To any casual observer, the rest of the meal probably looked like a subdued affair. But my entire body felt as if it was on high alert. I didn’t know what Gabe was planning to say before Ollie returned, but things between us have shifted. I can still feel the rough press of his calloused fingers against mine. The heat has lingered, and there’s a line of tension running between us, pulled so taut that I’m certain it’s bound to snap.

I don’t know what will happen when it does, but I’m both eager and terrified to find out. It’s the reason I got another whisky on the rocks. The reason I’m feeling just a little bit tipsier than I’d like.

Ollie gives me a hug. If he’s disappointed that he’s lost the battle for Gabe’s attention, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he looks positively gleeful.

“Go gentle on him,” he whispers. “He’s delicate.”

“He’s delicate?” I ask. “What about me?”

He leans back and gives me a look.

“Sure,” he says.

When he hugs Gabe goodbye, he looks over his shoulder at me and gives me a thumbs-up.

I worry that I’m going to disappoint him.

Gabe has a truck, and knowing nothing about cars, I can still tell it’s an expensive one, even though it needs a wash. We sit there, in the parking lot, the heater blasting, my fingers pressed against the vents.

We’d been outside for less than ten minutes but it was enough. Even the winters in New York were never this cold—almost as if there’s an absence of anything beyond the chill in the air. It’s bracing.

“You have a choice,” Gabe says. “I can get you a hotel room. A nice one. For Cooper, that is. Or you can stay with me. I have a guest room. Plenty of space.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I say, practically on autopilot.

Gabe nods.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re already here. What’s one more bad decision?”

Describing Gabe’s home as an apartment is a misnomer. It’s a house on top of a bookshop.

I hear her before I see her. That wonderful, comforting, perfect sound of nails across a hardwood floor. I put my bag down in the entryway of Gabe’s apartment and kneel as she comes around the corner.

“Hey, girl,” I say.

Her muzzle has a lot of white on it, and she’s tall now—so tall—the puppy weight long gone, replaced by a leanness that indicates her age. I can see the knots of her hip bones, but she’s wagging and when she sees us, she barrels toward the door—ten weeks old again.