He made the reservation under a false name — M. Promo, party of two — and nobody questioned it. The maître d' at The Hidden Note had seen stranger things on a Saturday night. She arrived first, naturally. She always did. Claire smoothed her sequined blue dress against the candlelight and ordered a glass of Malbec while the old pianist in the corner coaxed something slow and smoky from the upright. She didn't notice the murmuring couple near the bar, or the woman by the window pressing her hand to her mouth in barely suppressed laughter. Then the door opened. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him impeccably — broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt, a red tie knotted with quiet confidence. His posture said I belong everywhere I go. His face, on the other hand, said something has gone terribly, wonderfully wrong. Because where a face ought to be, there was instead the ancient, dignified, utterly unreadable visage of Mr. Promo: a barnacle-grey pile of mystery with wide eye's that saw everything and gave nothing away. Claire looked up. She smiled — not the polite smile of someone being gracious, but the real one, the one that reaches the eyes. She had been waiting for someone interesting. "I wasn't sure you'd come," she said. His eye's blinked slowly. A gentleman never explains himself. "Shall we dance first or eat? "He extended his hand. The pianist noticed. He always noticed. His fingers found a new groove — something with a tango in its bones — and the floor cleared the way good dance floors do, not because anyone moved, but because the two of them simply took it. She laughed when he dipped her, not from nerves but delight. He held her steady as a lighthouse. His hands were warm. His footwork was, against all odds, faultless. The couple at the bar whispered to each other. The woman by the window gave up trying to hide her smile. They ate late — duck confit, a shared crème brûlée, another bottle of wine they probably didn't need. He was an extraordinary listener. He asked questions she hadn't been asked in years. The candle burned low. The pianist played on.