And it was.

They walked through the crowd toward the bay. The wrap she’d brought for her dress wasn’t doing the job and the first gust of wind had Glen placing his jacket over her shoulders.

When he directed her into a swanky restaurant with an up-close view of the bay, she took a minute and excused herself to the ladies’ room.

Her hair was a mess . . . well, it was always unruly, but the moist air and wind had done a proper job of making it crazy. She tamed it the best she could, reapplied a little lip gloss, and stood back. She was smiling. Her cheeks were rosy, from the wind or the company, she couldn’t really say. Both, she guessed.

Before leaving the ladies’ room she sent a quick text to Dakota.

I’m in San Francisco having the best time.

She didn’t wait for a reply and put her phone back in her purse.

Once again, Glen had procured a table with the perfect view. More wine appeared, as did the waiter with the menus.

She glanced at the selections. “I honestly don’t know how much more I can eat.”

“I won’t be offended if you don’t finish.”

She put her menu down. “Then how about you order, and I’ll have a bite of yours.”

“Oh, no. I’ve played that game.”

“I’m serious. You’ve been feeding me since we got here.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look at her, just kept reading the menu.

“Really, Glen. I’m fine with the wine.”

“Uh-huh!”

The waiter reappeared.

Glen gave her one look, turned to the waiter, and ordered two filets mignons. “Medium rare?” he asked her.

He did not play fair. “Medium,” she corrected him.

He gave her an I won smile before completing their order.

“I told you I wasn’t hungry.”

“I ordered a salad to share.”

And they did. Halfway through her steak she gave up, and Glen finished it for her.

He wrapped her in his jacket before they left the restaurant and let his hands linger on her shoulders for a couple of seconds longer than needed.

She warmed instantly.

“If I knew I was leaving Southern California, I would have been prepared.”

“If I had told you where we were going, it wouldn’t have been a surprise.”

And she did like the thrill of discovery.

When he opened the door to a waiting car, she slid in and said, “You’ve thought of everything.”

He settled back in his seat as the car took them in the direction of downtown.

“I’m kinda shocked,” he said.

“About what?”

“We didn’t cross hairs once. I think that’s a first for us.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might have come to blows with the steak.”

“You ate half.”

She rolled her eyes. “At least you didn’t order dessert.”

He paused.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing . . . he still had something cooking. He really didn’t have a poker face.

“I hope you’ve had a good time.”

She hadn’t stopped smiling since he kissed her. A kiss he hadn’t repeated. He didn’t even reach for her hand or let his palm linger too long on the small of her back.

“Are you kidding? The face on the waiter when we told him where we were from . . . and that you flew to meet me, picked me up . . . flew us here, a helicopter. I think the guy thought we were full of crap. That alone was worth the tale.”

“It is a little over-the-top,” he admitted.

She wanted to question him more on why he’d taken such extreme measures for this date, but the car stopped at the curb of the building they’d flown to in the helicopter.

They walked along the now familiar path to the elevators, where an attendant greeted and escorted them to the roof.

Glen shook the pilot’s hand and helped Mary into the passenger seat. She put on the earphones without being instructed. It was full dark, and the lights of the city directly contrasted the darkness of the bay.

“It’s simply stunning,” she said once the helicopter lifted into the air.

“I understand Trent’s affinity for choppers.”

It was well known that Monica’s husband, Trent, loved flying helicopters. According to Dakota, all the Fairchild men knew how, but unlike his brothers, Trent almost never sat in the passenger seat of a chopper.

“What does it take to learn to fly?”

“Study . . . practice. Why? Is that on the Mary bucket list?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Is that Alcatraz?” She changed subjects and pointed out the window.

“I believe so. Have you been?”

She quickly shook her head. “No, and don’t care to. I do not need to see the inside of a prison.”

Glen’s laughter filled her headset.

They were no sooner in the air than they touched down on the tarmac and were shuffled into the plane they’d arrived on.

Instead of wine, Glen handed her coffee once the plane was in the air. Added to that, there was the warm smell of chocolate as he handed her what looked like a piece of cake without frosting. “You’re killing me,” she told him.

“It’s small.”

“I hate working out.”

“Me too.”

He still handed her the cake and didn’t let her hand it back.

It was flaky and moist in the middle and practically melted in her mouth. “Oh, goodness . . . this is sinful.”