was gonna get a steak, kid.”

“Nope.” She looks at him and winks. “Mila told me no red meat.”

“Well, shit.”

Pointing to me, she says, “He’ll have the bisque to start—”

The fuck? She’s not even going to ask me? “Actually—” I begin.

“The halibut for his main.” She gives me a knowing look and my heart hurts remembering that perfect fucking day on the water with her. “And a glass of Chardonnay.”

I blink. Chardonnay?

Beside her, Sal barks out a laugh.

Harlow hands her menu to the waitress, saying, “I’ll have the filet, bloody, and a huge plate of fries.” Glancing at me, she says, “Also a Stone IPA to wash it all down.”

The waitress smiles, her eyes sliding over to me again as she collects the menu and leaves.

Harlow glances up, her lips twitching at my expression.

“Chardonnay?” I ask.

She licks her lips, giving me a sweet, wet smile. “You look a little parched.”

“I was going to order the steak, too,” I tell her, fighting a grin.

“Well, you can covet mine while enjoying your freshly caught halibut.”

Sal is watching us with open amusement, his chin perched on his fist. “The audience is going to love watching you two.”

“Not happening, Salvatore,” Harlow says, still staring right at me.

“It might happen,” I say back, unable to fight my smile anymore. “Seeing as how there was one particular page in that contract I didn’t sign.”