What was I thinking? Inviting someone like Palmer over to my small, cramped apartment? I must be going crazy.

He's going to take one look at this place and come up with an excuse to leave.

I'm sure he owns shoe closets bigger than my apartment…and furniture worth more than anything I own.

This is embarrassing.

I sit back on the sofa and take another sip of my wine. It immediately transports me back to last night—his restaurant, the way he looked at me with those piercing blue eyes, and those oysters…don't even get me started on those oysters.

They were that good. One taste and I was practically throwing myself at him.

How did that even happen? I've never acted that way before. What's wrong with me?

I grab my cell phone and immediately type a question into Google: Are oysters really aphrodisiacs?

Google gives me 128,000 results…and I immediately start reading about Casanova, an 18^th century lover who supposedly ate 50 oysters for breakfast every morning to keep up his sexual stamina enough to bed over a hundred women. Can you imagine eating that many in a single day?

Was that Palmer's plan all along…to get me all hot and bothered?

Well, if they worked for Casanova…

Then my eyes continue to scan the screen, and I see articles about oysters linked to increased fertility. The thought of that makes my face flush.

Is my face flushing from the wine…or the thought of my fertile body against Palmer's?

Oh God, I'm a mess.

I shake my head.

Snap out of it, Nicole! Now's not the time to be thinking about fertility… especially not next to the image of Palmer.

If Palmer thinks he's getting into my bed tonight, he's wrong.

Just then, I hear a knock at the door.

Shit. He's here!

I place my glass of wine down and quickly straighten my dress. I take one last look at myself in the mirror, fixing my hair and making sure my mascara isn't smudged.

Then I hurry toward the door, take a deep breath, and open it.

The sight of him almost makes my breath catch in my throat, and I stand there dumbly looking at him for what seems like an embarrassing amount of time.

He bends down to pick up something that he drops, and as he does this, I can see the muscles in his thighs flex and stretch the fabric of his suit.

A new heat flushes across my face.

God, this man is hot.

I have to keep reminding myself that I invited him here tonight to cook for him…and nothing else.

"Come in," I say, opening the door wide enough for him to enter.

He smiles and immediately starts joking with me. "You sure you want to cook for me tonight?" he says. "I'm not easily impressed."

"Well, get ready to be surprised," I say.

He walks into the living room and looks around the apartment. I can't help but feel self-conscious. My place has to be far more humble than the places he's used to.

"Cute place," he says.

"You don't have to say that."

"I mean it," he says. "It's cozy…in a good way."

"Well, the magic is in the kitchen," I say, trying to divert his attention from the mismatched furniture and worn out carpet of the living room, and he follows me.

"Is this the only place where all the magic happens?" he asks.

I know exactly what he's insinuating, but I pretend to ignore it.

"The pasta should be done," I say, changing the subject.

"Is that what we're eating tonight?" he says. "Pasta?"

"It's not just any pasta," I smile. "It's my grandmother's recipe…every bit of it, from the Bucatini down to the Bolognese."

I grab the steaming pot of pasta, carry it to the sink, and drain the boiling water through the colander. I give the colander a shake, to ensure the water is gone, and I bring the pasta to the Bolognese sauce simmering on the stove.

Then, I grab my wooden spoon…the very same one used by my grandmother, and maybe even her mother before that, and I stir. I bring the spoon from the sauce, cup one hand underneath it, and carefully bring it to Palmer's mouth.

"Here," I say. "Taste this."

He places his mouth on the spoon and takes a sip.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

"Unbelievable," he says. "That's good—real good."

"Just wait until you try it with the handmade Bucatini."

I grab a plate and place some of the pasta and sauce on top. Then I shave a few fresh curls of parmesan onto the dish.

Palmer grabs a fork, twirls the pasta between the prongs and brings it to his mouth. He chews slowly, considering the flavors and textures. He doesn't say anything right away, and instead goes in for a second bite.

"Stunning," he says finally.

"You like it?"

"Love it," he says. "I've never had a dish like this before. I mean it. You'll have to share the recipe."

"I can't do that."

"You don't trust me?" he says, smiling and stepping closer.

"It's a secret family recipe," I say. "No one outside of the family has it."

He reaches out and brushes my face with the tips of his fingers.

"If anyone can keep a secret," he says, moving his fingers from the side of my face down to my lips, "it's me."

I can't look away. I can't move. I'm drawn to Palmer like a moth to a flame, and the more he touches me, the more I want him.

My eyes are locked on his and he suddenly leans down, slowly pressing his lips to mine.

The feeling is instant and electric. Like I've been shocked by the live end of a wire. I part my lips and feel his warm tongue basting mine. I can feel myself melt into his embrace.

What have I gotten myself into?