He wore dark gray pants and a lighter gray dress shirt layered beneath a subtly checked, slate-blue sport coat.

The whole look set off his olive skin beautifully. Was this man ever not completely put together?

He extended an arm. “Shall we?”

“Certainly.” She looped a hand through his elbow and stepped into the balmy air. “Where are we going?”

“Judy’s. Our reservation is for right now, as a matter of fact. Much as I’d like to stand and admire you, we better get a move on.”

“Judy’s? How fancy. I haven’t eaten there yet, but Claire says it’s wonderful.”

“Only the best, my darling.”

One of the surgeons’ wives converted a charming Victorian home into downtown Green Ridge’s newest eatery, luring a chef all the way from Philadelphia. Climbing the steps to the entrance, she recalled the house was previously a drab insurance agency. When she passed through the arched, wooden doors, all traces of the building’s former identity vanished from memory. The home, it seemed, was always destined to be a restaurant.

He paused at the hostess stand and gestured to the candlelit dining room. “You like?”

With lofty ceilings and plush furnishings, the design evoked Victorian luxury with a modern sensibility. “Very much.”

“After you.”

The hostess led them to a secluded table near an ornate, mahogany fireplace.

“Allow me.” Richard pulled out her chair.

“How gallant.” She was a modern woman, but she had to admit she appreciated the courtesy. “So, chivalry isn’t dead?”

“Not on my watch.” He took a seat across from her. “Listen.” He cocked his head and pointed at a speaker in the ceiling. “Billie Holiday. They must have known I was coming.”

For all his love of modern technology, Richard was surprisingly old school. She rested her chin in her hands. “So, you’re a jazz man?”

He unfolded a linen napkin and laid it in his lap. “Aficionado. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. You?”

“I’m a folk-rock girl. I don’t know much about jazz, but this?” She lifted her chin toward the ceiling. “Jazz with singing and a melody? Very nice.” Dropping the napkin in her lap, she opened the menu and glanced over the seasonal offerings, all prepared with local, farm-fresh ingredients. Her stomach growled in a most unladylike manner, but, fortunately, the sound was masked by saxophones.

The server approached with a resplendent basket of rolls.

“Good evening, Charles. We’ll start with a bottle of Bordeaux.” Richard caught her gaze. “Do you like steak?”

“I do.”

“Thank goodness—a woman who actually eats.” He cleared his throat. “The lovely lady and I will have Judy’s Special Filet, medium rare.”

Spine stiffening, she lurched against the chair back. Did he just order for her? She barely had time to look at the specials. Widening her eyes, she lifted the menu in unspoken question. He didn’t appear to notice.