I’ve already gone around knocking on doors of some of the more active residents, but most weren’t home. I guess if you’re active, you’re not staying in your apartment on a Friday night.

I’m pouring salted peanuts into a heart-shaped crystal bowl (a contribution from Alicia, who brought it out of storage, along with her ice tongs) when John Ambrose McClaren walks into the room in a light blue Oxford shirt and navy sport coat, not dissimilar to Nelson’s! I nearly scream out loud. Clapping my hands to my mouth, I drop to the floor, behind the table. If he sees me, he might run off. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but this is my perfect chance to take him out. I crouch behind the table, running through options in my head.

And then the piano music stops and I hear Stormy call out, “Lara Jean? Lara Jean, where are you? Come out from behind the table. I want to introduce you to someone.”

Slowly, I rise to my feet. John McClaren is staring at me. “What are you doing here?” he asks me, tugging on his shirt collar like it’s choking him.

“I volunteer here,” I say, still keeping a safe distance. Don’t want to spook him.

Stormy claps her hands. “You two know each other?”

John says, “We’re friends, Grandma. We used to live in the same neighborhood.”

“Stormy’s your grandma?” My mind is blown. So John is her grandson she wanted to set me up with! Of all the nursing homes in all the towns in all the world! My grandson looks like a young Robert Redford. He does; he really does.

“She’s my great-grandmother by marriage,” John says.

Stormy’s eyes dart around the room. “Hush up! I don’t want people knowing you’re my great-anything.”

John lowers his voice. “She was my great-grandpa’s second wife.”

“My favorite of all my husbands,” Stormy says. “May he rest in peace, that old buzzard.” She looks from John to me. “Johnny, be a dear and bring me a vodka soda with lots of lemons.” She sits back at the piano bench and starts to play “When I Fall in Love.”

John starts toward me and I point at him. “Stop right there, John Ambrose McClaren. Do you have my name?”

“No! I swear I don’t. I have—I’m not saying who I have.” He pauses. “Wait a minute. Do you have mine?”

I shake my head, innocent as a little lost lamb. He still looks suspicious, so I busy myself with making Stormy’s drink. I know just how she likes it. I drop in three ice cubes, an eight-second pour of vodka, and a splash of soda water. Then I squeeze three lemon slices and drop them in the glass. “Here,” I say, holding out the glass.

“You can put it on the table,” he says.

“John! I’m telling you, I don’t have your name!”

He shakes his head. “Table.”

I set the glass back down. “I can’t believe you don’t believe me. I feel like I remember you being a trusting kind of person who sees the good in people.”

Sober as a judge, John says, “Just . . . stay on your side of the table.”

Shoot. How am I supposed to take him out if he makes me stay ten feet away all night?

Airily I say, “Fine by me. I don’t know if I believe you, either, so! I mean, this is a pretty big coincidence, you showing up here.”

“Stormy guilted me into coming!”

I snap my head in Stormy’s direction. She’s still playing the piano, looking over at us with a big smile.

Mr. Morales sidles up to the bar and says, “May I have this dance, Lara Jean?”

“You may,” I say. To John I warn, “Don’t you dare come close to me.”

He throws his hands out like he’s warding me off. “Don’t you come close to me!”

As Mr. Morales leads me in a slow dance, I press my face against his shoulder to hide my smile. I’m really quite good at this espionage thing. John McClaren is sitting on a love seat now, watching Stormy play and chatting with Alicia. I’ve got him right where I want him. I can’t even believe how lucky I am. I’d been planning on showing up at his next Model UN meeting, but this is so much better.

I’m thinking I’ll come up from behind him, take him by surprise, when Stormy stands up and declares she needs a piano break, she wants to dance with her grandson. I go turn on the stereo and cue up the CD we decided on for her break.

John is protesting: “Stormy, I told you I don’t dance.” He used to try and fake sick during the square-dancing unit in gym—that’s how much he hates dancing.

Stormy doesn’t listen, of course. She pulls him off the love seat and starts trying to teach him how to fox-trot. “Put your hand on my waist,” she orders. “I didn’t wear heels to sit behind a piano all night.” Stormy’s trying to teach him the steps, and he keeps stepping on her feet. “Ouch!” she snaps.

I can’t stop giggling. Mr. Morales is too. He dances us over closer. “May I cut in?” he asks.

“Please!” John practically pushes Stormy into Mr. Morales’s arms.

“Johnny, be a gentleman and ask Lara Jean to dance,” Stormy says as Mr. Morales twirls her.

John gives me a searching look, and I have a feeling he’s still suspicious of me and whether or not I have his name.

“Ask her to dance,” Mr. Morales urges, grinning at me. “She wants to dance, don’t you, Lara Jean?”

I shrug a sad kind of shrug. Wistful. The very picture of a girl who is waiting to be asked to dance.