“Thank you.” Becks signed it and put his credit card back in his leather wallet. “Let’s get out of here.” He slid out of the booth and, once again, reached for her hand. Like before, he didn’t back up to give her room, so when she stood, she was right up against him. He brushed the bangs off her forehead. “Because there’s just something about you.” His breath gusted over her, warm and scented with coffee. “I like you.” He grabbed her hand and led her out of the diner.

Out on the street, the nightlife was electric.

“Want to walk?” he asked. “See what we find along the way?”

She loved the idea, mostly because it prolonged their time together. With each passing minute, she was aware of the clock running out. “Sure.”

Even at one in the morning, cars jammed the boulevard, bass thumping. A limo went by with a woman poking out of the sunroof, her arms waving, the wind in her hair.

“You were trying so damn hard,” Becks said quietly. “That’s why I paid attention. You did a good job—I’m not sure anyone else noticed—but I did. You’re different, Coco. Elegant, quiet, and yet you’ve got this funky look.” He tipped his chin toward her deep purple satin bustier-style dress, the skin-tight skirt covered in a flare of dark lavender tulle. “You think no one notices you, but they do. You stand out. You’re confident, strong, kind…”

“And funky?”

“Yeah, funky.”

“My mom’s a retired model, so I grew up with…let’s just say an emphasis on hair, make-up, and fashion. My sisters rebelled in other ways—boys, booze, sneaking out…the usual—but I didn’t care about any of that. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t.”

“That’s the confidence I was talking about.”

She hadn’t thought of it that way before. “The thing I did care about was my mom telling me how to dress. When we were little, she used to set our outfits on the bed the night before school, but I didn’t like what she wanted me to wear. It wasn’t that I was into fashion. I just had a preference. Things that I liked. I don’t know about funky, but I knew my own taste.” Self-consciously, she touched her hair. “I’m the only one with shorter hair.”

“And, again, that’s the confidence I’m talking about.”

“I hated the ritual of blowing it out, adding product to make it all sleek. Just hated it. And when I looked in the mirror, I felt…I don’t know. It just wasn’t me. So, I cut if off.” She didn’t style it, either, so she always looked like she’d just come home after a day at the beach.