Andrew Welsh-Huggins

He breezed into the restaurant fifteen minutes late with a rush of apologies, his cologne strong and his distraction stronger.
“Traffic was such a bitch. I’m so sorry.” He made a show of crossing over to kiss her on the cheek even as she was still rising from her chair, as though oblivious to what people in the crowded restaurant thought. Out of the corner of her eye she saw more than one woman send an approving glance their way.