“Hi Jace, it’s nice to meet you,” she greets. “I’m Megan.”

I return her smile. “Nice to meet you, Megan.”

Discussions of the unseasonably cool weather and favorite spots around the city last us the short drive to the restaurant. Our limousine pulls up in front, directly in front of the horde of paparazzi snapping photographs. Their presence is expected. Doesn’t make it any less annoying.

“Should we go face the sharks?” Megan asks, and I like her more for it.

“Let’s do it.”

She climbs out first, and I follow. I’m blinded by the flashes, but I smile and wave as though I’m having the time of my life as we pose before heading inside the Italian restaurant. It’s small and intimate, with lots of exposed brick and unfinished wood and soft lighting. We’re shown to a back table that’s cordoned off from the rest of the diners.

Megan is easy to talk to, but I struggle to stay focused on our conversation. Instead, I keep recalling how Vivienne stiffened when I told her I was going on this date. The waiter comes to take our drink order, and I can’t help but think about how she would have ordered whiskey instead of the fancy cocktail Megan selects.

What’s worse? I like Megan. She doesn’t act like I’m simply a football player. She asks about my family, my time at Lincoln, and my interests. And I can tell she’s genuinely interested in my answers. This doesn’t feel like a publicity stunt. It feels like an actual date.

And all I can think about is when Viv asked me about going on a date in Lincoln’s dining hall and wish I hadn’t assumed we’d have the following semester. Wish she was the one sitting across from me.

Our waiter returns with Megan’s cocktail and my bourbon and asks for our dinner orders.

“Chicken bucatini, please,” I request. It’s the first thing I spot on the menu.

“I’ll have the pumpkin ravioli, please,” Megan orders.

I close my eyes and take another long pull of bourbon.

The reporters are still waiting for us when we leave the restaurant. I smile and wave, ignoring the reporter’s shouted questions. Megan and I climb into the waiting limousine. Before I know it, we’re back in front of Megan’s townhouse.

“I had fun tonight,” she tells me.

“I did, too,” I reply. For the few minutes I managed to pay attention.

Megan smiles and leans forward. I know what’s about to happen, and I let it. She kisses me softly, and I don’t feel even the slightest stirring of desire.

I pull away first. “Good night, Megan.”

“Night, Jace.” She climbs out of the limo, and it pulls away from the curb as soon as she’s inside.

Twenty minutes later, I sink into one of the few comfortable armchairs that came with this house, cold beer in hand. The silence feels claustrophobic instead of relaxing, so I pull out my phone.

“I’m in the pantry,” is how Anderson answers the phone after six rings.