I’m not even sure what he’s talking about anymore because I’m not paying much attention. But a gentle hand between my shoulder blades wakes me up a bit. My spine straightens at the touch as a familiar voice croons into my ear.

“Imagine seeing you here,” Ryan says, his voice smooth and soft—the exact opposite of the barking Charles has been doing. I turn my head to the left, and sure enough, he’s standing there with his hand still resting almost possessively on my back.

“Ryan?” My voice is breathy. It’s almost embarrassing how relieved I am. But the relief is short-lived because what the fuck is he doing here? Did he find out where we were going and when and follow us?

“I’m picking up takeout,” he explains, as if reading my mind. “Charles mentioned tapas earlier, and I had a taste for it.”

“This place is great,” Charles says approvingly. “Good choice.”

Ryan nods but doesn’t really pay any attention to him. By the way his hand is still on my back and his eyes track my movements as I take another drink, it’s clear that he’s here to see me. I’m not seething about it, but I am annoyed. What is his purpose? Is he worried I’ll lose my cool? Start crying? Engage in some risk-taking, after-dinner behavior?

And so what if I do? I’m not his anymore. Maybe Trina is right. Maybe it’d be good for me.

The bartender comes over, and Ryan gives him his name. He goes back to the kitchen to check on the order. Ryan’s hand is still lying on my back, warming me. And as much as I want to lean into his touch—close my eyes and relish in it—that little voice at the back of my head won’t let me forget he’s full of shit. He has no right to crash this dinner, no matter how jealous he is.

I glare up at him. “You don’t live near here.”

He shrugs as if this doesn’t matter. “I was passing through. Heard this place is pretty good.”

“You seem to find yourself ‘passing through’ the South Loop a lot these days,” I grumble. Ryan chuckles lightly.

The bartender returns with several to-go containers in a plastic bag. He hands the bag over the bar to Ryan, who takes it. I shiver at the cool air that meets my back at the loss of his hand.

Ryan looks back and forth between Charles—who has gone weirdly silent—and me. Apparently satisfied, he jams the hand not holding his food into his pocket. “Well, I’d better get going. Have a nice night, Sc—S.J. Charles.” He nods at each of us, then turns on his heel and leaves.