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“I’m not at the top,” he says.

“Oh, right,” I say. The last thing I want to do is quibble over definitions of exactly what “at the top” means. “Sure. So, it’s not that bad, then, I hope. I was just wondering. Anyway.”

I look down at my boring black shoes and brace myself against the sudden shift of position. One moment I felt, I don’t know, attractive and fun. Now I feel like a child in a school uniform talking to her teacher.

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” he says after a pause. “Just that I’m not at the top. And that, actually, is the problem.”

Wow. So he’s going with honesty. If he wasn’t sitting here looking at me with such a modest and frank expression, if I was instead looking at his words alone on a transcript, I’d say he was incredibly prideful, leaning toward egotistical. After all, who admits candidly that the problem is that he’s not the CEO of the company? As if his personal ambition was rightfully wounded by such a “problem” as being second in command. As he explains to me, a lowly assistant acquisitions editor. Talk about the first of First World problems.

But there is something about his expression that hints I’m not reading his words correctly, and I am just about to open my mouth and ask for clarification when he raises his brows at me and says, “Why? What do I look like at work to you?”

“Oh . . .” I let out a nervous laugh because that is the farthest thing I want to discuss. And how exactly would that go over? Well, Will, since you ask. You look and act as rigid as a pin needle, with a scary razor tip. You are terrifying, 100 percent business, and, frankly, 99 percent of the time, look miserable.

The week after our impromptu meeting at the Painted Pony, he’d hardly met my eye. It was like the meeting had never even happened. All he did was give out orders, work behind a closed door ten hours a day, mysteriously leave for days at a time, and, one scary afternoon, fire Clyve. (Who, let’s be honest, was the marketing manager but had yet to understand a computer. It was time.)

But even so, the main word that comes to mind is scary.

“Efficient,” I say at last, settling on the least offensive, possibly complimentary term possible. “You seem efficient.”

“Efficient,” he says slowly.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur between pressed lips, not daring to give anything more.

He gives me one long, dubious look and then, to my surprise, laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard it. A heady sound, full and rich. It’s such a nice sound that it’s a real pity to the world he doesn’t laugh more often. Even the two women behind us who turn seem to think so.

I lean forward a little, smiling brighter.

Not territorially, of course. There’s nothing to own here. Nothing to claim.

Just . . . a little movement.

“You know, Savannah,” Will says, not seeming to notice, “you’d do just fine in New York. But how about we just . . . leave the office at the office.” His eyes land on a dartboard on the opposite wall and a couple, having thrown the last dart, moving toward the exit. “How about a game? Or . . . are you needed back at the Polar Star for an encore?”

The reality is I am wanted back at the restaurant. Although, really, I did a pretty good job tonight with that one man. With any luck, that agent has already slipped Lyla his calling card by now.

And anyway, it’s probably healthy for me to do something else socially for once.

Lyla, for her part, would be proud. She’s always saying I need to get out more, doing things particularly outside the realm of sitting somewhere doing something with Ferris and Olivia.

“This is usually the part where I make a scene waving a contract over my head trying to get Lyla to sign, but it can wait,” I say, sliding off my chair. “Darts it is.”

As we weave through the crowd, I realize I never asked him if he had to get back to his own group at the restaurant. He didn’t come alone, surely. He’s not one of those guys who rounds out his Friday nights alone at some upscale bar, right?

I risk a glance at him, suddenly feeling a swell of pity.

Gosh.

How did I not see it all this time?

He has just moved back from the City. Left his whole life up there after being dumped by his publisher. Come here after having been gone a lifetime. Only to discover all of his old friends are gone. People have moved on. Moved away. Gotten married and had babies and left him, just when he’s returned home, utterly desolate and shaken and in need of old chums to fill the void. And now here he is.

On a Friday night.

Alone.

It’s terrible, really.

All this time he’s walked around acting so independent and unconcerned and so . . . so . . . in charge, when in reality none of us at Pennington Pub really see him beyond being “the new scary boss.”