CLAIRE

Marcus drove us to a restaurant in the West Village, an intimate French place with soft lighting and quiet corners.

The hostess greeted Julian by name and led us to a secluded table near the window.

"You've been here before," I observed as we sat down.

"A few times," Julian admitted. "For business mostly, but I always thought it would be perfect for a date."

"It's beautiful," I said, looking around at the elegant space.

A waiter appeared with menus and a wine list.

Julian ordered a bottle of wine I'd never heard of, speaking to the waiter in perfect French.

"I didn't know you spoke French," I said...