She was undeniably beautiful—tall, with chestnut hair flowing like she stepped out of a painting. She glided between tables, her smile warm for every guest, but Thorne seemed captivated by her.
She couldn’t have been 30. Thorne, in his late fifties, didn’t seem to care.
I reached for my wine, trying to ease the ache in my chest.
Maybe I’m imagining it.
I took a sip and cleared my throat, desperate to reclaim the night.
“This place hasn’t changed a bit, has it? Even the walls are the same shade of gold!”
Thorne gave a half-hearted nod, his eyes flicking back to the waitress as he signaled her over.
“Hi! Ready to order?” she asked, her smile bright.
“Yes!” Thorne said eagerly. “I’ll take the steak, roasted potatoes, and a green salad. My wife will have the grilled salmon with mashed potatoes. Right, Rowan?”
I didn’t want that. I’d been craving the lamb chops with rosemary fries. But I didn’t argue—something told me he wouldn’t hear me anyway.
