He looked so relaxed, she thought. No, they looked so relaxed, and gorgeous—both of them. If Mac had come in with her, she could have snapped a photo, captured that moment, that image of two beautiful people sharing wine and laughter over candlelight.

Anyone would think they were a couple, perfectly suited, absolutely in tune.

“Laurel, hi.”

“Hi, Maxie.” Laurel worked up a smile for the waitress who paused. “Busy night.”

“Tell me.” Maxie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t know you were coming in. We’ll fix you up.”

“Actually I’m meeting someone.”

“Oh, okay. Don’t let Julio see you.” She winked as she talked of the chef. “He’d be tempted to drag you back into the kitchen on a night like this. We miss you around here.”

“Thanks.”

“Gotta keep it moving. I’ll talk to you later.”

She nodded, then slipped into the rest room to give herself a minute. Stupid, she told herself, stupid to lose her balance because Del was having a drink with a friend. Stupid to feel somehow less because a handful of years before she’d have been back in the kitchen hustling instead of sitting at a table. She’d have created some lovely dessert for a couple like Delaney Brown and Deborah Manning.

“Nothing wrong with that,” she muttered, and dug out her lip gloss as she scolded herself in the mirror. She was proud of the job she’d done here—and the money she’d earned to help launch Vows. She was proud of her talent, and proud that talent enabled her to have a business, earn her living, create something that made people happy.

She took care of herself, made her own way, and God, nothing was more important to her than that.

But it stung, she couldn’t help it, to remember that she’d always be, in some sense, on the wrong side of that glass wall.

“It doesn’t matter.” She replaced the lip gloss, took a breath. “It just doesn’t matter.”

Confidence, she reminded herself, was like lip gloss—all you had to do was put it on.

She stepped out of the rest room, turned toward the dining room, and started toward the table.

Okay, she mused, it helped considerably to see the way Del’s eyes warmed when he spotted her. He rose, held out a hand for hers as Deborah shifted and glanced up.

Laurel saw the momentary struggle to place the face with a name. She and Deborah didn’t run in the same circles, after all.

“Laurel, you remember Deborah Manning, don’t you?”

“Sure. Hello, Deborah.”

“Laurel. It’s good to see you again. Del just told me about Emma and Jack. You must be planning a spectacular cake.”

“I have some ideas.”

“I’d love to hear them. Weddings are so much fun. Can you sit down? Del, we need another glass.”

To her credit, Deborah caught on quickly, and her flawless redhead’s skin flushed at her bungle. “I’m an idiot.” She laughed as she got to her feet. “Del’s been waiting for you. He was sweet enough to keep me company.”

“That’s fine.” Look how mature I am, Laurel thought. “You should stay, finish your wine. We can get another chair.”

“No, no. I’ve been waiting for my mother and sister. I’m going to step out and give them a call, make sure I haven’t been stood up. Thanks for the wine, Del.”

“It was good seeing you, Deborah.”

“You, too. Enjoy your dinner.”

She strolled off, but not before Laurel caught the look of baffled speculation.

“I’m late,” Laurel said brightly. “Completely Mac’s fault.”

“It was worth the wait.” He held her chair. “You look beautiful.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you.”

With the smooth efficiency the restaurant was known for, a waiter removed Deborah’s glass, replaced it, and poured Laurel’s wine. She sipped, nodded. “Very nice.”

She took the menu the waiter offered, but didn’t open it.

“Hi, Ben.”

“Hi, Laurel. I heard you were here.”

“What’s good tonight?”

“The red snapper, topped with crab, sautйed in a white wine reduction, and served with jasmine rice and asparagus.”

“Sold. And a small side salad with the house to start.”

“I’ll play,” Del said. “What else is good?”

“You might like the pork tenderloin with honey-ginger sauce. We’re serving it with fingerling potatoes and roasted vegetables nicoise.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll have the salad as well.”

“Excellent choices.”

He’d barely stepped away when another server placed the restaurant’s signature olive bread and dipping sauce on the table.

“You know, the service is always good here,” Del commented. “It’s better with you.”

“We like to take care of our own.” She nibbled on some bread.

“I’d forgotten you used to work here—or didn’t think of it when I suggested we have dinner here. We’ll have to have dessert, so you can check out your replacement.”

“I think it’s my replacement’s replacement now.”

“Once you’ve had the best, it’s hard to settle for less. Do you miss it at all? Working with a team, I mean, the energy, the controlled chaos.”

“Not always so controlled. And not really. I like having my own space, and restaurant hours are brutal.”

“And you have so much time on your hands now.”

“Well, it’s my time, and that makes a difference. Ah, looks like Deborah’s mother and sister showed up.” She lifted her glass toward a nearby table, and Del glanced over to see the three women being seated.

“They probably weren’t late, or not by much. She tends to be early.”

“That’s right.” Casually, easy,

mature, Laurel congratulated herself. “You dated her.”

“Briefly, and long ago. Before she was married.”

“I hope you didn’t date her while she was married. After her divorce?”

He shook his head. “I represented her in the divorce. No dating clients, and I have a policy about dating former clients in divorce cases. Just a bad idea.”

“Penny Whistledown.” Laurel pointed at him. “I remember you handled her divorce,

and you dated her a couple years after.”

“Which is why I know it’s a bad idea.”

“She was so needy. If she couldn’t get you at home or the office, she’d call the house nagging Parker about where you were.” She sipped her wine again. “That, Counselor, was a serious error in judgment on your part.”

“Guilty as charged. You’ve had a couple.”

“Uh-uh. I steer clear of needy men.”

“Errors in judgment. Drake, no, Deke something. How many tattoos did he have?”

“Eight, I think. Maybe nine. But he doesn’t count. I was sixteen and hoping to piss off my parents.”

“It pissed me off.”

Her eyebrows winged up. “Really?”

“Really. He hung around most of that summer, in his torn-off-sleeve T-shirts and motorcycle boots. He had an earring, and I think he practiced his smirk in the mirror.”

“You remember him better than I do.”

She paused while Ben served the salads, topped off their wine. “We know too much about each other’s dating past. Could be dangerous.”

“I won’t hold yours against you, if you don’t hold mine against me.”

“Fair and reasonable,” she concluded. “You know, people are wondering what we’re doing, what’s going on with us.”

“What people?”

“Here, tonight. People who know you.” She inclined her head slightly toward the table where the three women were pretending not to be talking about them. “And people who know me.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. Not really. Maybe a little.” She shrugged and gave her salad her attention. “It’s natural enough, especially when one of us is a Brown of the Connecticut Browns.”

“I’d say it’s natural enough because I’m sitting here with the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Good. That’s very good. A popular standard for a reason.”

He laid his hand on hers on the table. “I know who I’m looking at.”

Undone, she turned her hand over to link her fingers with his. “Thanks.”

Let them wonder, she thought. Let them talk. She had what she’d always wanted right in her hand.

They ate, sampling each other’s choices, sipping good wine, talking about whatever came to mind. They’d always been able to talk, Laurel mused, about anything and everything. She found herself able to put that glass wall around them, close everyone else out on the other side and savor the interlude as much as the meal.

Ben set a trio of mini soufflйs on the table. “Compliments of Charles, the dessert chef. He heard you were here and wanted to do something special for you. He’s a little nervous,” Ben added, lowering his voice as he leaned down.

“Seriously?”

“You’re a tough act, Laurel. If you’d rather have something else—”

“No, this is great. They’re beautiful.” She sampled the chocolate first, with a dollop of whipped cream. And closing her eyes, smiled. “Gorgeous. Try it,” she told Del, then took a taste of the vanilla. “Really wonderful.”

“He’d love to come out and meet you.”

“Why don’t I go back? After we do justice to these.”

“You’d make his day Thanks, Laurel.”

She tried the last while Ben walked away. “Mmm, the lemon’s exquisite. Just the right blend of tart and sweet.”

“A Brown of the Connecticut Browns. That’s what you said before.” He shared the soufflйs with Laurel. “But I’m with the Diva of Desserts.”

“Diva of Desserts.” A laugh bubbled out, then she paused and just grinned. “I like it. I may get a sign. God, I’m going to have to work out like a maniac tomorrow, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings,” she added and took another bite. “Listen, I’ll only be a few minutes in the back.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, and rose to take her hand.

“It’ll have calmed down by now,” she told him. “The dinner rush is well over. But don’t touch anything. Julio can be fairly insane. If he threatens to fillet you like a trout, don’t take it personally.”

“I know Julio. I’ve met him several times when he’s come out to the table.”

Laurel spared Del a glance as they approached the kitchen. “Then you don’t know Julio.”

She pushed open the door.

Calm, she’d said. They obviously had different definitions of the term. People moved everywhere at once, it seemed to Del, and the noise level—raised voices, the clatter of dishes, the hum of vents, the thwack of knives, and sizzle from the grill—was simply huge.

Steam rose in air thick with heat and tension.

At a section of the enormous stove, Julio stood in his apron and short chef’s hat, cursing steadily in several languages.

“Can’t decide?” he boomed. “Need more time?” He erupted with a stream of gutter Spanish that singed the already simmering air. “Don’t want mushrooms, want extra carrots. Assholes! Where’s my fucking plate, goddamn it.”

“Nothing changes,” Laurel said just loud enough for him to hear.

He turned, a scrawny man with beetled black brows over molten brown eyes. “You, don’t talk to me.”

“I’m not here to talk to you.” She turned away to approach the younger man who’d stopped drizzling raspberry sauce around a slice of chocolate cake on a dessert plate. “You must be Charles.”

“Don’t talk to him until he gets that done. You think this is a social club?”

Charles’s eyes rolled in a handsome face the color of freshly ground coffee. “Please. Just one minute.”

He completed the plate with a scattering of berries, added thin cookies around a bowl of trifle. As if by secret signal, a waitress scooped them up and out the door.

“I’m so pleased to meet you. So pleased.”

“Your soufflйs were wonderful—the lemon one in particular. Thank you.”

His face simply lit up, Del thought, as if Laurel had switched on electricity. “You liked them? When I heard you were here I wanted to do something for you. The lemon. You liked the lemon?”

“Especially the lemon. Rich and fresh at the same time.”

“We don’t serve it yet. It’s new. I’ve been working on it.”

“I think you’ve perfected it. I don’t suppose you’d share the recipe.”

“You ...” His voice went breathless. “You want my recipe? I’ll write it down. Right now. I’ll write it down for you, Ms. McBane.”

“Laurel.”

“Laurel.”

Del swore her name came from the man’s lips like a prayer. When he scurried away to get the recipe, she turned to Del.

“I’ll be right back.”

When she walked off with Charles, Del slipped his hands in his pockets and glanced around. Julio guzzled from a water bottle and eyed him.