Would he be all Midwestern polite, sweet as apple pie, holding open doors and letting me walk through first, so to speak? Or would he be the domineering Graeme I know from work—setting the pace, dictating the flow, taking the lead? I squeeze my thighs together.

“I would give anything to read your mind right now,” he muses.

I take a deep breath and focus on reining in my runaway thoughts. Time to change the subject. “I’m sure you would. Tell me something about yourself,” I venture. “You said I don’t know you, and you’re right. Let’s get to know each other.”

This “meeting” has gone off the rails into territory I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to explore. But I don’t want it to stop.

Graeme inclines his chin and a damp lock of hair falls across his forehead. I fight the urge to reach across the table and push it back. “What do you want to know?” he asks, voice deep and satiny.

I cast around for a topic. “What do you do for fun in Michigan? Besides walk your dog through graveyards at night.”

His jaw tenses. “Oh, you know. Eat corn. Watch football. Tip cows.”

“Sounds a lot like what we do for fun in Idaho.” At least that’s what people think.

“You’re from Idaho?”

“The northern part, the panhandle. And no, I didn’t grow up on a potato farm.”

Graeme shrugs. “I grew up on a corn farm.”

“You did?”

His face splits into a grin, showing a line of white, even teeth. “No.”

I chuff a laugh. Warmth swirls in my stomach and spreads like tentacles through my limbs.

“I was born and raised in Ann Arbor. My mom was an assistant professor at the university, so most of my weekends were spent at lectures, the library, or the local park. I like to travel but haven’t done much of it recently. I play pickup hockey when I can.”

I can very well believe he plays hockey. He certainly has a hockey player’s muscular physique.

“What about your dad?”

“Out of the picture since I was a kid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Being raised by a single mother must have been hard. But it would explain why he seems to have an intuitive connection with middle-aged women.

“It is what it is. So what about you?” Bracing an elbow on the table, he rests his chin on his fist.

The way he’s looking at me—like he’s in a museum and I’m a particularly captivating sculpture—has my insides twisting into a bow. I run my tongue along my teeth after I swallow my last bite of salad. I hope to God there’s nothing stuck in there.

“What about me?”

“What does Henley Rose do for fun?”