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trip across the street for coffee, a few minutes in the middle of the day making idle conversation. So when she asked if he wanted to meet up for happy hour, she had more confidence that if he said no, it was because he simply didn’t feel like it.
           His
yes
had her doing a mental happy dance, and she fought the urge to question
why
she was happy about it.
           “So you’re a transplant, right?” They were in the same bar as before, same corner booth. She’d originally chosen it because she’d never seen anyone from work inside when she’d passed it. But the bar fit Taylor. Quiet, unassuming, and more than you’d expect.
           And the sweet potato fries were excellent.
           He’d ordered them as soon as they sat down, and his lips moved in a half-smile when they arrived. Then he pushed them into the center of the table.
           She’d planned to resist. French fries were a weakness, a favorite of hers, and if she ate them as often as she craved them she’d have a hell of a lot more padding on her hips. Worrying her lower lip with her teeth, she stared at the fries.
           “Go on. Resistance is futile.” The half-smile had become a full on grin, and she had to gulp down half her gin and tonic before her mouth didn’t feel as dry as the Mojave.
           “You’re going to kill me, you know that? Now,” and she pointed a fry at him, “no avoiding the question. You’re not from Portland originally, right?”
           He shook his head. “Boston.” Something in his eyes locked down, and she considered poking at it.
           She wanted to know his secrets. Wanted to know if he’d been thinking about her as she’d been thinking about him, curious and uncertain and eager to figure out what was happening between them. But she’d get more out of him if she let him steer the conversation where he wanted it to go. She grinned. “You don’t have an accent. I thought all Bostonians had super nasally accents.”
           It was the right thing to say. The stiffness in his shoulders fell away, little by little, as he chewed on a fry. “A lot of them do. I got out of there as soon as I could, so that might have something to do with it.”
           “College?”
           He nodded. “Carolina.
           “Tarheel. Cool. So, is the rivalry between Carolina and Duke as insane as it appears on TV?”
           “They’d like to think so. Ever been to a Yankees Red Sox game?” He snorted. “
That’s
a rivalry. These other so-called rivalries in sports are pathetic. Sox fans, Yankees fans, they’re not afraid to get bloody. And they will. Did you ever read
Fever Pitch
?”
           She bit a fry in half. “Hornby, right? Heard of it. I haven’t read it, though.”
           “Essentially it’s his memoir of being an Arsenal fan. Football hooligans. It was made into a movie and Americanized, and what did they choose to use as their fandom? The Red Sox Nation.”
           She listened, intrigued by the man across from her as he talked about the Sox and the fans and the rivalry with the Yankees. It was hard to picture him at a ball game, but then, she hadn’t imagined he’d have a gorgeous piece of ink on his back, either. Her thoughts drifted as she remembered the tattoo, the shading, the starkness, the
loneliness
of the picture.
           She’d thought Taylor was like Sam. Cool, controlling, and in control. With each lunch, with every cup of coffee, another side of Taylor emerged, and she was learning appearances weren’t everything.
           It was a lesson she thought she’d already learned. This time around, she wasn’t going to forget.
           The continuing silence from the opposite side of the table told her he’d stopped talking. Warmth swept up her neck to her ears. “I’m sorry. That was incredibly rude of me.”
           He shrugged. “Not