Nicole Harper
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The restaurant Mike chose was small, dimly lit, and quiet. There was no music, no shouting groups, just the low chatter of conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery. It was nothing fancy, but it was nice enough that I didn’t feel overdressed.
I liked it immediately.
Mike pulled out my chair like he’d practiced the gesture, then sat across from me with a smile. “I was worried you’d think this was too boring,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Rhea said you’re more of a ‘dance-floor-and-tequila’ girl.”
“Rhea exaggerates,” I replied, rolling my eyes as I scanned the menu. “This is perfect.”
He nodded, then signaled for the waiter. I ordered grilled salmon and he ordered steak. After the waiter left, our conversation flowed easily. He talked about his fina
