Mandy served several other customers in her section while the two men dined, but her gaze kept returning to them. The man—the murderer—spoke in a light, suave tone, yet a profound sadness seemed to emanate from him. She wondered why.

His smile, as he received their appetizers, sent her heart racing.

What was wrong with her? She was too old to be acting like a lovesick schoolgirl. Just because he seemed rich, handsome, and potentially understanding didn't mean he'd be interested. It was all wishful thinking.

Yet, she clung to a sliver of hope as the meal progressed. He offered the same dazzling, yet slightly sad smile when she delivered their steaks.

She prayed he would pay the bill, giving her a chance to learn his name. Her luck held; when she returned with the check, he pulled out his wallet, insisting on paying.

If he'd been imprisoned for a long time and still possessed the means to dine at such an establishment, he must be wealthy. She wished she'd had such luck before her own incarceration; she'd emerged with nothing.

As she processed his card, she discreetly noted his name: Michael Gray.

Stunned, Mandy dropped the credit card. Trembling, she picked it up, double-checking she wasn't mistaken. It was definitely Michael Gray. How many men in their fifties in this city shared the name of her old friend, Mikey?

He had vanished nearly forty years ago, leaving for college in Boston. What had brought him back to New York? Was it the same desperate need for belonging that had kept her rooted here?

Though uncertain, she mustered unexpected courage and wrote her phone number on the back of the receipt. Returning to their table, she offered her best smile, thanking them for their patronage.

She didn't see them leave, but later, when her tips were tallied, she was shocked to find a $500 tip on a bill slightly under $200. Was he crazy?

Did it mean he liked her? Or was it a way to let her down gently? Had he left the large tip because he'd seen her number? The question haunted her all night. She anxiously awaited a call or text, but her phone remained silent.

Gray was dumbfounded to see the waitress's phone number on the check. First, it was audacious, given she didn't know his relationship status. Second, it was clear she wasn't part of his socioeconomic class—his suit and the restaurant's exclusivity made that obvious.

Third, he was shocked a young, beautiful woman would be interested in him. Her financial situation was likely precarious, yet she dared to risk her job by leaving her number.

He had no intention of reporting her. He was intrigued. Even if she were a gold digger (like many of his recent dates), she was the first to approach him so directly.

No fake dating profiles. No overt charm. He'd only offered tired smiles a few times, his conversation with Aaron having been draining. Jealousy over his brother's family was consuming him, making him surprisingly sad—an emotion he hadn't felt in decades. Yet, this woman was interested.

He wasn't sure he had the energy for another gold digger, but he left a generous tip for the amusement. Given her age (she seemed to be in her late thirties, unlike most waitresses in their twenties), she probably needed the money.

The phone number lingered in his thoughts long after parting with Aaron. Should he call? Mandy might be different. She seemed genuinely normal, unlike many others he'd met, reminding him somewhat of Keeley Hale.

He longed for a woman like Keeley. Could a steakhouse waitress truly accept him for who he was? He wasn't sure but decided to try.

Three days later, he texted her. His work suffered; he couldn't focus until he resolved this.

"Hey Mandy, it's Michael Gray. You know, the one whose number you wrote on his receipt a few days ago."

He cringed; it was far from his usual smooth approach. Her reply was immediate:

"Hi! Good to hear from you. I thought your tip was a payoff because you weren't going to contact me haha. Thank you for that, by the way."

She'd figured it out. This waitress was shrewd. He hadn't initially intended to contact her, but why was such a shrewd, beautiful woman working as a waitress?

"My pleasure. Always happy to help a beautiful woman," he replied.

That was more like it.

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