He taps me when I turn to go. “What did you want to eat?”

“I would order the carbonara, but it’s not worth finishing this dinner with him.”

“Agreed.”

I use the restroom, taking my sweet time. Maybe Amanda can break away from writing her dissertation and meet me for a drink and a real dinner somewhere. Like he said, no point in wasting a good dress. She’s been working hard at NYU for grad school and she’s reached the finish line. I shoot her a text: Free tonight?

I reapply my lipstick and then look down just as her text comes in: I can’t. Sorry. I’ll be free forever come next week. Rain check?

After dropping my lipstick in my bag, I reply: Next week it is. Good luck.

I return to the table and start working on the second cocktail that’s arrived. I’m going to need it to make it through it this.

The salads are dropped off, and the server gives me a little insider’s wink. Scott digs into his, stabbing a tomato like he’s seeking revenge. I push my salad across the table for him.

“What are you doing?” he asks with his mouth full of food.

“You ordered two salads,” I reply, feigning innocence. “Here’s the second.”

“No.” His eyes narrow, his nostrils flaring. “I ordered you a salad.”

“I didn’t want a salad. I wanted pasta.”

He balks. “A woman your age shouldn’t be eating pasta.”

“I’m twenty-six—”

“It’ll go right to your hips.”

I toss the napkin on the table. “And the problem is?”

The server swoops in, handing me a to-go bag. “I went ahead and put an order in for you. To go and on the house. And I threw in some bread because the bread’s delicious, especially ours. There’s also plasticware.” Touching my arm, he sings, “Enjoy.”

“Thank you. I most definitely will. Alone.”

“That’s what you’ll be in New York City.”

“Fuck you, Scott,” I say his name with the same vigor he stabbed that innocent tomato. “I’d rather be alone with my pasta than shackled to an asshole like you.” I leave, weaving through the tables toward the exit. The server high-fives me on the way out the door.

As soon as my heels hit the concrete, they stop right there.

Leaning against a newer version of the silver Maserati he used to have, Harbor is every bit Jake Ryan come to life. Adding his own spin, he runs the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip and glances down shyly. Damn him.

That I’m even standing upright at this point is a feat in and of itself. I grip the handles of the bag and lick my lips.

With his head still tilted down, he looks back up at me and raises his hand just enough to wave. “Hi.” His voice reaches every nook and cranny of my body, bringing it to life again.

Smiling like a loon, I look down the sidewalk hoping to tame it, but there’s no hope for that. When I turn back, feeding his ego, his smile is just as ridiculous as mine. He says, “Sorry I’m late.”