Which was silly, because I was just seeing an old friend. I tried to quiet the hairs rising on the back of my neck. We had been such good friends once, and though I'd tried to change that long ago, we were older and wiser and different people now.

So I took a breath and walked inside.

The place was small but welcoming; not many tables and spaced far apart, not crammed like so many places I'd seen. Paper lanterns swayed above tables. The walls were painted in large blocks of colors, soothing and playful, and the whole room smelled like fresh baked bread and marinara sauce.

"Tamar!"

I stopped, right there in the middle of the restaurant. All of a sudden I was seventeen years old again and walking into the hall in my prom dress, holding my breath for his reaction and then losing it at the sight of him in his suit. And fifteen years old, following him into a football party at Justin Cole's house. And thirteen, sitting next to him in the one class we shared that year and soaking in his presence.

I hadn't seen Abraham Krasner in four years, but I still could have recognized him blindfolded and disoriented. He had the same scent, sand and spice and warmth, and the same easygoing baritone, like sun-warmed stone. I turned slowly. "Hi, Abe."

If anything, he looked better than the last time I'd seen him in person. How had I forgotten how beautiful he was? The soft curl of his honey-colored hair, the darkness of his eyes, the way his lips always crooked up in a welcoming smile. And his body...I'd seen him on TV and in pictures, but it was still a shock to see how much he'd filled out in the past four years. He'd always had broad shoulders and a ripped physique, but I could barely think now that I was confronted with how good he looked. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, he was the most breathtakingly beautiful man I'd ever seen.

He stood and opened his arms, and after a brief hesitation I stepped into them. He'd always been so easy with touch, so fast to grab someone's hand or slap someone's back. In return, he'd become one of the few people that I was used to being touched by.

He smiled. That same smile I'd seen so often throughout the years, but now, with four years without it I felt like I'd been exposed to the sun after months of artificial light. "You look great."

I grinned back at him. "I was just thinking the same about you."

"It's been forever." He sat back down at the table, and I followed suit. "What, four or five years?"

Just like that, my anxiety at seeing him again flowed away, and I raised my brows. Please. Abe had one of the sharpest minds I knew, and he might be able to fool other people into thinking all his talent came in brawn, but he'd never fool me.

He laughed at my expression. "Fine. Four years. You visited me in May my junior year."

I leaned back in my seat. "That's right."

He tilted his head. His eyes studied me with a kind of intensity that I'd half-forgotten, as though he could see straight through all the obscuring personas and facades that people put up. "And now I hear you're some hotshot reporter."

I laughed, because nothing could be further from the truth. "That might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I like to think so." I turned the tables as quickly as possible, with a gesture across ours. "But look at you-you're the real hotshot."

He spread his hands, and his full mouth opened in a grin.

God, I'd spent hours staring at that mouth.

I squeezed my eyes shut and wrinkled my nose at that errant thought.

When I looked back, he looked vastly entertained, and I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he could read my mind. Instead, he shrugged. "What can I say? I'm pretty awesome."

A smile curled up my lips, and I shook my head. True. But he knew that.

He watched me with a small smile on his face, like he was astonished that I was really here before him, and like he had no problem just gazing at me as long as he wanted. So I stared my fill in return. He might smell the same, but he carried himself differently, with more confidence, more gravity. How strange. I closed my eyes and saw him a little younger, a little more eager to please.

Something changed as he watched me. At first he looked content and ready, and then a little quizzical, and then I realized I'd always filled the silence before, led the conversation, dragged it in circles around him.

And now I didn't feel like doing that..

He cocked his head. The strangest expression crossed his face, like he was trying to figure me out-which was odd, because there wasn't much to figure that wasn't in plain sight. "Were you going to tell me you moved here?"

Ah, that. I looked at the painting behind him on the wall. "Eventually."

A waitress stopped by our table. "What can I do for you?'

Abe ordered a beer, and then looked to me. I closed the menu. "A rum and Coke, please."

Abe nodded. "And an order of wings. And fries."

The waitress nodded and left. I smiled at him slightly. "Didn't eat enough after the game?"

His smile grew. "Did you watch?"

"Of course I did."

His brows lifted slightly in clear pleasure. "What'd you think?"

That he'd played an exceptionally good game. Then again, he was an exceptionally good player, which was why he'd come back East in the first place. "Digging for compliments?"

He flashed me a sudden grin that did the oddest things to my stomach. "I prefer them on a silver platter, but I'll dig if need be."

I tried to regulate my breathing. Really, how odd that he could possibly have any effect on me after all this time. Old habit, I supposed. "They say you're one of the few making middle linebackers relevant again."

"They?"

Really, now, did he expect me to quote the publications that lauded him with accolades? "You know. Football experts."

"The media, you mean." He braced his elbows on the table and leaned toward me. His dark eyes were suddenly very piercing, and not nearly as crinkled with amusement as they usually were. "So what brought you to New York, Tammy?"

Uh-oh. I cleared my throat. "I got a job?"

"That's great. Where at?"

Indignation reared up in me. He didn't have to play cat-and-mouse, when he'd made it clear enough he knew I was part of the media. "Well, I suppose your mom told you, didn't she?"

Now that I'd called him on it, he relented. And perhaps that was all I'd needed to do: match the pressure he gave off. "She said you were working for a sports blog. She didn't say which one."

The waitress came by with our drinks, and I studiously took a sip. Odd, how resistant I felt to telling him. Maybe I feared he'd think I'd gone into sports journalism because of him, or maybe he'd be appalled, or maybe because I wanted Sports Today to be mine for a little longer. The moment dragged on, and then I took a deep breath. "Sports Today."

The Open Book of Abraham read of disbelief and confusion, and his mouth parted slightly. I ate a fry and watched. A tiny bit of glee spread through my chest, and I paused to savor it. Better than perfectly flavored potatoes.

"You're writing for Sports Today?"

"That's right."

"Today Media's Sports Today?"

I ate another fry. "The first time, the surprise was flattering. Now it's getting offensive."

"Sorry. I'm-surprised. So... Does that mean... What are you going to cover?"

I gave my best Gallic shrug. "You."

I didn't realize the double entendre until his eyes flashed up to mine. Something sparked between us, bright and fast and gone, leaving me slightly dazed. I looked at the table, the white linen neatly ironed, and then back at his bright, inquisitive gaze. "I'm covering football, yes, under Tanya Jones."

"So, what, you'll be coming to my games? Reporting on me?" A slow smile spread across his face. "Little Tammy Rosenfeld, graduated from the marching band."

"Of course," I said promptly. "Your mom already gave me all the info on the family seats."

He snorted and shook his head. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"She also tried to give me an extra key to your apartment in case I needed somewhere to go, along with the names of your dentist, doctor, your lawyer, your agent and your financial advisor. Don't worry, I didn't take them. Oh, but..." I leaned over and dragged my purse up into my lap, digging out a colorful paperstock card and slapping it down on a dry section of the bar. "I was charged with delivering this."

He opened it up. "'To Mr. Abe Kramer-Good luck in the Super Bowl! We're cheering for you!'-From Mrs. Kimmel's eight-grade class." He looked up, laughter crinkling his eyes. "Why do you have a letter from my eighth-grade teacher?"

I shrugged. "I've been teaching SAT classes at the high school. Word got around the district. What can I say-you're a hit."

"Don't they feel like they're betraying the 49ers?"

I titled my head. "Did you feel that way when the Leopards drafted you?"

He laughed. "You know I didn't."

We shared a grin. We'd watched his draft in his living room, along with half the neighborhood and a variety of cousins and family friends. He'd been a third round pick, and I'd been cursing at the teams by then for not selecting him immediately. Abe, uncharacteristically calm, had sat with his hands loosely clasped between his knees, eyes focused on the television screen. When the Leopards owner Gregory Philip said his name, I'd let out a shriek, and he'd jumped up and whirled me around in a circle before hugging everyone in the room.

"I think your mom was the only one disappointed that day. You couldn't have gone farther away unless you'd been in Boston."

"Remember when she tried to convince me to give up football and become a doctor?"

"'When'? You say that like it was a singular occurrence."

"It's your fault, you know. If you didn't have an uncle with his own practice, she wouldn't think there was an easy summer internship she needed to try to talk me into."

"Well, you know, it's not too late. He lives just a couple blocks uptown." The waitress came by with our food; I waited until she was gone before leaning forward. "I could put in a good word for him if you don't think this football thing is going to work out."

Abe snorted. "You're hilarious."

I tilted my head and laughed softly. "I know."

Abraham smiled at me warmly. "Did you know that the last time we saw each other, we weren't even old enough to drink?"

I raised my brows. "And yet I don't seem to remember the bartender having any qualms about serving you and your teammates."

His smile broadened. "There were always some perks to being part of the team."

My brows rose even further, giving me, I had no doubt, the appearance of a sea-witch. "Were? I've sure all the perks have long since vanished now that you've gone pro. How Olympian of you." I let my eyes linger on his ridiculously expensive watch and jacket, and then tilted my head, a smile edging at the corners of my lips.

He raised a hand and rubbed the back of his head, looking rather sheepish. His flyaway curls begged to be tucked back into place. "Tamar Rosenfeld. When you develop such a cutting sense of humor?"

I waved a hand, my full grin threatening to break out. I managed to keep it to a demure smile. "Oh, I always had it. Though I'll admit it's matured with age. While at twenty-three I'm still a rather rough, acerbic vintage, I'm sure that by ninety-three I'll be so smooth you'll barely even notice my barbs until too late. I plan to wear a purple hat and travel the world to share my opinions with the unwashed masses."

He propped his chin on his hand, appearing vastly amused. "Oh? And where did this grand plan come from?"

The grin burst out of me. "Our mothers, of course. Where else?"

"I didn't know our mothers were traveling the world."

"Oh, yes. They're buying an RV and traveling cross-country after our fathers die."

He smirked at me. "How perfectly morbid."

"Well, they worked out that they both come from abnormally long-lived lineages." I tried to look down my nose at him, which basically amounted to tilting my chin down but eyes up. I was surprised by how much I was enjoying myself. "If you happen to still be active in your nineties, I suppose you may join me on my travels."

"Very kind. Where will we go?"

I waved an airy hand, channeling my inner old dame. "Antarctica, probably. I hear it's the best place for old bones, especially those suffering from long-ago football injuries."

"And carpal tunnel, from writing too much."

"Precisely."

He dropped the act. "I went to South Africa last year. That's a place to go."

I tilted my head. "I'm sure I will, after some unknown relative dies and leaves me an unusually large inheritance." The words had barely left my mouth before I winced inwardly. Too far. "Abe, I-"

He'd stilled with an absoluteness that called to mind the depths of vast, silent lakes, and regarded me with eyes bright as the moon's reflection. "Because I'm just a rich party kid, of course."

I was already shaking my head. "Abe, I didn't mean that."

"Yeah, you did." He studied me. "You never said anything like that to me before."

I made an apologetic moue. "My tongue never worked properly around you before."

He looked up sharply at that, and I met his gaze. A bolt of heat struck me, and I wondered if it hit him, too.

Best to brazen it out. I raised my chin. "Your loss."

He cocked his head. "It's probably too sharp anyways."

My jaw dropped. "Abraham Krasner!"

He already looked embarrassed. "I didn't-uh-I didn't mean-"

He probably hadn't meant anything by it besides an exchange of quick quips, but the fact was, it could definitely be misinterpreted. I smiled smugly. "I'm going to tell your mother."

That made him laugh, which had been my goal. "You are not. You've never ratted out a person in your life."

"Yeah, 'cause I didn't run with a crowd that needed ratting out."

"Oh, as opposed to mine?"