“Small world,” I say. I look around to stop my heart from racing, to center myself. “Did you design this place? It’s gorgeous.”

“Can’t really take that much credit. I did a bit of a redesign when I took it over. But the bones are the same.”

He finishes putting the champagne away and leans across the bar.

“Are you an architect?” he asks.

“Landscape architect. And I’m in the running for a teaching position,” I say. “Just a temp position while one of the professors is on maternity leave. But they want me to come have dinner with some of the faculty, so I’m hopeful.”

“How about a little liquid courage?” he says. “What would you like to drink?”

“Dealer’s choice,” I say.

“That’s dangerous,” he says. “Especially when I’ve got a little time.”

Charlie turns and studies his choices, reaches for a bottle of small batch bourbon. I watch as he preps a martini glass with ice, bitters, sugar. Then he slowly pours the rich bourbon. Finishing it with a slice of orange peel.

He slides the drink toward me. “The house specialty,” he says. “A bourbon old-fashioned.”

“That looks too pretty to drink,” I say.

“My grandfather used to make the bitters himself. Now I do it, most of the time. I’m falling down on the job a bit, but it makes all the difference.”

I take a sip of my drink, which is smooth and icy and strong. It runs straight to my head.

“So, this is your family’s bar?”

“Yeah, my grandfather was the original proprietor,” he says. “He wanted a place to play cards with his buddies.”

He motions to the one velvet booth in the corner, a RESERVED sign on it. There are several black-and-white photographs above it—including a great one of a group of guys, sitting in that booth.

“He spent fifty years behind the bar before I took it over from him.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s incredible. What about your father?”

“What about him?” he says.

And I clock it—how uncomfortable he looks at the mention of his father.

“I was just wondering why you guys skipped a generation…” I say. “He wasn’t interested?”

His face relaxes, my question apparently innocuous enough for him.

“No, not really his thing. This place was my mother’s father’s, and she was definitely not interested…” He shrugs. “And I wanted the gig. My wife, or ex-wife now, had just found out she was pregnant with our twins, so my days as a student needed to be over.”

I force a laugh, trying not to react to the fact that he has kids. Plural. I try to figure out how to press on that, to wrap this conversation around to his wife, to the wedding. To where I need it to go. To Kate.