Pulling into the garage of a ridiculously tall building, the fluttering of the butterflies in my stomach erupts to an all-time high. I’d been out to dinner with David rather publicly. I’d been on a boat privately with David, but still a little public in that we never went down below deck aside from the initial tour. The music festival that we’d just left was the most public we’d been. But now we were going to his apartment. Alone. Completely alone.

As the car comes to a stop, I notice that I’m not the only one who’s quiet. David who had been quite talkative until the short drive is now silent. He gets out of the car, and while I collect my purse, he comes around to open the door for me. I love that he does that, it’s such a gentlemanly thing. He’s opened all the doors, car and building, for me since that very first date. With Austin, it was hit or miss, mostly miss.

David extends a hand to help me out of the car, and then doesn’t let go. With just the sounds of our feet echoing off the concrete, we walk to the elevator. Inside, David slides a card into a slot on the panel instead of pushing a button for a floor, and the car starts upward. I would swear that my heart’s beating so loudly that David can hear it. I glance his way and see that he’s focusing on his breathing like he’s anxious or something.

Needing to break the silence, I ask, “Are you nervous?” I wonder if he’ll remember asking me that very question when we were in the elevator on our first date.

“What? Who? Me?” he asks, startled at first, but then he chuckles. “Déjà vu,” he says, winking at me. Yup. He remembers. “Not exactly nervous, well, maybe a little. Why? Are you?”

“A little,” I admit, my voice still mouse-like.

“I promise. I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” he says, pinning me with those dark, liquid chocolate eyes. I can see a hunger in that gaze, one that’s not very ‘gentlemanly.’ Then again, maybe I don’t want him to be. I wouldn't know what to do with a gentleman. And on top of that, my body is thrumming with desire and urges I don’t think I’ve ever felt.

I allow myself to smile, and he leans down to kiss me softly. My lady bits clench and my nipples grow hard. I pull away from the kiss not trusting myself to keep from fully giving into him right now.

Good lord. I start to panic that I’m going to throw myself at him. I don’t want to be that ‘easy girl,’ but my body seems to have a mind of its own at the moment. Especially after all the making out we did on the Princess Bonnie last week, his strong, confident hands as they reverently explored my body, over my clothes. In his apartment, we’d have no reason to be as modest. Last Saturday, on the boat, he’d asked if I wanted to go down below, but I said that I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. What would I possibly say here?

“Why are you nervous?” I ask, seeking small talk to keep my lips busy when all I really want is to kiss him again.

“Wondering what you’ll think of my place.”

“Are you a slob?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “No.”

“Is it the decorating? Does it need a ‘woman’s touch?’”

His eyebrow raises and he says, “Maybe?”

The elevator comes to a stop with a ping, and I see the display at the top of the panel.

PH

The Penthouse? Like all the rich kids from Gossip Girl?

The elevator doors open and instead of seeing a hallway of doors, I see a large table with an arrangement of flowers.

David tugs my hand, and I follow behind him, awestruck.

On the other side of the flowers, a huge open concept room, a space my entire apartment could fit into, greets me. Sometimes when you see where someone lives, their living space doesn’t reflect at all the person you think you know. Take our trailer, or even my apartment now. Neither really look like me. This room, however, is very much an embodiment of David. Refined. Classy. Cohesive.

A giant, chocolate brown, very comfortable-looking leather sofa is positioned facing a massive flat screen TV on the wall that is otherwise an entire wall of bookshelves, all filled, or the wall of windows featuring a view of the lake and nothing else—not one building. Opposite the sofa are a pair of off-white armchairs made more masculine with the nailhead trim tracing the shape of the seat back and arms. In the center of it all is a large round piece of thick glass supported by a massive tangle of light-colored driftwood. Under the furnishings sits a massive area rug with a simple geometric shape pattern from edge to edge. Everything is a perfect mix of rustic and modern, of rich and crisp.

“Can I see the view from the balcony?”

“Be my guest,” he says, unlocking the sliding door that stretches from the floor to the incredibly tall ceiling and pulling it open for me. “I’ll be right back.”

On the balcony, grateful for a moment alone, I consider my current situation. Clearly, David is loaded with an apartment like this. He has a job and a driver to drive him around. Maybe he and I are more alike than I thought, although I don't have a job yet nor a driver, but I do have money.

Turning my thoughts to all positive things, I take in the gorgeous view of the lake in front of me. The sun is just setting behind us and casting an orange glow against the sky ablaze with purple and a few wispy clouds. The waters are fairly calm and dozens of boats, both sailing and motor boats, bob gently in the water. Closer to the edge of the water, lights from the buildings that line the shore twinkle back their reflection. It’s so peaceful and magical. It feels as though anything is possible.

I turn from the view and step back into the living room looking for David wondering where he’s gone off to. I nearly jump when I see him just standing there leaning against the wall next to the impressive stereo system, and I now hear the soft music playing, staring at me.

“What are you looking at?” I ask timidly.

His eyes rake up and down me before he says, “A beautiful view.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” I say turning back to the picture-perfect scene.

“I wasn’t talking about the lake,” he says softly from right behind me.

He places his hands on my hips and pulls my hair aside before placing a kiss on my neck. His lips are soft and warm, better than I had remembered. I turn and lock eyes with him for a moment. He searches my eyes as though he’s looking for permission or something as if he needed it. I'm putty in his hands. He leans forward and kisses my forehead, then down on my temple, my cheek, then my jaw. When his lips finally meet mine, his fingers tighten their grip on my hips, and he pulls us together.

I can feel his erection at my belly, and heat pools between my legs, my legs that are shaking and might give out on me at any moment. I press my hips to him as I stifle a whimper trying to tamp my own desires, my body and mind fighting one another.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling his mouth from my lips and dropping his forehead to mine, pulling his body away slightly. “I said I’d be a gentleman, and I’m failing before five minutes have passed.”

I want to scream, Just take me!, but I don’t seem to be able to do or say anything.

“Come on. I’m hungry. Let’s check out what’s in the fridge.”

He takes my hand and leads me back through the room to the kitchen. He flips a switch because it’s getting dark, and the room comes to light. When I take in the gourmet space, I audibly gasp. I’ve only seen pictures of kitchens like this and always thought they were fake—just for a magazine shoot. But this kitchen is every bit like those. The rustic yet modern air is carried into this space with dark wood cabinets and a shiny stone surface. A six-burner gas stove, a massive double-door refrigerator, and a dishwasher—all stainless steel. There’s an island in the center of the room with a small copper sink in it. Above the island is a rack with shiny pots and pans hanging proudly. Under one of the long edges of the island sits a row of stools that look like they’re from old tractors. On the main countertop, in one corner, is an elaborate coffee maker. The lighting seems set to make everything look like a showroom.

“So, let’s see what we have in here,” he says letting go of my hand and heads to the fridge. He pulls open the doors, and inside, it’s well stocked for a single man. Plenty of fruits and vegetables, a jug of milk, and a carton of orange juice. His eggs are in a clear bin instead of the Styrofoam container they’re sold in. There are also a few plastic containers of takeout and the standard collection of condiments.

“I’m no chef,” David says, “but we have chicken, green beans, and…” He walks over to a tall cupboard door and looks inside. A second later, he pulls out a bag of tiny red potatoes.

“Can I help?” I ask.

“You’re my guest. I’m going to cook for you. But I’d love it,” he answers, smiling widely.

We both head to the sink and wash our hands then set about filling pots with water to boil. While I wash and cut the potatoes, I do my best to focus on the task at hand. His fingers work nimbly as he decides to get fancy with the chicken making cutlets, then coating them in flour, egg, and breadcrumbs.

“I thought you said you weren't a chef,” I tease.

“Well, if learning a thing or two from your mom and grandmother makes one a chef, I guess I'm a chef.”

“Did you cook often with them?”

"Oh yes. They insisted on it. It was how I best learned my fractions, too.”

“How’s that?” I ask.

While we continue with our jobs, he tells me how his mother hid the other measuring cups keeping only the one-quarter and one-third cups, and also had just the one-eighth and one tablespoon measuring spoons. He had to figure out how come up with the full amounts for various recipes.

How can I tell him that’s similar to how I used to cook, but it was for entirely different reasons? My mother didn't teach me any cooking tricks, only how to pour a Screwdriver. Instead, when David asks, I simply tell him I'm self-taught.

“Do you teach yourself a lot of things?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I answer and bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“Good. I like a self-made woman.”

Well, he’s got one! I think to myself then pull back and warn myself that this could all be gone in the blink of an eye—just like with Leo—and not to get my hopes up. When will I ever feel comfortable and secure?