She followed the text with a laughing-crying emoji. He very definitely could not believe it. He stared at the screen, thinking this must be some sort of joke.

Z: Anyway—see you at 7. He seems nice, but if I give you the bat signal, come rescue me. I’m way out of practice.

Mary leaned forward to get his attention. “You haven’t noticed two guys trying to order some drinks over there. Is Zoey okay?”

He probably looked as stunned as he felt.

“Zoey’s coming here for dinner.” He swallowed hard. “She’s on a date. With some sales guy.”

Mary’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t know she was dating.”

“Neither did I.”

And he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Zoey having dinner with some guy. On a date. Right in front of him.

FOR THE HUNDREDTH TIME, Zoey asked herself how she’d gotten herself into this mess. A date. With Mason Fontino—a guy she didn’t even know. She could have said no, of course. But for some reason, she hadn’t.

Mason had still been sitting at the counter at The Spot yesterday when she’d walked out of the kitchen and let Evie know that the ancient dishwasher would live to wash dishes for at least another few months. She couldn’t make any promises after that—the thing was over twenty years old. Mason had lifted his coffee cup in a toast.

“I guess that means I’m taking you out to dinner this Friday!”

Zoey laughed. “I’m sorry...what?”

“That was the deal, right?” His smile was warm and genuine. “You fix that creaky old machine without a manual, we talk about getting you on the list of approved repair techs. And then, totally unrelated, I take you to dinner.”

She’d narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t remember actually agreeing to that.”

“This isn’t a quid pro quo, I promise. But I’m in the area for a couple of days and figured having dinner with an interesting woman would be nice. So... Friday?”

Zoey had started to argue, but the idea of having dinner with a handsome man who found her interesting was inviting. She hadn’t had a grown-up dinner date since her divorce. Mike was moving on. Maybe she should do the same. And it was just dinner.

“You can pick the place,” Mason smiled.

And that’s how she came to be walking through the door Mason was holding open for her, into the Purple Shamrock. Yes, it was a pub. But Bridget McKinnon was an excellent chef, and the atmosphere didn’t get loud and rowdy until after nine. And Mike would be there. She trusted her friend to keep a watchful eye. Just in case she got some weird vibe from Mason—too pushy, too needy, too boring. Mike would come to the rescue.