“Are you here alone?”

I glance over, our hands separating eight paces back, when the awkward contact had become forced. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”

I may be mistaken, but I feel as if he stumbles slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”

The three martinis at dinner make that question much more humorous than it should be, and I giggle. “Me? No.”

“A boyfriend?” We reach the lobby, and he reaches out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I make the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.

I shake my head. “No.” I look over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”...