After our tête-à-tête with Drake McKenney, I accept Gabriel’s invitation to lunch. He selects a place two blocks away from his office. It’s packed when we arrive. Gabriel apologizes, as if it’s his fault he didn’t call weeks ago for a reservation. He offers to go somewhere else, and I think it’s cute that he feels responsible.

“Not after you built up the pie so much,” I say. “I’m willing to wait until rapture.”

“I can set you up at the bar,” the hostess says. “It’s the same menu.”

Gabriel looks at me to confirm that this is acceptable.

“Sure,” I say.

The diner’s bar is as 1950s middle America as you can imagine. At least to my imagination, having never actually set foot in middle America. I’m assuming Chicago doesn’t count. The stools are vinyl upholstered, each in a different primary color. I take red, and Gabriel opts for the yellow to my left rather than the blue to my right. In front of us, in a glass case, waits a single slice of apple pie bigger than my head.

“Hey there,” the woman behind the bar says to Gabriel. She’s in her early twenties, probably a wannabe model or actress. She clearly likes what she sees in Gabriel. “What can I do you for?”

“I’m going to have some coffee,” he says. Then, looking at me, he adds, “And for the lady . . .”

“The lady would like an iced tea,” I say.

“Alrighty then,” the waitress says. “Be right back with those, and then I’ll take your food orders.”

When she makes her way to the coffee pot, I lean closer to Gabriel. “Alrighty then?” I whisper. “Are you a regular here or something?”

“Nah. They’re friendly to everyone.”

“Right,” I say with the utmost sarcasm.

He doesn’t respond to my banter, so I shift back to work mode. “So what do you think?”

“About what?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “Whether the waitress thinks you’re cute isn’t much in doubt. I was asking about McKenney.”

“McKenney definitely doesn’t think I’m cute,” he says.

Our waitress returns, a coffee in one hand, an iced tea in the other. For the first time it occurs to me that she looks like she’s dressed for a dude ranch—blue jeans, a rope belt, cowboy boots, and a chambray shirt under a fringed leather vest. She gives Gabriel his coffee first, then sets the tea in front of me.

“And what can I get you for lunch?” she asks, looking only at Gabriel.

At least he knows the woman should order first. He nods in my direction. Still, it takes a second for the waitress to break her focus from Gabriel’s smile. For this, I can’t blame her. It’s a heck of a smile.