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“I should hope so, being a steak restaurant.”

I laughed at my stupid comment and earned a smile in return.

I ordered a ribeye with mushrooms, a baked potato, and grilled asparagus. “Steak done medium. Only a hint of pink,” I told the server. “If it bleeds on my plate, I’m sending it back.”

“Of course.” The man made a note on his pad and turned to Mordecai, who seemed undecided.

“New York strip, I suppose.” He frowned at the menu. “Blue?”

I nearly choked on my first sip of wine.

The waiter’s brows rose. “I apologize, sir. We can only do rare. Health regulations don’t allow for blue.”

“That’s fine.”

“Sides?”

“Oh.” More frowning. More scrutinizing. “Um… Creamed spinach and mashed potatoes will be fine.”

When the server left, I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. “Blue? Was that a joke? Isn’t that practically raw?”

“They sear the exterior.” Mordecai rotated his wine glass, the liquid circling precariously close to the lip. He sniffed it and set it down without taking a sip. “Why? Is that a peculiar order?”

“No. I mean. Well, yes. It’s… a choice, I guess.” I was about to revert to my question about his food restrictions when he steered us elsewhere.

“Why a priest?”

Momentarily befuddled, it took a beat to regain my composure. “A priest. Oh, um, I don’t know. I’ve always played a healer.”

I self-consciously touched the St. Christopher pendant I wore around my neck, tucked safely under my shirt collar. “Keeping the people in your group alive is one of the most important roles in gaming. Without a healer, you can’t run dungeons. I take the position very seriously. No one dies on my watch if I can help it. I heal wounds. Shield vulnerable players against danger. Cure poisons and disease.”

I took a long drink of my wine and quietly added, “If I fail… If someone dies in game, I can bring them back to life.”

Not so much in real life.

A lump grew in my throat. Visions of a snow-slick road and blinding headlights flashed through my head. Screeching tires. The crunch of metal.

“Are you religious?” Mordecai asked.

The memory vanished as quickly as it surfaced.

I huffed and offered a sad smile. “There’s a lot to unpack there. It’s not really a first date conversation.”

A stitch appeared between his brows. “Fair enough. I meant no offense.”

“I know. It’s…” I sighed. “I lost my father when I was in high school. It profoundly tested my beliefs, and I’m not sure where I stand anymore.”

Mordecai thumbed the stem of his wine glass as he stared down at the table. His voice, when he spoke, was strained and quiet. “I understand your suffering.”

He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. I felt the depth of his pain in the spaces between the words. I saw it in his drawn features and slumped shoulders.

Without thinking, I reached across the table and brushed his hand. He released the wine glass and clutched my fingers, his cold, mine warm, as he peered from under long lashes.

Eyes the color of Bordeaux. Fathoms deep.

So unusual.

So alluring.