I don’t know what possessed me to invite her to dinner. The words just came out before I thought better of it.
The hostess at the podium recognizes me immediately.
Her smile brightens. “Good evening, Mr. Garrison.”
“Evening, Layne.”
Her eyes flick to Harleigh beside me, curiosity flashing for a split second before professionalism takes over.
“A table for two this evening?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
She grabs two menus. “Right this way.”
She leads us through the dining room. The restaurant is busy, but not chaotic—couples leaning across candlelit tables,businessmen nursing bourbon and talking shop, the quiet clink of silverware against porcelain.
Warm light spills from wrought iron chandeliers overhead, casting a romantic glow across dark wood beams and stone walls. The place has the kind of atmosphere that makes people automatically lower their voices—a blend of elegance and old Wyoming ruggedness.
We pass the bar, where a few guests laugh over cocktails, before Layne stops at a table near the windows overlooking the mountains, the moonlit peaks barely visible against the dark horizon.
She pulls out Harleigh’s chair first.
“Thank you,” Harleigh says brightly as she sits.
I take the seat across from her, and Layne hands us menus as she recites the night’s specials.
“Your server will be right with you,” she says before disappearing back toward the front.
Leaving us alone.
Harleigh looks around with appreciation before breaking the silence. “This place is beautiful.”
“Glad you think so,” I say.
She flips open her menu.
“No, really,” she continues, scanning the options. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been to a restaurant quite so fancy.”
I lean back slightly in my chair. “Really?”
She shrugs. “The closest is probably The Buckhorn Steak House in downtown Wildhaven, but that’s only been a handful of times. I’m more a pizza-and-beer kinda gal.”
Her response makes me pause. She’s definitely showing her age.
Our server appears a second later to take our drink orders.
Harleigh orders a glass of Cabernet.
I stick with bourbon.
“What, no beer?” I ask once the server leaves to fetch our beverages.
She shrugs. “I figured I’d go with something sophisticated to match the atmosphere. Besides, my sisters and I have a tradition where we wind down the week with wine on the back porch on Friday nights. So, I can appreciate a glass of red wine.”
“Is that right?”
“And an occasional shot of tequila,” she adds.
