His eyes meet mine, and they’re suspiciously bright. Before he can respond, the band launches into their first number. The opening notes drift across the room, and I recognize it immediately—a jazzy instrumental that sets the mood without demanding attention. Background music for now, but I know from research that the real show starts after we order.
Our waiter appears, a young woman with victory rolls in herhair. She takes our drink orders—sparkling water for Ryan, the same for me because I’m driving—and leaves us to peruse the menu.
“Everything looks amazing,” Ryan says, scanning the options. “And expensive. Oliver, you don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” My voice is firm enough to cut off his protest. “This is our first date as boyfriends. I’ve been saving my tips for months for exactly this kind of occasion.”
“Months? We’ve only been official for a week.” Ryan’s fingers tighten around mine. “Filet mignon. If you’re insisting on extravagance, I’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu.”
“That’s my boyfriend.”
Our waiter returns with our drinks and takes our orders—filet mignon for Ryan, the rack of lamb for me, plus an appetizer of oysters Rockefeller because I’ve lost all sense of financial responsibility. She disappears toward the kitchen, and the band transitions into something slower, more intimate. And then the singer takes the stage.
She’s stunning in that old Hollywood way—curves wrapped in a sequined gown, hair piled high, microphone held like a lover. When she opens her mouth, the room goes still.
The song is immediately recognizable. A classic about flying to the moon and playing among the stars. Her voice wraps around the melody like silk, transforming the familiar tune into something achingly beautiful.
Ryan’s grip on my hand tightens almost painfully. “My mom used to sing this whenever I couldn’t fall asleep. She was sohappy?—”
He can’t finish. I see the tears threatening to spill over, see the way his jaw clenches as he fights to hold them back. I don’t say anything. The singer continues, her voice soaring through the chorus, and I watch Ryan’s face as the past and present collide.
“I didn’t know,” I murmur when the song transitions to a softer bridge. “About the song. I swear I didn’t plan this part.”
“I know.” He takes a shaky breath. “It’s just—this wholenight. Everything you’ve done. It’s like you reached into my head and pulled out every dream I didn’t know I had.”
“Good dreams, I hope.”
“The best.” His eyes are still wet, but there’s a smile there now, tremulous but bright. “You’re the best, Oliver. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
“Pretty sure I’m the lucky one.” I lift our joined hands and press a kiss on his knuckles.
The singer finishes the song to enthusiastic applause. Ryan joins in, clapping with one hand while keeping the other firmly in mine. The music shifts to a more upbeat tempo, and the mood in the room lightens.
Our appetizers arrive—six oysters arranged artfully on a bed of rock salt, each one topped with a golden crust of breadcrumbs and spinach. Ryan eyes them with curiosity.
“I’ve never had oysters,” he admits.
“First time for everything.” I pick one up to demonstrate the proper technique. “You just tip it back. Don’t think too hard about it.”
He follows my lead, and his expression as the oyster slides down his throat is absolutely priceless—surprise, then consideration, then cautious approval. “It tastes like the ocean. In a good way.”
“That’s the idea.”
We work through the oysters together, and the conversation flows easily between bites. We talk about the club, its history, and how my parents met here when my mom was a waitress and my dad was a nervous college student trying to impress her with his nonexistent knowledge of wine.
“He ordered a white wine with his steak,” I tell Ryan, grinning at the memory of my father’s embarrassed retelling. “My mom still gives him grief about it. Says she almost didn’t give him her number because of his wine crimes.”
“But she did.”
“She did. And here we are.”
Ryan’s smile softens into something private. “Here we are.”
Our entrées arrive in a parade of silver-domed plates. The waiter lifts the covers with a theatrical flourish, revealing food so beautiful it almost seems wrong to eat it. Ryan’s filet mignon is a perfect cylinder of pink-centered beef, surrounded by a moat of red wine reduction. My lamb chops are arranged like a crown, each bone wrapped in a tiny paper frill.
We eat in appreciative silence, too focused on the food to form coherent sentences. Eventually, though, conversation returns. And with it, the topic I’ve been avoiding all summer. “So,” I say, spearing a bite of lamb, “I have to ask. What do you think the deal is with the Ice Queen?”
Ryan pauses mid-chew, his eyebrows rising. “The Ice Queen?”
