Dapper. She probably hadn’t even thought that word for years. But there was no denying—that’s exactly what Ewan was. To a ‘T’. The word was made for him. His suit was cut sharp and he wore his black felt hat just slightly angled. Loni was intrigued.

At dinner his manners were precise. He spoke—impeccable English, of course—about slow cooking and regency poets. He chose just the right wines. He suggested a walk on the terrace before dessert. Later it occurred to her that the whole evening had been a performance.

Ewan ushered her through the door of his apartment with a gentlemanly hand on the small of her back. Then he went to fix martinis while she freshened up. That’s when the magic cracked. Matching ‘his’ and ‘hers’ towels had been hung in perfect symmetry on the bathroom rail. Ewan brought the drinks back to the loungeroom only to catch the last instant of the front door swinging shut. He looked at the drinks, bewildered. Another perfect evening, another night alone.

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