A group of thirtysomethings surrounds a long table cluttered with plates, wine bottles, and wrapped gifts. They hoist glasses and clink them together in a series of toasts. It’s easy to spot the birthday girl.
Restaurateur Shawn Horne stands by her side, his arm resting on the back of her chair. She adjusts her long, brown ponytail, looks up at Horne, and says something we can’t hear. It must be funny. Horne’s infectious laugh carries across the noisy room.
Paragraph 3.
