Owen Carter had already decided he was leaving when the woman in the black dress walked through the restaurant door.
He had been sitting alone for thirty-eight minutes.
Long enough for the coffee in front of him to become lukewarm.
Long enough for the waiter to stop pretending the empty seat across from him was normal.
Long enough for Owen to remember exactly why he had not agreed to a date in almost four years.
Outside, snow swept sideways across downtown Denver.
It clung to the enormous windows of the steakhouse and softened the city lights beyond them until every traffic signal, office tower, and passing headlamp looked blurred at the edges.
Inside, Christmas decorations covered nearly every surface.
Garlands wrapped the windows.
Small white lights flickered around the bar.
A massive wreath hung behind the host stand.
Someone had placed a miniature evergreen arrangement beside Owen’s coffee.
Normally he liked Christmas.
His daughter made sure of that.
Tonight the decorations seemed aggressively cheerful.
Owen looked at his phone again.
9:11 p.m.
The reservation had been for 8:30.
His blind date’s name was Autumn Blake.
Thirty-two years old.
Architect.
Loved old bookstores.
Disliked olives.
Volunteered at an animal shelter.
According to Owen’s sister, she was “exactly the kind of woman you would like if you ever stopped acting like liking someone is a medical emergency.”
Owen had told his sister that this sentence was the reason families should come with mute buttons.
She made the reservation anyway.
He only agreed because his nine-year-old daughter, Lily, overheard the argument.
“Dad.”
Owen had looked down from making pancakes.
“What?”
“Mom would want you to go.”
The spatula stopped.
Lily had gone back to coloring as though she had not just casually dismantled four years of emotional avoidance.
Owen had eventually gone.
He dressed simply.
Black fitted sweater.
Dark trousers.
Clean boots.
No tie.
His sister called the look “handsome widower trying desperately not to look handsome.”
He hung up on her.
Now he was sitting alone while his sister sent increasingly strange messages.
At 8:42:
She says traffic is terrible. Stay put.
At 8:56:
Car trouble. She’s handling it.
At 9:04:
Don’t leave yet.
At 9:09:
She’s still stranded on I-70.
Owen had finally answered:
This is becoming ridiculous.
His sister sent:
Ten more minutes.
He gave her five.
Then the restaurant door opened.
Owen barely noticed at first.
He was looking down at his phone.
Then something changed around him.
Not silence.
Attention.
A couple near the door looked up.
The bartender paused.
A young waiter turned his head.
Owen followed their gaze.
The woman entering looked like she had walked out of a different evening.
She wore a fitted black evening dress with a lace-trimmed neckline and a high side slit that revealed one long leg whenever she moved.
Her blonde hair had been gathered into a polished high bun, though damp strands had escaped around her face.
Snow glittered along her bare shoulders.
A black coat hung around her arms instead of covering her properly, as though she had thrown it on while moving.
Elegant black heels should have been useless in the weather outside.
Somehow she had made them work.
Under one arm, she carried a wrapped Christmas present.
The paper was crushed on one corner.
Owen looked away.
Then looked back.
Not because she was beautiful.
Though she was.
Exceptionally.
It was the way she scanned the restaurant.
Nervous.
Searching.