“I hope I get to meet her,” said Trevor. “She’s coming to the book signing, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. She’s going to go nuts when I tell her I saw you tonight.” The drummer motioned to him. “Gotta go,” he said.

Trevor steered her away for a final tasting of vermut, this one a sweet, herbal concoction from white grapes. The next set was so good, featuring another duet with the earthy, bohemian, beautiful Suzzy. Then Peach sang a solo he’d written about a guy delivering a package. He didn’t see it coming, but things like that escaped him … She didn’t quite get the metaphor, but the melody and emotion of the piece were unexpectedly moving.

By the time the set wound down, Natalie was feeling the pleasant effects of herbal vermouth and good live music. She smiled at Trevor, and it felt good to smile. “I should get home,” she said. “Saturday’s a big day at the shop.”

He went over to the end of the bar and paid the tab, and the guy with the chalk wiped out the markings on the wooden surface. “Every transaction should be that simple, right?” he said, holding out his hand as she got up from the table.

“I wish.” She glanced over her shoulder to see if Peach was still around, but he was busy helping break down the set. She wondered if his wife liked his performances, or if they were old hat to her. Did he sing to Mrs. Peach?

Lost in thought, she didn’t realize Trevor was speaking to her. “Sorry, what?”

“Walk slowly,” he said, his lips close to her ear. “I want to make the evening last.” The night was chilly, and with natural ease he slipped his arm around her and held it there for a long moment.

Coming from someone less polished, his line would have sounded impossibly cheesy. Yet Trevor said it with humor and sincerity, and she was charmed. They took the stairs down the side of Lombard Street, which was decently quiet and smelled of dry leaves and eucalyptus. The amber streetlights created a dreamy atmosphere, adding to Natalie’s sense of wonder about the whole evening. They encountered the occasional dog walker or jogger, and on one landing, a musician scratched a tune on the fiddle while his feet played percussion on a digital foot drum. Trevor slipped a bill into his violin case as they passed.

“I used to run down these stairs when I was a kid,” Natalie told him. “Trying to get home in time for curfew. My mom was strict about that.”

“Sounds like she was being protective.”

“I suppose. I wasn’t the kind of kid who got in trouble. My biggest infraction was losing a library book a time or two.”

“Come on. You never skipped school? Drank a bottle of cheap wine and puked everywhere? Shoplifted?”