“My brother David recommended this place,” I told Zoey as we left the car with the valet and headed into the low light of the romantic little French bistro, “so if it’s godawful, blame him and not me.”

“Your brother, the celebrity chef guy?” Zoey asked, looking around the restaurant to take in the white tablecloths, candlelight, and roses on each table.

“That’s the one,” I replied, grinning, “and if you ever meet him, please be sure you lead with that. He hates being called a celebrity chef, even though he definitely is one. He thinks its tacky and undermines his art. He prefers to think of himself as a serious chef.”

“Doesn’t he have, like, a talk show?” Zoey asked skeptically, and I grinned.

“He’s about to. It’s in development. He sort-of fell into his success on TV. I’m not sure he quite knows what to do with it.”

“Yeah that must be so terrible,” Zoey said sarcastically. She rolled her eyes and we shared a smile. “Poor baby.”

Zoey looked phenomenal tonight. She was wearing a sleeveless dark purple dress that showed off her long, creamy-white arms and statuesque figure. Zoey could easily have been a fashion model with her looks and height but imagining her slinking down a runway as a human hanger would have been an enormous waste of her brain and talents. I’d dated plenty of models who weren’t completely stupid, but they definitely wouldn’t have made it into Columbia either. Zoey would have been bored to tears if they’d been her coworkers. The fact that I’d ever wasted time with women like them now made me feel vaguely ashamed. I should have been out there looking everywhere for Zoey.

“How was your photoshoot with Angelica today?” I asked as we settled into a table in a quiet corner.

Zoey grimaced and then put on a sarcastically huge, bright smile.

“Oh my god, it was so much fun!” She cried in a frighteningly good impression of Angelica’s breathy squeal, earning our table a couple of surprised looks from the surrounding tables, “and we laughed and drank sparkling coconut water and took fun pictures all afternoon!”

I recoiled and then laughed. Seeing Zoey relaxed and happy again after the nightmare from yesterday felt like a miracle. I hadn’t been able to stand making her unhappy. Never before had someone else’s mood been so important to my own wellbeing.

“It wasn’t really that bad,” she continued in her normal voice, “I think we got the pictures needed for the cover feature. The agreement with Angelica gives her veto power, unfortunately, so I might be out there again tomorrow morning reshooting if she doesn’t like the proofs. How was your day?”

“Way better than yesterday,” I was happy to report, “we confirmed that there was no corruption of the test data. Barring some new disaster, I’m going to space on Friday.”

Zoey shot me a bemused smile.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” She asked, “I don’t even like rollercoasters.”

I shook my head.

“It’s scary, sure, but it’s worth it. One day, maybe, you’ll get to see for yourself. You’ve been on a plane, right? It’s not that different.”

“No, I haven’t been on a plane,” she replied, shrugging, “I’m not that scared of them, I’ve just never had a reason to. It was always cheaper to drive or take a train.”

The thought of Zoey never having been on a plane reminded me of a question that David asked at lunch.

“Zoey,” I asked, half afraid to hear the answer, “how old are you?”

“Don’t you know that’s one of the three forbidden questions?” She replied tartly, arching her eyebrows at me over the edge of her menu. I suspected she was hiding a smile behind it.

“The what?”

“The three forbidden questions that a gentleman should never ask a lady, obviously: how old she is, whether or not she’s pregnant, and when did she know her husband was cheating on her.”

I smirked, and she giggled playfully.

“Obviously none of those could possibly apply to you in a negative way. Seriously, how old are you?” I repeated, “I’ll go first if you want. Thirty-two.”

“I’m twenty-four, why? Were you worried I was underage?”

“I’m just curious. My dumb brother was giving me grief over dating someone younger.”

“What did you tell your brother about me?” She asked, looking nervous.

“Only good things,” I told her reassuringly, “I promise. Really.”

Our conversation was interrupted a moment later by a stranger approaching with a tape recorder and a little notebook. Press.

“Nathan Breyer?” The man asked, “I’m Phillip Paderewski from the Philadelphia Monitor. Any comment on your upcoming launch or the data breach at Durant Astronautics?”

I hated when people from the press did this. The journalist was younger. His face said late twenties, but his hairline said early forties. Averaged out, it probably put him somewhere around my age. Still, he apparently hadn’t learned that if you were going to ambush someone in a restaurant, you were supposed to wait until they were leaving. It’s basic etiquette.

“Hey Phil,” Zoey answered grumpily before I could tell him to go away, “can you not? We’re at dinner.”

The man did a double take.

“Zoey?! Holy crap. I didn’t know you were still in town.”

She shrugged and frowned at him.

“I am,” she replied politely, “but can you please go away?”

“Are you still working for that awful, trashy tabloid?” He asked snidely, and Zoey’s frown deepened. I could only imagine that this wasn’t the most comfortable situation for her. This guy would have been a former coworker of hers.

“Gotta’ pay the rent,” she replied simply. She stared at him expectantly, raising her eyebrows and clearly ready for him to go away. I was too.

“You know,” Paderewski—Phil—asked me snidely, “Zoey used to write for the Monitor before she became a gossip columnist? You might want to be careful around her. She’s blood-thirsty.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied blandly. This guy was kind of a jerk. “Don’t quote me on that,” I added.

“I saw your cover feature the other month on Khloe Kardashian’s shoe collection,” Phil continued to Zoey, “I saw it in a New York drug store when I was down there covering the most recent UN security council meeting. That must have been an exciting piece. Do you miss being a real journalist?”

“Do you miss being a half-decent human being?” She fired back, and I covered my smirk, “Besides, last I heard the Monitor was about to be acquired by GBH. I saw the press release just last week. You made it through the last round of layoffs, but once GBH comes in nobody will be safe. You’re a dead man walking. Enjoy your superiority while it lasts.”

That touched a nerve, although I had no idea what it meant. A muscle in Phil’s flushed cheek jumped and he grimaced. He puffed up like she’d just insulted his manhood and straightened his jacket primly.

“I don’t have any comment,” I interjected at that point, and Phil nodded curtly and walked away in a bit of a huff.

Zoey and I looked at one another across the romantic little table. The mood was ruined.