I’m suddenly grateful for Scott’s and Marnie’s presence. It keeps me from dwelling on those questions—or even worse, asking them.

Marnie doesn’t ask any more questions about me and Gray. She and Scott converse with the comforting ease of a couple who not only know each other well, but have also lived through the hard times along with the happy. We sip wine, slurp oysters, and savor entrées as Sam’s parents share stories about the bed-and-breakfast. They pelt me with plenty of questions as well, asking all about my life in Charleston.

When we finish dinner, Marnie and Scott insist on paying for the meal, then send us to “the best bar in town.” Since they were right about Dockside—the food was incredible—I’m inclined to believe them. I’m running on fumes after a long day and limited sleep, but I feel wide awake as we walk along the same street as we did earlier. The only difference is, it’s dark now, and the people out and about are almost exclusively our age.

I’m wearing wedges tonight, which are more comfortable than heels. I wince as I watch one woman navigating the cobblestones in stilettos. A sprained ankle would have been a sure outcome if I’d attempted the same. She teeters but stays upright, thanks to the long umbrella she’s holding. I glance up at the inky, clear sky in confusion. Maybe she brought it as a walking stick?

There’s no question which building is our destination. Noise and music spill out into the street, audible even when we’re still half a block away.

Gray rests his hand on my lower back when we walk inside the bar. The possessive touch sinks through the cotton dress I’m wearing and sears my skin, branding the flesh about as subtly as an iron. I’ve never come to a bar alone with a guy—just me and him. I’ve had nights out with other women. Logan and I would go for drinks but always with our group of friends.

I catch a few guys glancing at me. No one approaches. Gray’s presence by my side is a powerful deterrent from any lewd comments or suggestive offers. He keeps his palm pressed against my back, guiding me through the crowd and over to the tiled counter that spans the bar. Heat spreads from the few inches where he’s touching me, dancing along the surface of my skin and sending tingles everywhere. Rather than become accustomed to his proximity, I feel like I’ve become more attuned to it. I’m always aware of exactly how close he is.

“What do you want?” Gray asks when we reach the counter.

“Tequila shot.”

He smirks. “That kind of night, huh?”

“I just want one.”