“Are you seriously crying?”

“More like laugh-crying. I hate being tickled.” He jumped up to his feet and held his hands out for me.

“You scared me, Katy. I thought I had hurt you.”

“No, it’s just a little embarrassing to be tickled by an almost-stranger.”

“We’re friends, remember? We decided last night.”

“Oh right, friends,” I said hesitantly.

His eyes were trained on my mouth. “Friends,” he said again.

I nodded quickly and then looked away in embarrassment. I could feel red splotches appearing all over my face. My thoughts had gone way beyond friendship with Jamie, and I had only just met him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance at his watch. He was wearing a plain black Luminox, the kind Navy SEALs wear.

“Are you a diver?”

He looked at his wrist again. “No, I got to hang out with the SEALs once and they were all wearing these watches. I thought it was cool, so I got myself one.” He smiled a really boyish and innocent grin.

“Why were you hanging out with the SEALs?”

“It was one of those school field trip things a long time ago,” he said quickly. “It’s eleven thirty, I need to go get cleaned up before we meet Chef Mark. I’ll meet you in the restaurant at noon?” I nodded. “Can you get back okay?”

“Yes, I’ll see you over there.”

Walking through the vineyard, I fantasized about what might’ve happened in those next few moments on that warehouse floor with Jamie as he hovered over my body. I would reach up and take his hat off, watching his hair fall to the sides of his cheeks. I would run my fingers through it, and then he would lean down to kiss me.

Just when his lips were about to touch mine, I was jolted from my daydream by the buzzing of my phone. It was a text.

Stephen: I had the super open ur apartment so I could return some of ur stuff.

What the hell? I thought.

Kate: STAY THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE

The cursor rested just after the word “alone” before I hit SEND. Staring at it, I thought about my life in Chicago, and it made my stomach ache. I thought about Stephen with another woman. I thought about Rose and my mother and Just Bob, all alone, all their lives. I wondered what hurt more: the kind of loneliness you feel when no one is around, or the kind of loneliness you feel when the person who is supposed to love you doesn’t care at all, not even enough to fight with you, let alone fight for you. Have you ever felt lonely in a crowded room? Have you ever felt alone when you are not? It hurts far more, and I didn’t ask for that pain. I realized in that moment that Jamie made me feel that I could be, at the very least, at the bare minimum, worth coming home to.

I hit SEND Almost immediately, he responded.

Stephen: AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE A WRITER? IS THE F-BOMB THE BEST YOU CAN DO?

Kate: GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.

Would Stephen fight for me?

Stephen: HAVE A NICE LIFE.

Guess not.

While visiting my room and cleaning up, I decided to go back to a blazer and flats instead of heels. Heels somehow seemed out of place here. I headed toward the restaurant and caught Jamie standing in the doorway of his truck. Hearing me come toward him¸ he turned. “I have to meter really quick before we eat.” He was wearing a clean white T-shirt and black jeans with Converse. His hair was damp and slicked back. The growth on his face was thicker than the day before, and I wondered what it would feel like to brush my cheek against his.

I stood next to him and watched as he popped open a small container with test strips and then inserted one into the meter. He took a smaller device, a lancet, I assumed, and pricked his finger then smoothed the drop of blood over the strip extending from the meter.

“One hundred exactly. I’m good to go.”

“What do you do when it’s too high or too low?”

“Well, my ever-curious little kitten, I’ll tell you all about that tonight when we go sailing. You’ll need to know.” He winked.

That little tidbit made me nervous. “Why will I need to know?”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the restaurant, ignoring my question. “Come on, I’m starving.”

The restaurant had a bar stretching around the open kitchen. Jamie explained that it was designed so guests could get an up-close experience with the chefs, who prepared their signature dishes and offered the guests wine pairings. The restaurant, called Beijar, was finely decorated and lit, with dark, rich booths and muted lighting against the stark light from the kitchen. The effect highlighted the clean, stainless-steel counters and drew my eyes to where the magic happened. I had no doubt Beijar was an experience as much as it was a meal.

We took our seats on the stools at the kitchen bar. Before Chef Mark came in, I swiveled toward Jamie. “Where did they get the name from?”

“It means ‘kiss’ in Portuguese.” When I was with Jamie I forgot about everything else. Just the word “kiss” coming out of his mouth could freeze time.

“Oh.”

“Food is like love, you know?”

“Yes,” I said breathlessly.

“We need it to stay alive.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And wine is like poetry.”

His words, his warmth, were like a stun gun to my brain. I was conscious of nothing but his words. “Oh?”

“If it’s good wine.” He revealed his dimple. “If not, then it’s a tragedy.”

I realized that he had dimples on both cheeks, but his smile was always just a little crooked so it only showed up one side. Adorable.

“Is it Portuguese food?”

“Not really. There’s a little inspiration, but it’s traditional American, farm to table.”

Chef Mark entered. “Hi, Kate.” He reached over and shook my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Chef.” He wore the standard white chef’s shirt and a black bandana across his hair, tied at the back of his neck. He was an average-looking guy of forty, at least, but his presence was strong. I imagined that he could command a busy kitchen of chefs and servers.

Jamie reached over, shook his hand as well, and said, “Chef.”

“Hey, buddy.” Clapping once, he suggested, “Why don’t we start with a salad trio?”

“That sounds fabulous.” Jamie got us glasses of water and opened a bottle of the Pinot while Chef Mark got to work. He poured me a glass but only poured himself a quarter of the amount.

“Why so little for you? Are you sick of the wine?”

“No, I love the wine, but I can’t have too much because of the diabetes. I can taste it, though. I’d like to have some with you later, so I’m saving up.” My heart did a somersault.

Chef Mark set a plate in front of me, describing each of the four salads as he pointed them out. “Heirloom tomatoes. Avocado and corn in a light vinaigrette. Quinoa with mango and red peppers. And, finally, beet and kale with goat cheese. Enjoy.”

I took a bite of the avocado coated in dressing. Jamie watched my mouth as I chewed.

“What do you taste?” he asked.

“Shallots and lemon and avocado.” I took a bite of the tomato. “That is perfection.”

“We grow those in a hothouse on the estate. The big tomatoes are harder to grow outside in this region.”

Chef Mark asked me how I was enjoying the salads. He mentioned that there weren’t a ton of vegetarian dishes on the menu but that he would try his best to make accommodations.

“Well, I eat seafood, too.” Jamie and Chef Mark both jerked their heads back.

Leaning in, Chef Mark spoke in the gentlest voice. “You are not a vegetarian, sweetie. You’re a pescetarian.”

“That sounds like a religion.”

Jamie laughed and looked over at me with a pitying expression. It was funny how I had berated Stephen on the very topic of being a vegetarian, but here I was getting lectured myself.