At seven fifty, I slip through the thick dinner crowd at Eataly on Fifth Avenue, the combination authentic Italian grocery and vast palace of sinfully delicious eateries of my dreams. But my favorite, of course, is the rooftop bar and grill. I make my way to the hostess stand by the elevators, where a big-eyed Italian girl in a red dress informs me Graham is already waiting for me on the roof.
As the elevator zips skyward, I realize Graham never actually said we were meeting at Birreria, and I smile. There’s something special about not needing any other directions aside from your favorite restaurant at eight.
He knows me.
And I know him.
As I exit the elevator, I head directly for the far end of the bar, where I suspect Graham will be sitting with a half pint of the on-site brewery’s latest concoction. And he is.
“Hey there, Mr. Campbell,” I say as I come to a stop beside him.
He turns from the view of the post-sunset pink sky behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes me thankful
for showers, blow-outs, and smoky ash eyeliner that exactly matches my short-sleeved sweater dress.
“Hello, Miss Murphy.” He shakes his head as his gaze skims up and down, taking me in with an appreciation that makes me feel like the most beautiful woman on the rooftop. “You’re stunning tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching out to smooth his tie. “You don’t look bad yourself. I like you in a tie.”
“Note to self—skip the gym and keep the tie more often.” He drops a ten-dollar bill on the bar and slides off his stool, motioning toward the front of the restaurant. “Let’s see if our table’s ready. I checked with the hostess a few minutes ago, and she said it should be set soon.”
“Perfect. I’m starving,” I admit, shivering slightly as he puts his hand at the small of my back, guiding me through the growing crowd milling around the bar. Even through my clothes, his touch is enough to send electricity zipping across my skin.
“Cold?” he asks.
I shake my head, saved from having to say more as the hostess makes eye contact with Graham and motions for us to follow her up the steps to the dining area. I don’t know why I’m suddenly feeling so self-conscious, but I’m nearly as nervous as I was that first night at Patio West.
Okay, that’s a lie. I know exactly why I’m feeling self-conscious, and I decide to confront the issue head-on.
As soon as we’re seated with menus and the hostess has stepped away with assurances that our server will be with us soon, I brace my hands on the table and lean in to whisper, “Thank you for the flowers. And the dessert. I’m sorry we fought.”
Graham leans in, mirroring my pose. “We didn’t fight. We had conflicting opinions that were amicably resolved with assurances and presents.”
“Very nice presents. The flowers were incredible,” I continue in a soft voice. “But still. You were right. I was letting the meeting with Lucy affect my thinking when that really has nothing to do with us.”
“Exactly. That was a very different situation.”
“Totally different,” I whisper with a firm nod.
Graham’s forehead wrinkles as he whispers back, “Why are we whispering?”
My grin turns into a laugh. “I don’t know,” I say at normal volume, my shoulders relaxing away from my ears as I sit back in my chair. “Growing up, my dad had a thing about keeping dinner conversation light and as emotion-free as possible. I guess he got in my head a little.”
“Parents will do that to you,” Graham agrees. “I can’t leave the apartment without doing a walk-through to make sure all the lights are off. I keep hearing my dad’s voice in my head preaching the evils of wasting electricity.”
“Aw, Bob,” I say affectionately, thinking of his gruff, no-nonsense father, who loves to laugh—loudly—at anything and everything. “How’s he doing? Did they let him back in the fishing club yet?”
“Not yet,” Graham says. “But he and Mom took up tennis so he has an outlet for his competitive streak. From what he tells me, they’re crushing it in the mixed doubles over-fifty-five division in the local league.”
I shake my head in admiration. “That’s awesome.”
“It is. Now as long as they can resist the urge to play each other too often, they should be able to make it to the over-sixty-five division without filing for divorce. The only thing they love more than each other is winning.”
“No. I’ve seen the way they look at the other. You can’t fool me, Campbell. They are proof that love can last.”
His smile softens. “Yeah, they are.”
I start to ask him if his mom’s still working part-time, when our server appears. Graham lifts a brow in my direction as he points to the menu. “The usual, I assume?”