“I’ll just have some water, please. I’m not hun—”

“Like hell you will. I’m not about to stuff my face with you looking on.” He glanced at the waiter’s name tag. “Tom, bring us a couple of four-pound lobsters, some of that three-cheese potatoes—”

“I can’t eat a . . .” Rachel’s eyes looked huge in her face.

“You don’t like lobster?”

“Of course I do. Who doesn’t? It’s just—four pounds? Seriously?”

“They only do big at this restaurant. If you can’t finish your food, we’ll bring it home. Cold lobster makes a good snack. Actually, make ’em five pounders. I’m ravenous. Hey.” Mick rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I got a great idea. Let’s do surf and turf. Bring us a rib eye, too. We can split it. How do you like it cooked? Medium work for you?” She just stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, which pleased him enormously. “Great. Medium it is. And a couple of your fancy sauces, too, green peppercorn, béarnaise, et cetera.”

“Mick. Seriously—”

“Fine.” Mick sighed like they were an old married couple and she was nagging him. “We’ll get some vegetables. Give us some creamed spinach, asparagus, and one of your chop-chop salads.” He spread his arms wide. “Anything else, my dear?”

“I’m not ‘your dear’—or your anything else, for that matter.”

“Wow. Impressive,” Mick said. “Very difficult to speak through clenched teeth, but you managed admirably. And I hate to niggle about pesky little details, but you are my personal assistant.”

“Insufferable,” Rachel muttered, but he could see the hint of a reluctant smile lurking behind the clamped-together lips.

“Cocktails? Wine?” the waiter cut in smoothly.

“Yeah.” Mick snapped his fingers. “Thanks, Tom. Almost forgot. We’ll have a bottle of Amarone. Unless my companion would prefer white, or a cocktail?”

“I don’t drink alcohol, but thank you for the offer,” she said. “Mineral water with a little lime would be great.”

“Do you still want the bottle of Amarone, sir?” the waiter asked.

“Nah. Do you sell it by the glass?”

“Of course, Mr. Talford. I’ll put your order in and get your drinks right away.”

The waiter left. Mick watched Rachel glide her fingers lightly over the silverware, as if memorizing the pattern. Then she moved her utensils to their appropriate spots, carefully unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. There was a feeling of sacred ritual to her movements, a dreaminess that caused a softening on her face, a slight inner smile curving the corners of her lips.

“Do you abstain for religious reasons?”

“Pardon?”

“You said you don’t drink. That a God thing?”

“No.” The smile disappeared, leaving only the constant tinge of sadness in her eyes.