They ordered then, a foie gras appetizer (she couldn’t object now), coq au vin for her and boeuf bourguignon for him. Conversation flowed easily. Waiting for their food, Gabe asked her about school, queried about her favorite classes, what she’d like to do upon graduation. When the foie gras on toasted baguette rounds arrived, she told him she hoped to become a children’s book illustrator. Gabe didn’t smirk or sneer, didn’t tell her it was unrealistic or impractical. He seemed supportive, confident that she had the talent and drive to bring such a career to fruition.

As they tucked into their main courses, conversation shifted to travel and their dream destinations. The topic morphed into a lively debate about human settlement on Mars. Gabe thought being a part of the Mars One mission would be a thrill, a chance to explore a new frontier, establish a new world, be a pioneer. Nat had felt claustrophobic in Blaine; she could only imagine how she would freak out if she had to live in a bubble.

They were laughing, flirting, having fun. Nat knew this wasn’t real, that it was all a game, but she allowed herself to enjoy the fact that there was no physical or emotional agenda. She and Gabe could simply have a good time together. That was the point of a no-strings relationship. Well, that and the money were the points for Nat. But she was swept up in the conversation, the wine, the French ambiance. And then . . .

She saw him.

Cole Doberinsky was wearing a smart gray suit. She’d never seen him so dressed up, but she recognized his broad shoulders, his long legs, his rangy walk. His eyes, dark and intense, were unforgettable. And the way they were looking at her, with such loathing, such contempt, was familiar, too. He was coming toward her, his posture tense and aggressive. What was he going to do to her? Slap her? Spit in her face? Call her a whore? Anxiety drew the blood from her face, turned her fingers and toes to ice. She half stood, hands gripping the edge of the table.

“Natalie?” Gabe’s voice was concerned, confused. “What’s wrong?”

Cole was almost upon them now. She opened her mouth to cry out, but no sound came. Her throat was dry, parched, raw with dread. And then, Cole walked right past them. She watched him move to the back of the restaurant, headed for the restrooms. Before her eyes, he changed. The man in the suit was not an angry twenty-one-year-old determined to exact vengeance on his ex-girlfriend. This guy was in his thirties, with the same build as Cole, the same sandy-colored hair, but a softer jawline, a less handsome face. Her legs turned to jelly with relief, and she sat heavily into her seat.

“Are you okay? You’re shaking.”

“I’m sorry. I thought . . .” Oh shit. Now she was going to cry. Gabe would think she was a lunatic: raging drunk on their first date, blubbering like a baby on their second.