“Damn, babe, you look goooooood.”

I glance up from the specials sheet and smile as my ex makes his way across the busy restaurant toward me.

Jack’s a little shorter than the average guy, but he makes up for it with a great smile and great shoulders—great shoulders that he takes care to show off with too-tight T-shirts.

Keep an open mind, Kelly, I remind myself. You liked him, remember? Once upon a time you loved him. Sort of.

I stand to give him a hug, letting it linger as I wait for a sense that he’s the one the lady was telling me about. He smells and feels familiar, but . . . have I missed this?

Hmm. Too soon to tell.

“You look great,” I say enthusiastically as we sit.

I’ve seen him around plenty since we broke up, but this is the first time I’ve bothered to look, and . . . well, the too-tight shirt says he’s been taking care of himself.

Which, okay, let’s be honest, is more than I can say. While I’d like to claim I handled every breakup by getting a “revenge body,” the truth is I’m more of an ice-cream-and-TV kind of breakup girl.

And considering I’ve had three breakups since Jack, I’m definitely trending toward curvy these days.

Although the way he’s checking me out says he doesn’t mind that at least some of the extra weight’s gone to my chest. Throw in a good push-up bra, and well . . . yeah, I know what I’m doing.

Jack’s mostly a gentleman, and drags his eyes back up to mine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a couple of my girlfriends come in the door and head to the bar. I feel a tiny stab of regret that I had to say no to the invitation to girls’ night. Ivy’s call didn’t come through until after I’d already confirmed with Jack. But truth? I’d rather be catching up with the girls than doing this awkward how-are-you with Jack.

Not a good sign.

I force my attention back to my ex and tell myself to be more open-minded. We do a quick catch-up on the basics. Weather. Holiday plans. My parents, his brother. Both our careers.

It’s a nice conversation. Friendly, civil, pleasant. This could work. Yes indeed . . .

A shadow appears over us. “Drinks?”

I glance up to order a glass of white wine but blink in surprise when I see that it’s not one of the usual servers taking our order. It’s Mark.

“Hey!” I say.

“Hey, man,” Jack says distractedly, glancing around Mark toward the bar. “Got anything good on tap these days?”

“No. Nothing good. Went out of my way to stock the shittiest beer I could find.”

I give my best friend a warning look. Clearly his feelings about my plan haven’t improved since this morning.

The conversation in Starbucks went something like this:

Me: Hey, so Jack and I are going to dinner tonight at Cedar and Salt.

Him: Why?

Me: Why do you think? I’ve already told you my plan. Get on board, or be quiet about it.

Him: How’m I supposed to be quiet when you won’t shut up about it?

Me: Hey, would you mind if I hung some mistletoe in that little archway between the bar and restaurant? It’s sort of part of my plan . . .

Him: [Walks away]

Unsurprisingly, there’s no mistletoe hanging in the bar. I expected this, and I came up with a backup plan.

“I’ll have a pinot grigio, please.”

Jack orders one of the local IPAs, and Mark stalks away without a word.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “What’s up with your guy?”

I wave a hand. “Oh, you know. Probably worried we’re going to start fighting again.”

Jack’s smile is slow and familiar. “We really did have the best fights. Best makeup times, too.”

I smile back. “We totally did.”

It’s true—being with Jack kept me on my toes. But it’s a little bit hard not to feel tired at the thought of going through all of that.

A glass of wine appears in front of me, a beer in front of Jack, set down with just enough force to slosh slightly.

I sigh and glance up at Mark. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the kitchen?”

He’s wearing his usual jeans, paired with a dark green flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows and the old watch he inherited from his grandfather. No sign of the apron he usually wears when he cooks.

Mark’s not only the owner of the place, he’s the head chef. Lately he’s been transferring more responsibility to Katie, his sous-chef, who he’s hoping will take over the kitchen most nights, but it’s unlike him to work tables.

“What’s good tonight, dude?” Jack asks, apparently oblivious to our friend’s mood. Jack and Mark are friends, but not that close. As evident in the fact that Jack apparently can’t sense the storm approaching.

Come to think of it, perceptiveness was never Jack’s strong suit. He’s always been a have-to-hit-him-over-the-head-with-it kind of guy. Not so much about the details.

Mark crosses his arms. “All of it.”

Okay, that’s enough of that.

I stand and, with a wait-here finger at Jack, drag Mark to the corner of the room. “What’s up with you?” I ask once we’re out of earshot of any tables.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t want a scene in my restaurant.”

“The only one causing a scene out there was you.”

Mark flinches, because he knows I’m right. He crosses his arms again, but this time it’s in defensiveness rather than anger. “You two weren’t good for each other, Kelly. That’s not going to change because some crazy lady said otherwise.”

“I’m not proposing to the guy, we’re just having dinner. Quit being a jerk.”

“Fine,” he snaps.

“Fine,” I snap back.

I start to turn toward the table, but then he says, “What was the mistletoe for?”

I smile, because I’m pretty pleased with this particular development in my plan. “It’s for my mistletoe test. What better way to find out if I have a spark with an old flame than to kiss him? And what better excuse for a kiss than mistletoe, right?”

He makes a noncommittal grunt.

“Turns out a certain uptight turd wouldn’t let me put it in his restaurant, though, so I’ll have to find a way to coax Jack back to my place.”

I waggle my eyebrows, and I expect him to roll his eyes. But instead he shoves his hands into his pockets, his face unreadable.

I feel a little pang of . . . hurt? Mark’s always gently made fun of my superstitious ways and my corresponding “plans,” but usually it’s pretty good-natured. I can’t help but think I’m disappointing him somehow, and it . . . well, it bugs me.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

I return to my table, and a few seconds later a server comes out to take our food order.

I don’t see Mark the rest of the night.