Page 104 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

I give him a wink. “I’ve survived colder water before.”

Lucas brings an armful of towels while apologizing repeatedly.

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Really.”

Lucas hurries away. I blot my jeans while Miles stands beside the table, looking as though he would like to interrogate the laws of probability.

When Lucas returns, it’s with a towel-wrapped bag of ice on a plate. “For you, sir. And your appetizers will be complimentary.”

We order. Miles chooses steak, which is optimistic considering he has begun chewing only on the right side of his mouth. I order seafood pasta because if the evening has decided to become a story, I want carbohydrates.

For a while, things get back to normal. We talk about flying. I accuse Miles of deliberately concealing his expertise. He points out that I know he has parachuted from aircraft.

“Knowing you’ve done it and watching you float around like you and gravity signed some secret agreement are two different things.”

At 6:40, Miles looks at his watch. Then again at 6:46. He’s trying not to be obvious, which is making it very obvious.

I nod. “There’s another part of the date.”

“There may be.”

“What time?”

His attention shifts toward the kitchen doors. “Soon.”

At 6:49, Lucas emerges with our entrees on a tray. Another server pushes through the swinging door carrying his own tray at precisely the wrong moment, and he collides with Lucas.

Both my pasta and Miles’s steak slide off the tray and crash to the floor. The entire restaurant seems to hold its breath as plates break, sauce splatters across the base of the wall, and a roasted potato rolls beneath a neighboring table. Lucas looks ready to resign from the food-service industry and begin a new life under an assumed name.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Not because any of this is funny, but because it is becoming extremely funny.

The manager says they’ll remake everything and have it to us within fifteen minutes. Miles’s jaw tightens again.

I reach across the table and take his hand, which kind of surprises us both. “We can leave, if you’d like.”

His fingers close around mine. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I’ve had bread and half an appetizer.”

“That isn’t dinner.”

“It is if you’re stranded at an airport.”

He cracks a little bit of a smile, then glances at his watch again before meeting my eyes. “We can wait.”

Our replacement meals arrive at 7:05. We eat quickly, although Miles pretends not to. And I keep catching him pressing his cold water glass against his jaw between bites.

By the time we pay, it is 7:27. Outside, the air is getting cooler, and honestly, so are my damp jeans. As we hurry down the sidewalk toward the traffic light, Miles takes my hand. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s done it.

I notice enough for both of us. His hand is so warm around mine, and when his thumb brushes once over my knuckles, every nerve ending in my arm fires up.

“What are we late for?” I ask as we’re waiting for the light to change so we can cross the street.

“That boat,” he says as he points across the street and grassy area to the Finger Piers.

The light seems to take forever. The moment it changes, we hurry across the wide intersection and toward the piers—but before we can reach them, the boat pulls away.

Miles’s shoulders slump as we slow to a walk. “I thought we could make it.” He sounds so disappointed.