Bellamy's had never closed early for a private party in the eleven years Nate had owned it, a fact he mentioned twice while walking the staff through the evening's arrangement, like saying it out loud made the exception feel less strange to him. Tonight the reservation book stayed empty. The whole dining room belonged to five long tables pushed into a horseshoe, white linen, candles low enough not to compete with the chandelier, and a small stage in the corner where a quartet was tuning up for a crowd too restless to listen properly.
"Three years," Franz said, standing in the doorway with Arianne's hand in his, looking at the room like he couldn't quite believe Nate had let anyone touch the good china. "You didn't have to do all this."
