She waited for him to say more, but he just stared at her, as if something troubled him. No doubt she reminded him of the night with Tully. “Well, I better get back to work.”

“Wait. I’m working on this story for Mike Hurtt. I could use some help.”

“Sure.”

For the next few hours, they sat huddled together at his desk, working and reworking the problematic script. Kate tried to keep her distance from him and told herself never to make eye contact. Both resolutions failed. By the time they finished work, night had fallen outside; the quiet outer offices were banked in shadows.

“I owe you dinner,” Johnny said, putting his papers away. “It’s almost eight.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” she answered. “I was just doing my job.”

He looked at her. “How will I get along without you?”

Months ago, when there was still hope, she would have blushed at a moment like this. Maybe even a week ago she would have. “I’ll help you hire someone.”

“You think replacing you will be easy?”

She had no answer for that. “I’m going now—”

“I owe you dinner. That’s all there is to it. Now get your coat. Please.”

“Okay.”

They went downstairs and got into his car. In minutes, they were pulling up to a beautiful cedar-shaked houseboat on Lake Union.

“Where are we?” Kate asked.

“My house. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you dinner. I just want to change my clothes. You’re all dressed up.”

Kate steeled herself against the emotion knocking on her heart. She would not let it in. For too long she’d let herself be pulverized by dreams of a happy ending that wasn’t to be. She followed him down the dock and into a house that was surprisingly spacious.

Johnny immediately went to the fireplace, where a fire was already set. He bent down, lighting the newspapers and kindling fire roared to life. Then he turned to her. “Would you like a drink?”

“Rum and Coke?”

“Perfect.” He went to the kitchen, poured two drinks, and returned. “Here you go. I’ll be right back.”

She stood there a moment, uncertain of what to do. She glanced around the living room, noticing how few photographs he had. On the television cabinet there was a single picture of a middle-aged couple, dressed in brightly colored clothing, squatting together in a jungle-looking setting with children clustered around them.

“My parents,” Johnny said, coming up behind her. “Myrna and William.”

She spun around, feeling as if she’d been caught snooping. “Where do they live?” she said, going to the couch, sitting down. She needed distance between them.

“They were missionaries. They were killed in Uganda by Amin’s death squads.”

“Where were you?”

“When I was sixteen, they sent me to school in New York. That was the last time I saw them.”

“So they were idealists, too.”