“Yes, I know. I did my astrological research and read up on Cancers.” He shakes his head. “Sounds exhausting. I hope you sleep well at night.”

I laugh harder, and a soft rumbling laugh leaves Jamie, too. Our laughter dies away, then silence falls between us, new and peaceful. Jamie’s eyes hold mine. It feels like looking down at a receding wave and completely losing my orientation.

“So . . .” I scramble to stay upright, to pull myself back from whatever it is that’s caught me like a violent undertow, dragging me nearer and nearer to him. “How do you think we did at the bowling alley? Besides being badass bowling champions.”

As I set down my chopsticks on the empty dumpling plate, Jamie signals for the server. “I’d call it a success. I think we were convincing.”

That kiss sure as shit was convincing. It flashes through my mind, flooding me with heat. His hands gripping my waist. His mouth slanted over mine, each brush of our lips deeper, hungrier than the last. I squeeze my thighs together. “Yeah.” It comes out half squeak. “I think so, too.”

Our server sets the tray with our receipt on the table, and before I can reach for my bag, Jamie’s wallet is out, crisp bills—of course he has cash—nestled beneath the clip. Then he’s standing, pulling back my chair.

“Jamie, I wanted to split the tab.”

“Please, Bea. I have to spend money somewhere. Otherwise, I go on shopping sprees for Sir Galahad and Morgan le Fay. I can’t burn all my hard-earned money on cat towers, battery-operated fake fish, and hand-knit mice from Etsy.”

With a resigned sigh, I tug out a crinkled ten-dollar bill and add it to his neat twenties for an extra tip. It’s Jamie and Bea in a nutshell.

“So tell me,” I ask him, as we weave through the tables and step out into full-on night. I clutch my sweater tighter around me. “Do you iron your fifty-dollar bills before or after your underwear?”

A low, deep laugh bursts out of him as we start down the street. “Please, Beatrice. I pay someone to iron my money. And my underwear.”

I stop in my tracks. “Did you . . . ?” Turning, I face him. “Did you just make a joke?”

He faces me, too. “I believe I did.”

Night wind stirs around us, and the first fallen leaves tap-dance down the sidewalk. Jamie’s rare playfulness warms the air between us. It gives me the courage I needed to be brave, like he just was, to tell him the one thing I was too nervous to share over dinner. “Jamie?”

“Yes, Bea.”