First

She pulls out a few things from the fridge and finally looks at me. Her smile is shy and she does a little up-down movement on the balls of her feet in her nervousness. ‘I figured we could have a nice dinner.’

‘Awfully fancy dinner,’ I croak, mouth strangely dry.

‘Consider it a thank you then.’

I feel like I should change. Shower. Somehow show her I’m willing to take her gesture seriously. ‘Do you need me to help or can I clean up really fast?’

She waves me away. ‘Go clean up.’

I’m in and out of the shower before I can question my motives. My clothes are dumped in the laundry room. I’m a little surprised a load is going in the dryer. Fuck it. I have bigger problems. Finding something to wear shouldn’t be this hard. Cat never wears dresses for a night in. She’s definitely never worn one for me. I throw on a clean pair of jeans and, with only minor apprehension, a button down shirt.

I roll up the sleeves as I head back to the kitchen. Music’s going. My music. And Cat’s singing along … stumbling a little over unfamiliar lyrics, a little off-key, but adorable in her attempt. I stop and lean against the doorway, watching her. She’s back and forth between the stove and her laptop.

She squints at the screen before reaching for something else and adding it to the pot and skillet already going. The kitchen smells incredible, like Asian spices. The ripple of fabric against her thighs is hypnotic; her legs stretch on for miles in that dress.

I don’t realise I’ve made a noise until she glances my way. Her eyes widen and her soft lips part in a surprised O. I walk toward her. ‘I can clean up good,’ I say.

‘I never said you couldn’t,’ she protests.

I grin and take a peek at dinner. ‘Lobster tails? And—?’

‘Salad. But I need to make the vinaigrette for it.’

‘How can I help?’

‘You don’t need to. I’ve got it—’

She trails off as I move behind her and place my hands on her waist, fingers spanning her stomach. I can feel her tremble. Or maybe it’s me. We’re frozen. This shouldn’t leave us both breathless. We do this all the time.

That was before she asked you to sleep with her.

I’m going to have to take the lead here. My voice is gruffer than I’d like. ‘How can I help, brown eyes?’

‘The recipe tab’s open,’ she whispers.

I let go of her and take a step back. Breathe. Calm down. She’s already put out all the ingredients for this salad. I check the bottles and start measuring ingredients into a bowl.

‘How long on the lobster?’ I ask.

She checks it. ‘I have to put it in the oven soon. The recipe says thirteen minutes.’

I nod. ‘Want to eat the salad while the lobster cooks?’

‘Sure.’

She slides the skillet into the oven and joins me to work on the salad. She asks me about my day at the shop. I ask her about all these damn articles she’s been reading. We laugh. We relax. We both pretend we don’t know what tonight’s all about.

I finish measuring out the honey and add it to the bowl. She starts whisking the vinaigrette, but laughs when I try to get the long strand of honey to stop drizzling from the bottle so I can reseal it.

‘You’re missing the best part,’ she laments.

I look up from the still drizzling bottle. ‘How do you propose I fix this?’

She rolls her eyes, leaves her place near the bowl and steps closer. That is not my heart thudding when she puts a hand over mine, tilting the bottle up more. Using the index finger of her other hand, she makes a quick swipe at the mouth of the bottle. The thread of honey catches on her skin and goes with her, leaving the bottle’s mouth clean.

‘There,’ she announces, looking at her finger with pride. She points it at me. ‘That’s how you’re supposed to do it.’

She raises her finger toward her mouth, but I reach out and grab her wrist.