“I can also make meatballs,” I announced.

“Meatballs!” Cheyenne arched one brow. “I’m impressed.”

“Yes. Believe it or not, Mrs. Moretti taught me. But I was made to understand that if I ever gave the recipe to anyone else, she’d have to kill me.”

Her head fell back as she laughed, and I was distracted by her throat—its pale skin, the hollow at the base, the curve of her neck to her shoulder. Earlier, in my car on the ride to town, I’d caught the scent of her perfume, and imagined the way it would fill my head if I put my lips beneath her ear, or brushed them against her collarbone, or swept them along her jaw.

“Cole?”

Blinking, I snapped my attention back to her eyes. She was studying me with a curious look on her face. “What?”

“I asked if you were hoping to move before the holidays.”

“Oh.” I realized how hard I was gripping my beer and set it down. “Um, I’d love to be in a new house by the new year. But there’s a lot of things that would need to be in place for that to happen.”

She took another bite of her pasta and sighed. “I’m so jealous. I wish I could move out by the new year.”

“Your mom gave you a hard time today, huh?”

“And then some. Right in front of your daughter, who’s probably going to end up with a warped sense of self-esteem because if she listens to Darlene Dempsey, she’s going to think a woman can’t be happy without a man.”

“No wonder our moms are such good friends,” I said.

She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe they just really miss their husbands, you know? I sometimes have to remind myself that my parents were really happy together and I’m sure she wants the same for her kids. She probably can’t conceive of what her life would have been like without my dad.”

“I think you’re right about that.”

“And my mom cannot stop crowing about Griffin and Blair, how she was right about them all along, even when he was adamant that there was nothing going on with them and he was not interested in a relationship.”

“Yeah,” I said, recalling how stubbornly Griffin had insisted he was not going to fall for his soon-to-be wife. “He was a fucking idiot for a while, wasn’t he?”

“He was,” she agreed. “And I hope you remind everyone of that when you give the toast at their wedding reception.”

I groaned, picking up my beer again. It was my second one and just about gone, although I’d been trying to pace myself. “Don’t remind me about that. I’m dreading it.”

“Why?”

“Because public service is my thing, not public speaking.”

She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’ll be great. Just tell a cute but embarrassing story about when he was young, remind everyone how he swore up and down he was never going to get married, especially not to a Tennessee debutante who didn’t know a carburetor from a camshaft, and wish them well. Then ask us all to raise a glass and do the same.” She picked up her wine glass, which was nearly empty. “Cheers.”

I tapped my bottle against her glass. “Can you please give the toast?”

Smiling, she shook her head and finished her wine. “It’s all you, my friend. But you’ve got this. Just say the thing about love being worth the wait that you said to me the other night.”

I squinted at her. “What?”

“The other night when you walked me home, you said love isn’t easy to find, but it’s worth the wait.”

“I said that?”

She laughed. “Yes, you did.”

“Huh. That’s not bad.” I tossed back the rest of my Belgian ale and grinned. “I think I read that in a fortune cookie.”

“What?” She wadded up a cocktail napkin and threw it at me. “A fortune cookie! I totally took that to heart. Now you’re telling me it was some mass-produced, factory-generated BS?”

We were still laughing when the server appeared at the edge of our table and asked if we’d like another round.

“Not for me, I’m driving,” I said, although I wished I could have a third beer, or maybe a shot of whiskey—anything to numb her effects on me. “I’ll take a cup of coffee though.”

“Sounds good. And for you?” the server asked Cheyenne.

Cheyenne bit her lip. “I probably shouldn’t. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Oh, go ahead,” I said, nudging her foot beneath the table. “It’s my treat.”

“Cole, no—you are not paying for all this.”

“She’ll have one more,” I told the server, whose name tag said Lara. She looked vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her.

“Great! And would you like to see the dessert menu?”

I looked across the table. “Would you?”

She sighed. “Of course I would. But considering the amount of pasta I just ate and the number of calories I’m going to consume tomorrow, I’m going to say no.”

I looked up at Lara. “We’re all set. Just the coffee and wine, and then the bill.”

When we were alone again, Cheyenne reached forward and put her hand over mine. “You do not have to treat me, Cole.”

“Quiet,” I told her gruffly. “I asked you to dinner, so I’m paying for it.”

“Well, thank you. I appreciate it, even if you did give me made-up advice.” She left her hand on mine as she smiled. “This is actually the best night out I’ve had in a really long time.”

“Yeah?” It made me happy to hear it.

She nodded, her gorgeous lips curving into a smile. “When you spend all your days with a bunch of five and six-year-olds, and all your evenings with a meddlesome mother, you forget how nice it can be to spend time alone with someone closer to your own age.”

I looked down at our hands. My wedding band peeked through our fingers. “It is nice. I haven’t been out like this in a long time either.”

“Then we should do it again sometime. And I’ll treat.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I heard myself saying, even though making a habit of having dinner out with her sounded suspiciously like dating.

But she was right—it was nice to spend time alone with someone your own age. I loved Mariah to the moon and back, and I had the greatest group of guy friends on the fucking planet, but this was different. I’d forgotten how good it could feel to sit across from someone pretty and talk quietly and make her laugh and admire the way the candlelight on the table put those warm, golden flecks in her eyes.

Except that I knew what she was waiting for, and I couldn’t give it to her.

The snow had continued to fall while we were at dinner, and a couple more inches had accumulated. Cheyenne was delighted, tossing handfuls of it over our heads as we made our way to my car.

“Are you drunk?” I teased, worried she was going to slip in those high-heeled boots she was wearing.

“Yes. Which is your fault.” She tipped her head back and opened her mouth to catch snowflakes on her tongue. A second later, she stumbled over an uneven sidewalk slab, and I instinctively reached for her.