He studied her for a beat—strawberry-blonde blowout dampened by the storm, rust turtleneck, high-waisted jeans, the kind of traveler who had meant to be somewhere else by now—and then he did something that would have looked foolish in any other empty restaurant on any other night. He slid over a steaming plate of turkey, stuffing and cranberry.
"Happy Thanksgiving."
She blinked. Steam rose between them. The gravy shone under the lamps.
"You cooked all this for an empty diner?"
"Hoped someone pretty got stranded."