“Nervous?” he asks after we’ve sat down. His eyes are kind and the skin around them crinkles as he grins at me. “I promise I won’t bite,” he says, leaning toward me.

He’s so earnest, so obviously trying to put me at ease, that I can’t help but grin back. “A little,” I reply.

“How about we have a drink and forget it’s a first date?”

My heart drops a little and I realize I want this to be a date. He must see the disappointment on my face because he adds, “Not that I don’t want it to be a date. Just not an awkward first one.”

A waiter in a pristine uniform interrupts us with a tray of brilliant-red little cocktails and a small plate of delicate pastry morsels. “Negroni aperitivo and stuzzichini,” he says with a flourish in a strong Italian accent.

“Perfetto, grazie,” Tom replies and the waiter melts away. He picks up one of the glasses and raises it to me. “A toast,” he says as I copy him. “To a… what shall we call it? Third? Yes, third date.” He clinks his cocktail against mine, his eyes twinkling.

“To our third date,” I reply and take a sip, the bitterness of the Campari delicious on my tongue.

And just like that, the tension is broken and we start chatting as if we have known each other a while. I was right about the education: Harrow, he tells me sheepishly. And the title—minor baronet, although he has never used it himself. He is actually the baby of the family though. The adored little brother to three very bossy sisters who still treat him like he is a doll for them to dress up and play with.

“Honestly. We went to a wedding last year, huge thing of a family friend in their castle. They made me wear the full Highland get-up and paraded me round the reception party like they did when I was five years old in a sailor’s outfit.” His eyes are bright as he talks about them, throwing his head back to laugh.

Conversation flows easily between us and I’m alarmed at how relaxed he makes me feel. Gone is the permanently jumpy Megan, with her lists and her obsessive photographing of every detail, always waiting to see how Chris will react to everything she says. In her place is someone confident, holding her own as conversation turns to politics and literature. I am amusing, interesting, almost beguiling.

I am also tipsy. I think I’ve had one too many glasses of wine—a deliciously extravagant Barolo to complement the tomahawk steak we ate with rustic chips, roasted tomatoes, and grilled vegetables. We round off the meal with a glass of Fernet Branca. He asks if I would like to have another drink in a bar down the road. I nod, but my mind is desperately searching through the list of places around here that Leah had been to recently. Wine laps at the side of my brain.