"I like your car," Bridget said as Turner eased his Tesla into traffic. "It's slick and energy efficient."

"I think so too. Though I have to admit I didn't buy it because it's electric. I liked the huge display on the console."

"I hope you don't watch movies on it while driving."

"I could. It's the new self-driving model."

"It isn't legal yet."

Nevertheless, Kian was building a fleet of them for the local clan. It was a clever solution to keeping the new location secret even from its own residents. At a certain distance from the village, as they called the place, the cars would automatically turn the windows opaque and take over the drive, bringing the vehicles home.

"As long as I sit in the driver seat with my hands on the wheel it's fine. But I don't watch movies. It's a waste of time."

"What do you watch?'"

"Mostly I read reports. And sometimes I watch surveillance recordings."

Figured. She had a feeling Turner was all work and no play. Glancing at his profile, Bridget tried to assess his mood. As someone who was used to relying on her sense of smell to discern people's emotions, she was having a hard time with him, forced to depend on her underdeveloped ability to decipher facial expressions.

Turner was an anomaly. She had never met a human or an immortal whose scent didn't at least hint at their feelings.

The simple explanation for Turner's neutral and unchanging scent was that he had none, but Bridget refused to believe that. He wasn't as cold and as emotionless as he appeared to be, or even as he convinced himself he was.

If the eyes were indeed windows to a person's soul, Turner had one. It was hidden behind the barriers he had erected around it, but it was there. Bridget had caught the occasional glimpse.

Except, she might have seen what she wanted to, her reasoning clouded by her attraction to him. On the other hand, Bridget was too much of a realist to fall victim to wishful thinking.

The opposite was true.

Perhaps it was due to her medical training, but she always searched for the flaws, the hidden symptoms of disease. What looked good on the outside was quite often rotten on the inside, and not just in the medical sense.

People hid all kinds of nastiness behind charming smiles and polite words, which her sense of smell was no good at detecting because they truly believed in the façades they were showing the world.

And it wasn't only about the big offenses, like cheating and lying and manipulation.

The small things added up.

Like the irritated mother, who was hurling insults at her kids without even realizing the damage her careless venting was causing. The woman could've been the most charming coworker and friend, but ugly to the most important people in her life.

"Is the restaurant far?" she asked to break the silence.

"We are almost there."

"Have you eaten there before?"

He shook his head. "No. A friend recommended it."

"What is it called?"

"Valentina's."

"I think I've heard of it."

"Good things, I hope."

"Frankly, I don't remember."

"We are going to find out soon enough."

For some reason, Bridget got the sense that Turner was uncomfortable about the whole situation. The clues were subtle, and she wasn't good at reading them, but he'd been acting differently than he had at her clinic.

Not that he'd been charming or easy-going before, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he had seemed more comfortable in his own skin.

He wasn't now.

Turner's jaw muscles were tight, and he hadn't looked at her throughout the drive even while talking to her.

He was either unaccustomed to going on dates or uncomfortable in his new clothes, which looked as if a stylist had picked them out for him. Turner wasn't the type who cared about things like that. A man as confident as him didn't need to make himself more appealing by flaunting expensive taste in apparel.

Not for her sake.

Bridget couldn't care less about status symbols. Besides, she was way more interested in what was under the clothing than in their price tag.

A few minutes later, Turner pulled up in front of a one-story brick building.

The food smell hit Bridget's nose as soon as the valet opened the passenger door for her.

As Turner joined her on the sidewalk, she took another sniff. "You have chosen wisely. I hope the food tastes as good as it smells."

Turner inhaled deeply. "I can't smell anything."

Bridget leaned into him. "I have an exceptional sense of smell." She sniffed again. "And you smell amazing. What is the name of the cologne are you wearing?"

"Tom Ford. I don't remember which one." He put his hand on the small of her back, leading her inside.

"Good evening." The hostess smiled.

"Turner. Reservation for two," he told her.

The girl checked her ledger. "Here you are." She marked it off and grabbed two menus. "Your table is ready."

"It's a nice place," Bridget said after they'd been seated. The Italian restaurants she liked were casual and noisy, but not this one. With its dim lights and elegantly set tables, it was more romantic in nature. Perfect for a date.

No wonder it was Turner's first time in the place.

Did the guy date at all?

Perhaps he only prowled for hookups just like her and the other immortals. Except, their situations were not the same. Immortals couldn't have relationships with humans without risking exposure and were limited to one-night stands, as they had been once called, or hookups as they were called today.

Turner had a choice.

If a man his age had consistently chosen to avoid relationships, he most likely was incapable of having them.

"Would you like some wine to start with?" the waiter asked.

"Sure. What do you have?"

He handed her a wine menu, and she chose a glass of chardonnay.

"You can bring us the bottle," Turner said.

Bridget waited for the waiter to depart. "I just thought I should mention that I can't get drunk from wine."

"That's interesting. Is it a trait shared with the rest of your family?"

"It is."

"Because you are all part Scots? Perhaps I should order you a whiskey."

She chuckled. "It's not because of the Scottish blood. It's because of the other one. But whiskey in large quantities can get me tipsy."

As Turner lifted his hand to call the waiter, Bridget tugged it back down. "I don't like the taste." She leaned across the table and whispered, "I'll tell you a secret. You don't need to get me drunk to have your way with me."

Turner's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, but he recovered quickly. "I wouldn't dream of presuming."

What a pity. The guy was a gentleman, which meant that she needed to back off and stay away from sexual innuendos or he would think her a slut.

Human males had such annoying double standards.

Maybe it was for the best. After all, hookups were easy to come by, but interesting men with brilliant minds—not so much.