“What was your favorite restaurant in New York? And it can’t be where you worked,” Matthew said.

Ivy refocused on Matthew. “There was a steak house in SoHo. Rib eyes cut like butter.”

“You were a vegetarian in high school.”

“You must be remembering Dani. She was the vegetarian. I’m straight-up carnivore.”

He grimaced. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to confuse you two. Forgetful in my old age,” he quipped.

“Freudian slip.”

“Ouch.”

They’d never had a conversation about his pivot to Dani after she’d left Nags Head. “Don’t get all twisted up about it.” Not that he would. She’d never seen him sweat, except right after a near fender bender with his first truck. “It all worked out in the end.”

“Glad you see it that way. I appreciate it, and so does Dani.”

As far as she was concerned, losing Matthew was more of a sidebar. Her main beef for years had been with Dani. And even that righteous indignation had petered out. The world was full of too many bigger problems than a failed high school romance.

“I hear you’re selling the cottage.”

“That I am.” She looked ahead toward a small place that was one of the few open after 4:00 p.m. in the winter. It had been the hangout of locals back in the day, and it seemed to still be. “O’Toole’s. Good to see some things never change.”

“It’s comforting.” He parked in O’Toole’s lot.

“Here?”

“We had a lot of good times here.”

Out of the car, she walked around, waited for Matthew as he glanced at a text. A gust of wind sent her toward the front door, and she opened it. Heat rushed toward her as she held the door for Matthew.

“Sorry about that. Work,” he said.

“I get it.” This was a work meeting, and it shouldn’t annoy her that a business detail came first. Still, his undivided attention was flattering.

As she stared around the pub, she thought for a moment she had lost a dozen years of her life. The decor, styled as a sort of Irish pub for the seafaring type, still had dark paneling, small round tables with mismatched chairs, and pictures of old ships on the walls. It smelled of burgers, fries, and Guinness on tap. A sound system played “Whiskey in the Jar” by the Dubliners.

Joe Truitt, a tall, burly guy who had gone to high school with them, stood behind the bar. His dad had run the place then, but it seemed the generations had shifted again.

“Joe, look who I found,” Matthew shouted.