Page 72 of The Comeback Summer

“Libby.”

He settles back in his chair and takes a bite of his cookie. “Nice to meet you, Libby. What do you do, other than dabbling in cooking and cheering up random strangers in coffee shops?”

My heart literally flutters. I’m cheering him up!

“I work in PR,” I tell him, grateful that he and Hannah haven’t gotten that deep about work-related things. When we messaged about Hannah’s job in the early days, I just said that she runs finance and analytics for her family business.Boring stuff that isn’t fun to talk about.

“Public relations?” Adam asks. “That’s something I know nothing about.”

I laugh. “Most people don’t. But that’s probably for the best. It would be a lot harder to manipulate public opinion if the public was aware they were being manipulated.”

“So how do I know that you aren’t manipulating me right now?” Adam says, his eyes twinkling as he grins.

I choke on my iced latte. It takes me a second to recover,and Adam looks like he’s ready to leap up and deliver the Heimlich if it’s needed.

“Went down the wrong way,” I tell him once I catch my breath.

“My bad joke didn’t help,” Adam says, handing me a napkin. I take it and attempt to elegantly dab the corners of my mouth. “So how do you do what you do? Or are you like a magician and you can’t reveal your secrets?”

“No magic,” I tell him. At least none that we have. “And as far as what I do, it’s different every day.”

“That must be nice.” There’s a wistful tone to his voice, and I wonder if he’s happy with the restaurant. I know it’s a lot of work, but he hasn’t said much about whether he likes it or not. “Maybe I should hire you for the diner—our reputation could use a refresh.”

“Are you telling me you have a bad reputation?” I ask, dropping my voice in a way that I hope comes across as flirty.

“Oh no,” Adam says, chuckling. “Nothing like that. It’s a great place, a lot of history. It’s just a little... I don’t know, stodgy? Now that I’m in charge, I just feel like shaking things up.”

“That makes sense,” I tell him. This is something new that he hasn’t told Hannah yet, and I’m honored he’s telling me. Libby.

“If you do want to talk PR options for your diner,” I say, “give me a call.”

I reach into my purse and pull out one of my business cards.

He takes the card and studies it for a moment, then looks back up at me.

“So, Libby in PR,” Adam says. “How do you feel about art?”

•••

AN HOUR LATER,we’re on a moonlit stroll down Southport Avenue. The road is closed to traffic, with booths running down the middle of the street, featuring everything from fine art to funnel cakes. It’s exactly the way I imagined it—only it’s me walking with Adam, not Hannah.

It takes everything I have not to give the art ratings; a 4/10 for the scenic vista (pretty, but boring), 6/10 for the impressionist paintings, and an 8/10 for the mixed-media portraits. But it’s a painting of old Chicago on fire that leaves me breathless. It seems like something GiGi would like, for its beauty and the reminder of our beloved city that came back from the ashes. It would be the perfect centerpiece for the wall in our lobby if only I (a) had that kind of money to spend and (b) was confident enough that the walls would still be ours after Labor Day.

I push all that from my mind and join Adam as he continues the cookie theme of our night, buying us each a biscotto from a vendor.

He hands me one, and I take a bite. It’s crunchy and cinnamony and tastes an awful lot like GiGi’s famous mandel bread. “What’s the difference between biscotti and mandel bread?” I ask.

Adam’s eyebrows do a little dance, and the expression seems familiar. He fits the picture I had of him so perfectly. “They’re almost the same,” he says. “Except in my opinion, mandel bread is better. It’s got a higher fat content, so it’s richer, not so dry. But for some reason, biscotti gets all the attention.”

“That’s actually a perfect example of what PR can do,” I tell Adam as we dodge a man walking a massive Great Dane. Adam’s shoulder bumps against mine, and that brief contactsends another golden burst of warmth through me. I catch a whiff of his scent, clean and woodsy, and my skin tingles.

Stay focused, I remind myself.

“For being so similar, the two have very different public images, right?” I continue, and he nods. “The fancier name could have something to do with it, but more likely, someone had an idea to position biscotti as the perfect companion to coffee—and voilà! One small change can completely alter the way people perceive something.”

Adam pauses, gazing at my face for a moment, like he’s studying me.

My cheeks heat up under his focused attention. “What?”

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