Jake did not look convinced, his gaze shifting toward the heavy oak doors of the restaurant entrance.
The hostess was leading a young couple toward a booth near the kitchen, their laughter bubbling over the low murmur of the other diners. Every time those front doors opened, a fresh draft of autumn air swept through the lobby, carrying the scent of dry leaves and damp pavement.
“Did you get the table you wanted?” I asked, trying to steer their attention away from the empty seat.
“We got the best one in the house,” Lily said, though she kept looking over her shoulder toward the lobby.
“The reservation was for seven o’clock sharp,” Jake said, checking his watch. “It is seven past now.”
“He will be here in a minute,” I said.
We sat in a fragile sort of silence, the kind that always settled over us when Damon was late and everyone was trying to pretend it was fine. I reached up and touched one of my mother’s worn pearl earrings, ensuring the latch was secure, wishing the weight of them could anchor me to the chair.
