“Josh, I don’t have time for—”
“For lunch? Yes, you do,” he said, before turning to the hostess and holding up two fingers.
“But—”
He put a hand on her back and not-too-gently shoved her in the direction of the hostess.
A moment later they were seated at a cozy table in the back corner, Heather was glaring at him, and the hostess was batting her eyelashes, but Josh was too busy reading the menu and salivating to care about either.
The hostess moved away, and Heather leaned forward. “Look, I appreciate you helping me, but I really—”
“This is one of Danica’s favorite restaurants,” Josh said, not looking up from the menu.
Heather sat back. “It is?”
“Yup. We came here at least once a week when we were dating, usually on a Friday or Saturday night, when she could see and be seen.”
“And where you could,” Heather said with a speculative note in her voice.
He glanced up. “I’m currently wearing a hoodie. Do you really think I care about that?”
“No,” she said slowly. “But I think you cared about that. Why else would you date someone like Danica Robinson?”
“I already told you, she wasn’t famous back then,” he muttered.
“I bet she wanted to be.”
“Sure,” he said warily, setting the menu aside. “But I didn’t.”
Heather crossed both arms on the table and looked at him steadily. “So she twisted your arm, then? Dragged you in here the same way you dragged me.”
Josh sighed. “Fine. You win. I may have been a little different back then.”
Heather smiled, and damned if he wasn’t getting to know the woman, because he’d come to recognize that as her victory smile. She’d never admit it, but she loved winning an argument.
The server came over, and after Heather ordered a boring sparkling water he got them a bottle of wine.
She blinked at him. “Seriously? I’m working.”
“Fine,” he said with a shrug. “But you also need to live. It’s a French restaurant. Pretend you’re French.”
“I’m German.”
“One hundred percent?” he asked, reaching for the bread basket.
She shrugged. “At least half, on my mom’s side. I didn’t know my dad.”
“Ah,” he said. There was no ire in her voice, no sadness. It told him that she’d long ago adjusted to that being her reality. As someone who was close with both parents, it bummed him out.
“You close to your mom?”
“Yeah,” she said.
Her voice was confident, but she glanced down at her napkin when she said it, and even though he told himself not to press her—it was none of his business, really—the next question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
“Michigan, right?”
Heather nodded. “A little bit outside of Detroit.”
“You see her often?” he asked, spreading a liberal amount of butter on the bread before handing it to her.
Heather didn’t even hesitate before taking the bread and sinking her teeth into it. He hid his smile.
“I try to get back there at least once a year,” she said, wiping her mouth with the napkin. “Thanksgiving or Christmas or whatever.”
“You headed home this year?”
“This is my home,” she said with emphasis. “I’m from there, but New York . . . this is home now,” she repeated.
Josh leaned back in his chair and studied her as the server approached the table with the wine bottle. Josh did the whole swirl-and-taste thing, nodding at the server appreciatively and waiting until both of them had glasses before he resumed the subject.
“And no siblings, right?”
She shook her head.
“You headed back for Thanksgiving this year?”
She gave him a startled look, then shook her head.
The sadness on her face bugged the crap out of him, and he opened his mouth to invite her over to his place before he realized how odd that would be. He didn’t know her that well, and inviting her would give everyone the wrong idea.
His parents.
Heather.
Himself.
Still, the thought of her spending the holiday alone . . .
“Your mom invited me over,” she said, not looking at him. “For Thanksgiving.”