“Well,” Holt said, clearing his throat. “I think we should leave.”
Then they walked out together.
The inn’s evening traffic had picked up slightly, and the lobby held the soft movement and distant voices of guests checking in, staff moving through, and the quiet clink of dishes being cleared from the dining room beyond. By contrast, the parking area outside felt strangely still.
The sky had gone amber and blue over the water, with the last of the sunlight catching the tops of the palms and the distant line of boats in the marina. A breeze came in off the coast, cooler now, carrying salt and something fried from a nearby kitchen.
June walked beside Holt toward Carmen’s car, aware of him in a way she was trying very hard not to examine.
When they reached it, he stopped.
She did too.
For a second, she thought he had simply remembered something or changed his mind about the drive. Then he turned toward her, one hand resting on the roof of the car.
“Do you want to have dinner together?” Holt asked her across the roof.
June stared at him.
He shifted slightly, as though he was now aware of how sudden the question sounded.
“I mean, I’m on my own, and you’re on your own…” Holt reasoned, running his one hand through his hair.
Then June’s treacherous heart went completely wild.
It was absurd. She knew it was absurd. They were two grown adults who had once shared a marriage, a life, and enough history to fill a shelf, and yet one simple question had her pulseleaping as though she were twenty again and trying not to smile too quickly.
She made herself answer like a sane woman.
“Yes,” June answered, hoping she didn’t sound like a breathless teenager. “Why not?”
His face changed then, relaxing by degrees as a slow, sexy smile spread across his lips as if he too had held his breath waiting for her reply.
“Great.” He unlocked the car, and they slid in. “What do you feel like eating?”
“Italian?” June looked at him, feeling ridiculously happy and a little lightheaded. But she composed herself.
“Good choice,” Holt agreed.
The waterfront restaurant they chose sat right in the town center, tucked between a gift shop and a small art gallery, its broad front windows looking out over the marina and the last slanting gold of evening over the water.
It was not a fancy place. It was warm and family-run, the kind of Italian restaurant with dark wood chairs, checkered table accents, framed black-and-white photographs on the walls, and soft lamplight that made everyone look a little more softened by memory. Garlic, tomatoes, basil, and baked bread scented the air. A little bell rang each time the door opened. Families sat at larger tables near the center, while couples and quieter diners occupied the corners.
The hostess led them to a small table for two near the windows.
June slid into her seat and set her purse beside her, suddenly aware that this looked far too much like a date for her comfort and not nearly enough like one for her safety. It hovered in that dangerous in-between place where the heart had room to get foolish.
Holt sat across from her, then glanced around the room once before looking back at her.
“This reminds me of that Italian place in Cambridge,” he remarked.
June’s breath caught for just a second.
Of course it did.
She smiled despite herself.
“It does,” June agreed.
