Herb squeezed her hand. “She’s not a patch on you, my love. More beautiful now than the day I married you.”
“Oh, Herb,” she said, leaning into his arm, “you haven’t seen me since the first week after our honeymoon.” She looked up at me in the mirror, passing a finger in front of her own eyes. “Industrial accident. March of ‘62.”
“That must have been difficult,” I said, unsure what else I could say.
“It has been. But on the upside, we get to hold hands wherever we go.”
“Joke’s on her,” Herb said dryly. “I’ve been faking it for fifty years because I never want to let go of her.”
Their affection warmed something deep inside me. Seven special couples, the man had said. How the heck had Caleb gotten a booking? Or perhaps he’d been invited out of the blue like Alice and Herb. I pressed a hand to my heart, trying to steady it, knowing it wouldn’t calm until I finally saw him.
The elevator doors slid open.
“Mesdames, monsieur,” the receptionist said, directing us to the right. “Your evening awaits.”
My pulse thudded harder with every step down the corridor. The double doors at the end were propped open, attended by a distinguished-looking maître d’ in a black waistcoat and bow tie, the kind of man who made you straighten your spine without realizing you’d slouched.
“MademoiselleRodriguez,Madame etMonsieurTremblay,” he said, bowing as we approached. “Welcome toPour Deux.”
The room beyond stopped me short.
It was one of the hotel’s suites, stripped of its usual furniture and transformed into a restaurant—seven small tables set for two, five already occupied by couples leaning toward one another in quiet intimacy. The lights were dimmed just enough to soften everything, the curtains pulled back to reveal the glittering nightscape of North Vancouver, and in the corner, a pianist played soft music on a baby grand.
It was the most intimate restaurant I had ever seen. I stood there, momentarily spellbound, and stepped aside to let Alice and Herb walk in ahead of me.
“Mademoiselle,” the maître d’ said softly, turning back to me, “if you would like to joinMonsieurat the bar”—he nodded toward the familiar, broad-shouldered back of a man seated at the small bar—“I will be with you as soon as I have seated our guests.”
Monsieur?The phrasing made me smile, even as it made me wonder. Were Caleb and I not guests as well? Or was this simply the rhythm ofFrench hospitality, translated a little too literally? Either way, I understood the logic of seating the elderly couple first.
I turned toward the bar.
The empty seat beside Caleb beckoned.He was mid-conversation with the barman, shoulders relaxed, unaware of me.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,” I said, slipping into my best Bogart drawl, “I had to walk into yours.”
He startled at the sound of my voice.Then he turned and leapt to his feet.“Oh, my G—. Sorry, wow. You look…”
His words failed him, trailing off into something like awe, and I felt a flutter of nerves under my ribs. His reaction was almost as satisfying as Harsha’s earlier—almost—but this one mattered more.
I smiled, suddenly self-conscious beneath his gaze, and let my eyes drop briefly to my own body, checking that the boned bodice of my strapless dress hadn’t shifted under the intensity of his attention.“Overdressed?” I asked lightly.
“Stunning.”
The word landed low and warm.
“I had help,” I said, stepping closer, unable to resist reaching out to smooth his jacket collar. “Though obviously, you didn’t.”
He laughed softly. “What would I do without you?”
He offered me the barstool beside him before taking his seat again, and the barman appeared as if on cue, offering espresso martinis. I accepted after catching Caleb’s nod, the shared decision sending a thrill through me. Little things. They mattered.
“How did you hear about this place?” I asked.
“Honestly, I didn’t have time to plan anything elaborate?—”
“So you got someone to hook you up?” I teased.
He shrugged, unapologetic. “Something like that. It seems nice, though. And intimate. Only six other couples here.”
