The restaurant is dim. Too dim. I haven’t even found my family’s table yet, and in my mind I can already hear my mother complaining about how she can’t read the menu, and don’t these places have any respect for the elderly.

Not that, at sixty, my mother is exactly an old crone. She still sports Chanel suits and keeps her chin-length hair a light brown that comes from a bottle and gets reapplied every four weeks, like clockwork. My mother likes to say that she doesn’t just have a hairdresser, she has an Antonio. If the man wasn’t as gay as the day is long, I’m sure she would have hit on him by now. Actually, knowing my mother and her somewhat naive character assessment abilities, she probably already has hit on him. Not that it would ever lead anywhere, even aside from the gay thing — ever since my father died, my mother’s found her fulfillment in other areas of her life. Namely, her two grandkids and her various charities and redoing our vacation house in the Hamptons for the eighteenth time.

As I make my way towards the back of the restaurant, I spot my family easily. Mostly because my four-year-old niece, Daisy, is wearing a huge pair of sparkly butterfly wings that protrude back behind the chair she’s sitting in. I sneak up behind her, scoop her out of her seat, and plant a loud smacking kiss on each of her cheeks. She squeals and then giggles loudly, drawing the glowering attention of the people at the next table over. I ignore them. Let them complain. I could afford to empty out this entire restaurant if I chose to.

“I’m a butterfly, Uncle Logan!” Daisy shrieks, turning and showing off her wings when I finally set her back down.

“So I see. And a very pretty one, at that.”

Daisy flushes with pleasure as I make my way around the table, ruffling Jack’s hair and giving my sister Heather and her husband Tim a warm hug before turning to the woman of the hour. “Happy birthday, Mother.”

“Oh, thank you, dear, but you know, it’s just another day for me.”

Heather and I exchange a look, and I bite back a smile. She says that now, but if we’d forgotten her birthday, there’d have been twelve months and seventeen varieties of hell to pay.

I pass the gift bag over to her as she demurs. “Oh, Logan, you shouldn’t have.” My gaze flicks over to Heather again, and she snorts.

“I know, but I wanted to.” I plant a kiss on her cheek.

My mother adds the bag to the pile on the empty chair next to her. I can also make out a nicely wrapped box that looks like it must be from Heather and Tim — judging by the size and shape, I’m going to guess sweater — and a couple of brightly, if clumsily, wrapped boxes that have to be from the kids.

We slip easily into conversation. We cover the same ground we always do — Tim asks about the business, and I give him the highlights, then ask him about his award nomination; Mom and Heather chat about what the kids have been up to lately; Daisy and Jack alternate between giggling and bickering. It should be boring, but there’s something oddly comforting about the familiarity of it. I spend my whole life working on impressing people. Terrorizing them, even. But here I can just be myself. Just be Logan. Sometimes, I think that if I didn’t have my family, I’d forget who that even is.

Tonight, though, I struggle to keep up with the conversation. I lose my train of thought while I’m talking to Tim, and find myself staring off into space instead of finishing a thought about the impact of new tariffs on the diamond industry. My eyes glaze over when Daisy sings her new made-up song about butterflies — I only catch the part about them flapping their wing-a-ling-a-ding-dongs, which makes Tim snort. I even zone out when my mother asks me a question. She has to touch my hand before I come back to the present, blinking at the dimness of the restaurant.

And the reason for my distraction? One guess.

Blake Holloway.

Ever since I kissed her in my car yesterday, she’s been all I can think about. Her lips. Her hair. Her taste. Her smell. Her softness. Every fucking thing about her has me captivated. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t have any of it. That I can’t have her. That I was never even supposed to hire her in the first place. Now, she’s in my thoughts like an invasive species, taking over everything that once used to thrive there.

“I asked if you’d seen Ed lately.”

Fuck. Ed. My mother’s question jolts me out of my thoughts of Blake and straight to the heart of my problem.

“Yes, yes, I saw him recently. We’re going to have dinner soon.”

“Oh, good. He thinks so highly of you, you know.”

I grunt. I still haven’t forgotten about that stupid drawing that Blake found in the quarterly report. The one that could have tanked my career, or at least seriously undermined my credibility with the board. Makes me wonder if Ed knew something more than he was letting on the other day. It certainly makes his visit seem a little more prescient. I make a mental note to set up that dinner with him sooner rather than later.

“…and he’s really been so good to our family, don’t you think?”

I realize my mother is still talking. About Ed, I think. I nod vaguely. “Yeah, of course. Definitely.”

My mother folds her napkin in satisfaction. I have no idea what I just agreed with her on, but I’m just going to go with it.

“Is it time for presents yet?” Daisy demands, setting her fork down right on top of the pile of uneaten spaghetti in front of her.

“Soon, honey. As soon as they take our plates away.” Heather picks up the fork and wipes down the handle with her napkin without missing a beat. I’m fascinated by the way her mom-mode kicks in so seamlessly. She can carry on a completely intelligent adult conversation while wrangling two slippery eels with opposable thumbs. It’s nothing short of awe-inspiring.

As if on cue, our server arrives to whisk away our empty plates. I order a bottle of champagne for the table, despite Mom’s protestations.

“You only turn sixty once,” I tell her.

“Thank God,” she mutters, but I can see by the glint in her eyes that she’s pleased.

“Presents now?” Daisy asks, clasping her hands together. She’s so excited you’d think it was her birthday.

“Mom?” Heather looks to our mother for confirmation, and when she nods, my sister smiles at Daisy. “Yes, presents.”

“Open mine first!” Daisy sings as she lunges towards the chair with the gifts. She grabs one wrapped messily in pink paper, with a big pink bow and sparkling pink curlicues. “It’s this one!”

“I had no idea,” Mom says with a smile. “I thought that might be from your Uncle Logan.”

“No, it’s from meeeee!” Daisy squeals again.

“Oh, wonderful. Can I open it?”

“Yesssss!” Her enthusiasm is boundless.

Mom slowly unwraps the gift, carefully setting aside the bow and the curlicues. I bite back a chuckle as Daisy promptly steals the whole mess of ribbons and sticks it on top of her own head.

“Well, isn’t this lovely?” Mom coos, as she unearths, from inside a shit-ton of pink tissue paper, a coffee mug hand-painted with daisies. Daisy watches her carefully, her chin resting on her tiny fists. “I love it, Daisy, thank you. Now I can think of you every morning when I have my coffee.”

Mom opens Jack’s gift next — a similarly hand-painted tealight holder — and though he’s not nearly as effusive as Daisy, I can tell he’s pleased that she likes it. Heather and Tim’s gift is next, and, as I predicted, it’s a sweater. Mom holds it up to admire.

When she gets to my gift, I feel a bit nervous. Will she like it? Despite what I’d told Blake, normally I’d get her something more predictable — a sweater, like my sister, or a piece of jewelry or the new must-have Prada bag.

This is … different.

Mom unwraps it with the same care she used on the other gifts. I watch her face as she slowly peels the paper away. There’s a moment of confusion, and then understanding.

“Oh, Logan.” She looks up, and in her face at that moment is everything I need to know.

“You like it?”

“Oh, honey, I love it.” She hugs the frame to her chest.

“What is it, Grandma?” Daisy crosses the table and hangs off Mom’s arm, trying to see.

“It’s a star, sweetie, see?” Mom holds the frame out. “It’s a star, and it’s named after me.”

Daisy and Jack both look on in amazement. Even Heather and Tim try to peer over Mom’s arm at the frame she’s holding.

I’m not sure where Blake had come up with the idea, but she’d really outdone herself. It turns out you can have a star named after someone. It wasn’t very expensive — and who knows if it’s even official? But Blake had turned it into something special. She’d had it printed on heavy paper that was so dark blue it was almost black. The lettering was gold embossed, spelling out the star’s coordinates, Mom’s name, and a poem she’d found.

I thought the poem was a nice touch. Mom seems to think so, too. She wipes a tear away from her eye.

“I’ll treasure it always,” she says.

“You’ve always been there for us,” I tell her honestly. “This way, you’ll be there forever.”

“Thank you, Logan.” She squeezes my hand across the table.

The mood around the table turns quiet and thoughtful. Not my favorite.

“Champagne?” I ask, to bring everyone back.

“Yes, please.” Heather waves her glass, and then I’m pouring and the chatter resumes.

Later, after Mom’s stifled half a dozen yawns and Daisy has fully fallen asleep on Heather’s lap, we decide to call it a night. Mom’s driver picks her up right in front of the restaurant, and though Heather tries to hail a cab, I insist on having my own driver take them to the Plaza.

“That was quite the gift you got Mom,” Heather says, as we pull back into traffic. Daisy hasn’t woken up at all and is still sound asleep on her lap. Jack is staring out the window, watching the city slip by around us, but he, too, looks ready to pass out.

“I can’t take all the credit for it,” I admit. “My assistant came up with the idea.”

“Your assistant?” Heather squints. “Not the one who kept spilling coffee?”

I grin ruefully. “No. A new one.”

“Plan on keeping this one?”

“I hope so.” I press my lips into a line. I hadn’t given any serious thought to the idea of Blake leaving, but suddenly the notion seems absolutely abhorrent.

Heather squints. “What is it?”

“Huh? Nothing.” I shake my head.

“That’s not a nothing look.”

I force myself to smile. “Just thinking of something I have to take care of tomorrow. You know me — can’t turn off the work part of my brain.”

“Uh huh.” Heather looks skeptical, but then, she knows me well. Better than most people. “Well, any assistant who could come up with something that thoughtful sounds like a keeper.”

“Hmm? Yeah, I guess she is.” I’m distracted again. Thinking about Blake, yes, but also thinking about my reaction to her. Why can’t I get her out of my mind? She’s just an assistant, after all. Sure, she’s hot. Okay, and amusing. And yes, she has a sort of persistence that I find attractive.

But surely, that doesn’t justify the amount of time and space she’s been occupying in my thoughts. Nothing justifies that.

Heather is still watching me, and I’m relieved when we pull up in front of the Plaza. I help them get the kids out and walk her and Tim to the front door of the hotel.

“You sure you’re okay, Logan?” Heather asks, before they go inside.

“Absolutely,” I assure her. Then, to change the subject, I turn to Jack. “I hear you and your sister are going to be coming to visit me here some weekend soon?”

His face lights up. “Yeah! Mom said we could. Dad’s going to win an award.”

“Might win an award,” Tim interjects, but it’s clear there’s no difference in Jack’s eyes.

“Well, I can’t wait. How’d you like to see a musical while you’re here? Maybe The Lion King?” I ask, naming the first kid-appropriate show I can think of.

“That would be awesome!” The sheer awe in his voice makes me feel like the coolest uncle in the world. I make a mental note to look into getting tickets. I’m sure Blake can handle that.

Blake. There she is. Everything makes me think of her, even the most benign things. The realization sends an uncomfortable wave of … something … through me.

I bid a hasty goodbye to Heather and her crew and promise Jack that I’ll see him and Daisy soon.

When I’m alone again, heading towards my Park Avenue penthouse, I pull out my phone and start going through my emails. Work has always been my go-to distraction. It worked after Dad. It worked after Laura. But somehow, it doesn’t hold the same power now. I struggle to compose even a single reply, so distracted am I by thoughts of unwrapping a certain muffin.

By the time I get home, I’ve come to the conclusion that this has got to stop. In fact, it stops right …

Now.