He’d bargained to be honest with her and had every intention of keeping up his end, but a hefty slice of his time with Rachel centered on tantric sex, which was off limits, or music production, which Sassa had shown little interest in. As she turned the corner and waved, he stopped pacing, buttoned the top button of his shirt, and narrowed his story. “I’ve wanted to try this place for a long time.” “You look happy.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. They stepped inside the restaurant and chose a small table in the back. The Spotted Cow, an old New York Tavern with loud music, fug, and desirable messiness, hooked its customers with a female English chef co-owner who created simple, flavorful gourmet dishes within the rowdy setting. He’d chosen well. Over the noise, he said, “So, how are you? Tell me about your year.” “You know the big stuff. I bought the Green Angel last June.
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