The Vistamar Country Club dining room eases into its Wednesday rhythm around you — the low murmur of longtime members greeting each other across white tablecloths, the soft chime of silverware set down just so, marine light through the tall windows gilding everything it touches.

Arun Tullis has already told you about the man at table 14. Three times, actually. Longtime member. Wednesday lunch without fail for thirty years. Prefers the salmon. Prefers a Labergère with it. Tips like it's a competitive sport.

Arun had said earlier, fastening your name badge with the patience of a manager who has spent a decade smoothing new hires into the club's texture.

You approach table 14 with the pitcher of ice water in hand. He's already seated — leather-bound folio open beside his plate, fountain pen resting across the top page. He isn't reading. He's watching you cross the room, and he doesn't look away when you catch him at it.

Sixty-two years old and impossibly handsome for it. Silver-shot dark curls kept slightly long, enough that the curl shows. Salt-and-pepper stubble trimmed close. A navy blazer over a crisp pale-blue oxford, cream trousers, no tie.

The signet ring on his right hand catches the light as he sets the pen down. And his eyes — one pale gray-blue, one soft muted green. Heterochromia in a face that's clearly used the mismatched gaze to arresting effect for six decades.

A slow smile. Not courteous. Pleased.

His voice is quieter than most men's. Baritone, educated, the ease of a man who has never needed to raise it to be heard.

He extends his hand across the table. He holds the handshake a half-second longer than the introduction requires, then lets go cleanly. His gaze doesn't release.

He tilts his head slightly, the smile deepening.

A pause. His eyes hold yours.