the octopus salad and the moussaka.” I hope I pronounced that correctly, though I’m sure I didn’t. I’m so out of my element. “Do you have a recommendation?”
“She’ll have the salad,” Travis answers with authority. And then he winks at me, smiling, and I smile back. “It’s Joanna’s favorite.”
Swallowing hard, I smile politely at the waitress, who takes my menu and disappears behind a faux brick wall.
I don’t know what’s throwing me off more: the fact that I’d almost ordered Joanna’s favorite dish without knowing it, or that Travis keeps bringing her up as if she’s still alive. Does he do this when he’s with Michael? Or with Rachael? How does she tolerate her husband constantly bringing up another woman?
“Did Joanna come here a lot?” I ask, sipping my water.
“Almost every day for lunch.”
“Wow,” I say, recalling the prices on the menu. “Michael must’ve spent a fortune here over the years.”
“She never came with Michael.”
Travis takes a long, slow drink of wine. Who would Joanna have come here with, then? I don’t know how to respond—if I should probe deeper, or drop it completely. I suppose I didn’t expect him to be so…honest.
For the next thirty minutes, we make small talk over the mouthwatering appetizer and avoid the topic of Joanna completely. Travis is surprisingly attentive, inquiring about my pregnancy and actively listening, which I find rare for a man these days. By the time the meal arrives, he’s three glasses down, his smile is widening, and he’s digging into his meal without hesitation.
“How is it?” he asks, stabbing his fork in the air toward my salad. “Amazing, right?”
I nod, my mouth exploding with flavor. “Truly is.”
“Want to try mine?”
I shake my head to refuse, but he’s already loading a fork and lifting it my way. Leaning over the table, he commands, “Here. Give it a try.”
Warning bells go off in the back of my brain. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be here, dining in Joanna’s favorite place with Michael’s best friend, letting him feed me off his fork. This is wrong.
“Come on,” he says, his eyes glinting with kindness. “One taste won’t kill you.”
On a wild stupid-stupid-stupid impulse, I open my mouth and close my lips around his fork. The taste of broccoli, Kalamata olives, lemon, and spices hits me first, followed by the juicy halibut.
A moan slips out of me. His eyes widen as he quickly pulls back his fork. My body tingles from heat. Or maybe that’s shame.
“Thank you,” I manage, cheeks burning.
“Best you’ve ever had?”
“Mm-hmm.” My eyes meet his, and I have to look away. “So, how did you and Rachael meet?”
“Mutual friends.” He goes back to his plate, pushing chunks of halibut around the china before shoving them in his mouth. “We were in our early twenties and didn’t know what the hell we were going to do with the rest of our lives. But we knew we wanted to do it together.”
“That’s sweet.”
“No, it’s dumb.” After finishing another glass of wine, he goes on. “We were broke with no plans to get us out of debt. This was before I met Michael and Joanna of course, before Harris Financial really took off. Rachael was in school to become a marriage and family therapist, but that didn’t pan out. Student loans piled up, and she only did it for a year or so before she bailed, leaving her unemployed and bored out of her mind.”
“Why?” I ask, completely riveted by their history. “I mean, why’d she quit? It seems like the perfect career choice for someone so—”
“Nosy?” he finishes with a laugh. “Don’t worry, you won’t offend me. I know my wife’s flaws better than most.”
“I was going to say curious, but, yes.”
And then we’re both laughing, and I’m picturing Rachael in her jogging gear,