“Oh, that’s his name?” Maya snorts into her tea.
Hannah bobs her head and giggles. “Yeah. It’s on his birth certificate. Hot Jesse.”
I turn my attention to my cup of tea—chamomile with honey—trying to get into the conversation but finding it hard when my thoughts keep drifting back to Saturday. By the time the evening is over and we’re putting the cushions and chairs back in their places, I’m almost glad to go home.
“Goodnight,” Hannah says as we spill onto the sidewalk. She locks up the shop with a jingle of keys.
There’s a round of goodbyes—quick hugs, promises to text—and we head off in our various directions. Devin ends up walking next to me.
“Where did you park?”
“At the end of the block.”
“Me, too.” She smiles, and it’s definitely not a coincidence.
We walk slowly down the quiet street, our footsteps echoing off the historic buildings. Pine Island is the furthest thing possible from a party town at night. After New York’s constant noise and Portsmouth’s moderate bustle, I wanted a real separation of work and home. I also wanted to be surrounded by nature—something a big city couldn’t provide.
So I ended up here, on an island with a few thousand people, where everyone knows everyone else. Your business is never your own, but I don’t mind it too much. It’s so different from working in New York and growing up on the outskirts of Chicago though.
“Want to get a drink?” Devin nods at Nectar Bar, one of the few spots still open at this hour.
“Sure.” I could use a little alcohol.
We slip into the tiny cocktail bar—twelve small tables maximum, exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs strung across the ceiling. We order two martinis and take them outside to a wrought iron bench. Above us, bats dip into the streetlights’ glow for bugs.
“You okay?” Devin asks, cutting straight to the point.
I knew this was coming. And while I felt weird opening up with the whole group, being one on one makes me feel more relaxed.
“I know the owner of Rye Again. Noah Reynolds.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyes sparkle. “You two dated? He’s totally your type.”
“What? No!” My face burns hot. “What makes you think that?”
“The look on your face when you brought him up.”
Deciding I don’t want to know what she means by that, I press on. “He was the chef at this Italian restaurant in New York. Italian street food. Small place, very trendy.” I take a fortifying sip. “I left him a bad review, and the place went under not long after.”
Her dark eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
“There’s more. The cookbook I’m supposed to edit? About bread?”
“No,” she gasps, already understanding.
“Yep.” I take a hearty sip of my drink, the gin burning down my throat. “He’s the author.”
“Wait—but...” She grabs at the air in front of her, brow furrowing like she’s trying to do some complicated math. “And you went there to do a review of Rye Again? Did you know? Were you two set up?—”
“Nope, and nope. Elaine had no clue. Neither did I.” I lean back against the cold iron bench.
“Wow,” she breathes. “That’s three.”
“Huh?”
“Three ways for you two to meet,” Devin explains, counting on her fingers. “You met in New York, then you met reviewing his new place, and then—if neither one of those meet ups had happened—you would have met by editing his book.”
“Oh, come on. You’re saying this is destiny?”
