I told him he was not allowed to ask about work.
I asked about his family.
He gave three careful sentences about his father and sister.
Then we both studied the bread basket.
“This is awful,” I finally said.
He looked relieved.
“Thank God.”
I laughed.
“You’re terrible at dating.”
“So are you.”
“I have an excuse.”
“So do I.”
“What’s yours?”
“I’ve been busy since 2011.”
I laughed so loudly the table beside us looked over.
After that, things improved.
We abandoned the expensive restaurant after appetizers.
We walked six blocks in the rain.
I discovered Adrian loved old bookstores.
He discovered I hated jazz.
I learned he secretly watched terrible home-renovation programs.
He learned I had once auditioned for a college production of *Chicago* and forgotten half my lines.
By the time he put me into a cab outside my apartment, I had laughed more in three hours than I had in months.
He didn’t kiss me.
I was both relieved and disappointed.
Then he said, “I’d like to see you again.”
“I’d like that.”
“And for the record?”
“Yes?”
“I wanted to kiss you.”
My face warmed.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because you looked like you were deciding whether you wanted me to.”
I stared at him.
“And?”
“I thought you should get to decide without me making the question harder.”
For a man everyone described as ruthless, Adrian Kane had an infuriating habit of being careful with the things that mattered.
I stepped closer.
Then I kissed him.
Just once.
Softly.
When I pulled back, his expression was almost comically stunned.
“Good night, Adrian.”
I got into the cab before he could recover.
—
Over the next two months, we moved slowly.
Deliberately.
Mia knew we were having dinner sometimes.
That was all.
Adrian never tried to become part of her routine without being invited.
He came to one Saturday museum trip.
Then a picnic with Priya and her family.
Then a school fundraiser where Mia spent most of the evening ignoring both of us because her friends were more interesting.
