Leah had only been here once, and that had been months ago. But I have no way of knowing if someone will recognize her, if an acquaintance I don’t know will run up and try to hug me. At the door, I am struck by a sudden rush of dread, a vision of my future in which I am ousted the very first time I set foot more than a mile away from her house. What would really happen to me? Would I be branded a murderer, called a sororicidal maniac, and spend the rest of my life rotting in prison? Or would Chris get to me first? I shake the images away and try to take a deep gulp of air. I push open the door. I can do this. I don’t have a choice.

A man is sitting on a stool at the huge bar. It dominates one corner, the gleaming marble and chrome fittings bouncing light from a hundred small orbs hanging from the ceiling. The restaurant is a fantastical mix of modern furniture against a backdrop of exposed brick and the original low ceilings dating to when the building was a warehouse sitting on the water. It smells faintly of the spices that would have once been piled in this space, saffron and cinnamon and turmeric, blended with the scent of steak and garlic and rosemary. It is heady and intoxicating and I pause for a moment to take it all in.

His hair is the color of burnished copper, deep and lustrous in the light. He is wearing a plain white shirt—the cotton is a thick, creamy type like expensive writing paper—open at the collar to show a hint of chest but not enough for me to tell if he waxes or not; the sleeves are rolled up his forearms in studied nonchalance. The shirt is tucked into dark blue jeans, slim-fitting enough to show his frame but not so slim you worry about his testicles. I feel the flush on my face at the thought.

He smiles as he sees me, unwinding from the stool to stand with the air of someone confident in their own skin. Self-assured, comfortable, but not arrogant. I know instinctively he will have been the benefactor of a fiendishly expensive education and is most likely the eldest child in a very traditional family whose ancestors probably had a title they are still permitted to use, but do so only rarely. It would be vulgar to use it more often.

His smile broadens as I approach. “Leah?” His voice hopeful.

I nod, not quite trusting myself to speak. Up close he is even better-looking than in his photos; the scent of fresh linen and a deep woody cologne emanates from him, making me almost giddy.

As he ushers me toward a table by the smaller window on the far side of the restaurant, a place where I could survey the room but no one would eavesdrop, I can feel the warmth of his hand guiding me behind my back without actually making contact. The perfect gentleman.