“Wait,” he scolds. “I haven’t said grace yet.”

“Oh.” Chastened, I cross my hands and put them in my lap, looking down at them. I’m not sure whether to close my eyes or not, because I wasn’t raised religious and the only grace my father ever paused long enough to say was “Smells good, love.” I risk a sideways peek at James and he has his eyes shut, so I close mine as well.

“Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,” he says solemnly. “Whoever eats fastest gets the most.”

It takes a second for me to understand what he’s just said, and when I do my eyes fly open. He has picked up the piece of fish that I’d been going for, the biggest piece, and has already taken a bite.

“Hey,” I protest, smacking him on the arm. “No fair.”

He shrugs. “You snooze you lose.”

“And there I was thinking you were a gentleman.”

“I don’t know what gave you that idea.”

I adopt a pitiful expression.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’ll feel bad.”

“That’s the point.” I sniff and blink a few times.

He sighs. “Here. If it means that much to you.” He proffers out what’s left of the piece of fish.

I screw my face up at it. “I don’t want your leftovers.”

“Suit yourself.” He throws the rest into his mouth and chews, his eyes alight with amusement. “Aren’t you eating?”

Ten minutes later, there are only the scrappy, hard, and small chips left, which James throws to the seagulls. I rub my finger on the greasy white paper a few times and lick it, and he gives me a questioning look.

“I like the salt.”

“You know it’s bad for you, right?”

I shrug. “Everything in moderation.”

“So what are your other weaknesses?” He rolls up the paper into a little ball and looks around for a rubbish bin.

“Is it boring if I say chocolate and wine?”

“Not if it’s true.”

I get gingerly to my feet. My lower back has started to ache, but I’m not ready to call it a night yet.

He balls the newspaper up a bit tighter and does a basketball throw toward the rubbish bin. It misses and lands on the ground.

“Pathetic,” I say, shaking my head.

“Why do you think I’m a photographer and not an NBA player?”

“So you can check out nude firemen?”

He snorts as he bends to pick up the paper, putting it carefully into the rubbish bin this time. Then he gives me a pointed look. “There are other things I’d much rather check out.”

Is he flirting? I’m so out of practice I’m unsure, but it feels like it. As good as it feels, though, it’s also confusing, and I must betray my uncertainty on my face because his eyes narrow knowingly.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “The last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable.”

I shake my head. “You don’t.”

We gaze intently at each other for a whisker of time before his eyes drop to the ground and he swallows hard. He looks vulnerable, achingly so, and I want to step forward and try to wrap him in my arms, all of him, even though he is almost twice the size I am, and make him feel better.