"Oh, um, I think it's under…Glenn?" I ask, sounding like an idiot, because of course I don't know his last name.

"Glenn?" she asks, skeptical.

I lean in, whispering girl to girl. "Sorry, I can text him to see if he's here. I'm sort of on a blind date."

"Oh, Glenn!" she suddenly exclaims, with an excited tone that instantly has me on edge. "You're the girl who has a date with Glenn. Let me show you to your table."

I can't help but notice the emphasis she placed on you're, as though she had heard of me before, as though she somehow knew Glenn, as though he specifically mentioned the date to her. But when I sit down at the table, no one is there, so I flip absently through the menu while I wait. And about halfway through the entrees, the realization hits.

No…

No!

I'm sitting in a restaurant on Fifth Avenue.

A new restaurant that just opened up.

A high-end American steakhouse.

No…

But as I peek over my shoulder, watching the man who is undoubtedly Glenn walk through a door clearly meant only for staff, my heart sinks to the floor. This is Ollie's restaurant. Well, Glenn's restaurant, but he's not really the one I'm concerned with. And the closer he walks, smiling, waving in greeting, the more I want to crawl under the table, curl into a ball, and just disappear. Which is a shame really, because I don't get enough of these moments to waste them. You know, moments when a really good-looking guy is approaching and you know for certain that his charming smile actually is meant for you, and not some leggy blonde standing behind you? Yeah, that doesn’t usually happen to me, so I really would have liked to appreciate it.

But I can't. And I don't. My feet tap nervously on the floor and my heart leaps into my chest when he comes to a stop next to the table.

"Skylar?"

I hastily stand on unsteady feet, somewhat surprised I haven't fainted yet, and shake his hand. I was supposed to shake it, right? That wasn't like him going in for a hug or something? I sigh, too late, and stutter out a reply. "Uh, you can just call me Skye. And you're Glenn, right?"

"Yeah." He takes his seat.

I keep standing, frozen in place for a moment—caught between needing to stay for my job and wanting to run for my sanity. My job wins out. I sit. "So." I swallow. Be cool. Be casual. You're just making polite conversation. "Is this the restaurant you work in? I didn’t realize that when you asked me to dinner."

"It is." He nods, not even bothering to pick up the menu. I can't help but notice he has a nice smile, warm and friendly. And really white teeth too. No dimples, though… Wait—where'd that thought come from? Ugh, not the time to think about Ollie. Especially when Glenn is still talking. I lean in, refocusing, trying to catch the tail end of his sentence. "…a little unorthodox, but I thought hey, why not? This way I could make our dessert beforehand and you could taste a little of my food."

I nod, furrowing my brows, pretending I understand, when really I'm grasping for what to say next. He mentioned dessert. His cooking. Oh, and what did Ollie tell me? Not that I want to think about Ollie, and then I remember.

"You're the pastry chef!" I blurt and then shift uncomfortably on my seat, hoping that didn’t come out as loud and crazy as it sounded. Knowing my luck, it came out even louder and even crazier, especially since he's giving me a confused sort of look. And then I realize, he must have told me that already, during those few moments when I completely zoned out and stopped paying attention. Not the best way to start a date.

I swallow.

My butt is sweating again.

"So, what did you make? Or is that a surprise?"

"No, not a surprise." He shakes his head, but keeps his eyes locked on mine. They're a nice color, a milk chocolate brown that sort of works perfectly for a man who makes desserts for a living. "I made one of my specialties—a medallion of cheesecake resting on a cinnamon crumble, topped with raspberry compote and toasted coconut shavings. Oh, and a caramel, butterscotch drizzle."

Holy crap.

I gape.

That sounds amazing.

He just chuckles at my expression. "So, that sounds good?"

"Delicious." I grin back. Maybe I'm not so bad at this.

"So what do you do?" he asks.

Such a simple question, innocent really. It’s not his fault that it sends me into a coughing fit as I choke on the water I just swallowed and try my best not to spit it out all over the table. So not attractive. "I'm a writer," I finally say. "I work for the style section of a newspaper. But enough about me, I want to hear more about these desserts. Are you a cupcake man?"

"I am," he says cheerfully. I silently applaud myself on the successful sidestep and try not to salivate as the discussion veers into his favorite flavors. And for a moment, I really think I might have found my dream man. I mean, hello, breakfast in bed eating red velvet cupcakes topped with homemade cream cheese frosting? Yes, please!

But my elation fades in the blink of an eye when a waiter stops by our table, setting down a little treat, roasted butternut squash puree "compliments of the chef." Oh, the soup, the soup looks great. It’s what's on top of the soup that has me balling my fists under the table.

A pesto-drizzle winky face.

A freaking winky face—a smiley face that's winking. And there's only one person who could have put it there.

I spin in my chair, looking back toward the kitchen entrance, but Ollie isn’t there. Coward! Hiding in the kitchen to escape my wrath—

"Everything okay?" Glenn asks.

"Oh, sure," I mutter and turn back around, quickly downing the little shot glass of soup to erase the evidence. "That was so nice of them, to do that."

"Yeah, the guys back there are great. Speaking of, how do you know Oliver?"

I swallow my anger, trying to bring the charming, first date personality back around. "His sister is my best friend, we all grew up together. I mean, he's practically my brother." Except…not at all. But Glenn doesn’t need to know that. I quickly change the topic. "So, how do you like living in New York? I've only been here for about four months, but I love it."

And just like that, the date is back on course.

Turns out Glenn has been in New York for a long time, twelve years. He came here for culinary school when he was eighteen and decided to stay after he got a job at one of his favorite restaur—wait! Twelve years ago he was eighteen… He was eighteen twelve years ago… I quickly do the math—I may be a writer but that doesn't mean I can't add. Still though, I'm doubting my skills as the truth hits.

He's thirty?

He's thirty!

I try not to spew food across the table as internal sirens blare, instead nodding absently to give the appearance that I'm paying attention. But really the word thirty is jumping around my head, knocking everything else out of whack. And then my brain does that thing where the entire world seems to warp around my thoughts, and the longer I look at Glenn, the more distinct the numbers three and zero imprint on his forehead. And no matter how hard I try to listen, all I hear from his lips is, I'm thirty. I'm thirty. I'm thirty. And all the wrinkles I didn’t see become more pronounced. Is that a gray hair?

Thirty. That's an eight-year difference. When he was eighteen, I was ten! Oh, great, I just cringed because of how disgusting that is, but come on, I was playing with Barbie dolls when he was in college doing college age things.

And now he's speaking but I don’t hear anything. Wonderful.