Page 96 of Keller

Quinn slides onto the bench beside me instead of across. Our shoulders touch, but she doesn't move away.

"This is perfect." She tips her head back, watching the lights sway in the breeze off the water. "Sometimes you don't know what you need until it falls in your lap."

She has no idea how well I understand that.

"Rough day?"

"Long day. Lots of paperwork and the marathon four-hour budget meeting. Nothing interesting enough to complain about. Just glad to be able to unwind with you."

A server in a stained apron drops two menus on the plastic red and white tablecloth.

"Two dozen on ice of whatever's freshest. Surprise us. Screwdriver for her, no pulp."

I look at her with raised eyebrows as if to confirm. She smiles and nods her head.

"And a Maker's neat for me," I finish.

When the server walks off, Quinn grabs my thigh and squeezes. "You remembered."

"I remember everything about you."

"That's either romantic or terrifying."

"Why not both?"

She laughs, and I watch her mouth. The way her lips part. The flash of teeth. The way the sound seems to come from somewhere deep in her chest.

This woman.

The oysters arrive on a bed of crushed ice, shells glistening. Mignonette and cocktail sauce in small ramekins sit in the middle of the arranged oysters. Lemon wedges are scattered around the plate. Quinn reaches across and plucks one from my side of the platter.

"Excuse me."

"You weren't eating it fast enough." She tips the shell back, swallows, and grins. A drop of mignonette clings to the pad of her thumb.

I reach over and wipe it clean with my napkin. The gesture happens before I think about it. Her eyes hold mine for a beat longer than necessary.

"I'm a ravenous oyster-eater. I should have warned you."

"No warning necessary. I'll be here to contribute to the messiness."

"I'm very capable of making my own messes."

"I've noticed."

She shoves my shoulder. I catch her hand before she can pull it back, hold it for a moment, then release. Her fingers linger near mine on the table.

Someone passes behind us, squeezing through the narrow gap between tables. My hand finds her lower back, steadying her even though she doesn't need it. The warmth of her skin bleeds through the thin fabric of her shirt.

"So." Quinn takes a long pull from her beer. "Lincoln Lawyer. Realistic or fantasy?"

"Fantasy. No defense attorney is that cocky and that competent. They're either one or the other."

"Objection. You forgot handsome. He's handsome, cocky, and competent, not unlike someone else I know."

She points to me accusingly and smiles as she takes a sip of her screwdriver out of her plastic cup.

"I beg to differ. I'm not cocky."