The maître d’ snapped to attention. “Bonsoir,” he said in a smooth Parisian accent. “May I help you?”

“I’m meeting a friend,” she said, gesturing toward Gabe.

The man glanced behind him. “Of course. Monsieur Turnmill is expecting you. Right this way, mademoiselle.”

Obediently, she followed him down the narrow walkway. Gabe’s location afforded them as much privacy as was possible in the packed bistro, its tables close together in the European style. He could have chosen a more discreet restaurant, somewhere bigger, darker, with huge booths where they could disappear. But Gabe did not seem to feel guilty or ashamed to be seen with her. (Of course, it was not he who received the disparaging looks; those were directed at Nat.) He stood to greet her, his hand on her waist, his lips on her cheek. She liked his scent: a pricey cologne concocted to smell like he’d spent the day chopping down cedar trees.

As they sat, Gabe ordered them a bottle of Côtes du Rhône, and their host hurried away. Gabe reached out and held her fingers in both his hands. They were warm, smooth, felt strangely comforting. His eyes roved over her appreciatively.

“You look great.”

“So do you.” She smiled, cast her eyes down. “Thanks for seeing me again.”

“I wanted to see you,” he said. “I was happy to get your text.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d told me to get lost.”

“Why? Because you got a little tipsy last time?”

“A little tipsy? I was a drunken disaster.”

“An adorable drunken disaster.”

He was charming her, his attention making her feel warm and fluttery. She had to stay professional, in control. She could not forget, even for a moment, what this was. She could not fall for this guy.

The maître d’ returned then, making a performance of opening the wine, offering Gabe a taste, but Gabe dismissed him with a curt “It’s fine.” Her date filled their glasses; they toasted their reunion and drank. As usual, good wine was wasted on Nat, but it tasted acceptable, and the first few sips were already relaxing her.

Gabe was perusing the menu. “Do you eat foie gras?”

“Constantly,” Nat quipped. Nerves or infatuation were making her silly, sassy. She hoped she wasn’t being rude.

But Gabe laughed. “I meant it from an ethical standpoint. My daughter says foie gras is cruel.” He took a sip of wine. “But she also thinks chickpeas have feelings.”

Nat chuckled through an uncomfortable twinge. His daughter. It felt awkward to think of Gabe as a family man, a father. “How old is she?” Nat asked, straining for a casual tone.

“She just turned eighteen.”

“It’s normal to have a lot of principles at that age.”

“Too many, if you ask me.”

Nat wondered if Gabe knew how recently she had been a principled eighteen-year-old. He knew she was young, obviously, but did he know she was only a few years older than his daughter? Would he care? Or would it excite him? A frisson of wrong shivered through her, but she pushed it away.