“No.” He laughs, though it sounds more ironic than anything. His eyes have turned gray as the drifting clouds. “A fresh start, I guess.”

My skin actually prickles.

It’s then that I begin to notice a few people at the next table over staring in our direction. Mine, specifically. I reach toward my ear, checking that the scrubby patch of hair is covered by my ball cap. It is. I tug the hat a little lower.

“Hey,” Luka says quietly. “Everything okay?”

“I feel like people are staring.”

“It’s because you’re pretty,” he says.

I stammer something stupid about thinking it has more to do with not looking like I’m from around here.

When our food arrives I busy myself spreading mayo on my burger, glad for something to do.

Luka offers me some of his lobster roll, but I’m suspicious of anything that looks like a scorpion, no matter what it tastes like. He eats with relish, shaking his head with appreciation after each bite. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Bronco.”

I’m just happy to be eating something that isn’t made of cold cuts or my cooking. And to be socializing like a normal person, the sun shining on the parts of my face not obscured by my Red Sox cap.

I glance up when I realize he’s stopped eating.

“What?”

“What are you doing Saturday night?” he says.

“Working, probably.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Pretty much every night.”

“Doing what?”

“I, um, tie fishing flies.”

“At night?”

I drag a French fry through some ketchup, flick another onto the ground, and immediately regret it because it incites a stampede of feral ducks—not to mention several more gazes our way. “Yeah. I guess I’m kind of a night owl.”

“Come catch a band with me for an hour or two.”

“Wow. Groceries, lunch, live music . . .”

“I just got in last month and haven’t had a chance to make many friends yet. I’m guessing you haven’t, either.” He smiles when he says it, though there’s a tension in his posture that doesn’t match his offhanded shrug. I don’t get it. A guy this good-looking and outgoing just can’t be that desperate.