Charles lets out a low whistle and shakes his head in dismay. “He’s kind of a weird guy, huh? If you don’t like working with him, you can always ask—”

“I like working with him a lot, actually.” I cut him off. That might have been strange as hell, but the only person I’m not enjoying spending time with right now is Charles. I track Ryan’s movements back through the restaurant and out the front door. “Can you… Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Despite Charles’s stuttering protests, I slide off the barstool and follow Ryan as quickly as I can. When I push open the heavy front door, I scan left and right, but I don’t see him right away. It isn’t until I hear a car door slamming across the street that I see his head pop up above the car. He looks around, waiting for traffic to subside before he can get into the driver’s side.

“Ryan,” I call over the noise of the cars passing between us.

His head whips toward me. It’s almost dark out, but I could swear I see the ghost of a triumphant smile play on his lips.

That asshole. I knew it. He came here on purpose to break up my not-date.

“Hang on,” he shouts. When there’s a break in the traffic, he jogs back across the street. And then he’s standing there, in front of me, hands yet again jammed into the pockets of his chinos and his shoulders creeping up against the slight chill in the spring air.

“What’s up?” he asks, a little breathless from his jog across the street.

“‘What’s up?’” I spit back at him. “‘What’s up?’ Are you serious? That’s what you’re going to lead with?”

His shoulders shrug the rest of the way toward his ears and come down again slightly. “Did you need something?”

“Did you need something?” I’m a writer. Words are my thing, so I’m not exactly sure why I keep repeating his incredulously. He’s gotten me all flustered, and I don’t like it.

Ryan laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Is there something wrong with wanting tapas?”

“From a restaurant that’s a twenty-minute drive on a good day from your condo? On the night you knew Charles was taking me out for that exact meal in this exact neighborhood? Yes, I’d say there’s something wrong with that.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he deflects. “I will try to avoid wanting similar foods to your dates in the future.” The last part comes out more bitter than anything he’s said thus far, which is all the confirmation I need that he’s lying about his sudden craving for finger foods.