For some bizarre, unknown reason, I shaved my legs and bikini line with meticulous care on Tuesday evening. Then, even more inexplicably, I scrubbed my body with a sugar scrub until it glowed. After toweling myself dry, I rubbed my most expensive lavender scented cream into my skin.

Then I chose two of the sexiest bits of cream silk and chocolate lace underwear I owned. The bra had a cute little red love-heart fastener in the front. I spent a long time over my hair too. Carefully putting it into big rollers and gently brushing it out so it fell in bouncy waves around my shoulders.

I slipped into a simple dress because obviously, I didn’t want Max to think I had made any effort at all, and cream pumps. A lick of mascara and gloss and I was done. I wanted to look as if I’d just come from work, grabbed the first thing I saw in my wardrobe and put it on, and I think I succeeded. I looked at my phone. Five minutes to seven. I picked up the wine bottle I had bought by the neck and went to knock on Max’s door.

It flung open suddenly, and Max filled the threshold. I didn’t think I would ever get used to his presence. His hair was a bit wild and his eyes showed definite signs of stress. There was also a strange smell coming from the interior of his home. I raised my eyebrows.

“Everything all right?”

“Sure. Come in.”

I held out the wine bottle.

“Thanks,” he said and took it from me distractedly. “Take a seat. I won’t be long. The food is nearly ready.”

Ah, the source of the smell. I smiled and kept my voice happy. “What are we eating?”

“Chicken.”

I nodded. “Just chicken?”

He frowned. “No. Of course not. There is a salad too.”

“Oh great. I love chicken and salad.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

The smell was getting stronger. “Tell you what,” I said, cocking my head in the direction of the smell, “why don’t we go into the kitchen. You can open the bottle of wine and we can talk while you finish cooking.”

He hesitated.

“I love watching people cook,” I added with a big grin, and without waiting for him to answer strolled towards the kitchen. The place looked like a tornado had hit it. A far cry from the immaculate state I had always seen it in previously. Casually, I dusted some flour from a stool and took a seat at the island. “Maybe you should check on the state of your dish.”

He walked to the oven, donned a pair of black oven gloves, and opened it. A cloud of smoke billowed out as he pulled out a tray of something, well, I had to assume it was food since he was cooking it; although it bore more resemblance to a very large blackened brick than a chicken. I looked at the rectangular charred thing sitting in the middle of the tray with a mixture of surprise. How many days had he been cooking it to burn it that badly?

The smoke alarm went off. He ran and shook a magazine at it, while I got a window open. The alarm stopped after a couple of seconds and both of us gathered in front of the smoking tray.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Buffalo chicken break-away bread,” he said gloomily.

There was a recipe book open on the island with a picture of Buffalo chicken break-away bread and I had to admit it looked delicious. “You shouldn’t have started with such an ambitious project,” I said softly.

“Do you like Chinese?” he muttered.

“Love it.”

We called my favorite takeaway joint and I gave Mr. Chan our order.

“You no want a double order of number eight and number sixty-six today?” he asked, surprised.

He was referring to my usual double order of egg rolls, and his delicious fried bananas and ice cream dessert. Don’t get me wrong, I was tempted to add them to the order, but I glanced at Max, and he was looking at me with that look in his eyes. I remembered my nice underwear and said, “Not today, thanks, Mr. Chan.”

I hung up and smiled at Max as he walked up to me with a glass of wine.

“Thanks,” I said taking it from him. Our fingers brushed and, oh my, my stomach fluttered a little.

He put on some music. Something foreign. I’d never heard it before. A woman was singing. Her voice was high enough to break glass. It must be an acquired taste. We sat next to each other on the soft leather sofa.

“So, tell me, how long have we been seeing each other,” he said.

I crinkled my nose. “How about three weeks ago?”

He nodded. “So you were cheating on Josh and me?”

I bit my lip. “Yes.”

“Okay. Where did we meet?”

“Let’s keep it simple. We met outside the elevator. You said ‘Hi’ and that was it. One thing led to another and boom.”

“Boom,” he said softly, his eyes gleaming.

“Boom,” I repeated, unable to pull my gaze away, mesmerized by the look on his face. His eyes emitted sparks of promise. I remembered how possessively his mouth had crushed mine and felt the heat between my legs. The room felt like it was spinning. Jesus, how much alcohol had I consumed?

His phone rang. I dragged my eyes away from his and took a big gulp of my wine. He ignored his phone.

“Don’t you want to take that call?”

“Nope. What else do I need to know about you?”

“I love shoes.”

He nods. “I noticed.”

“I run. We both run, obviously. I like my food, but I am constantly on a diet.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“You know why.”

‘No, I don’t. I think your figure is perfect. If anything, you could stand to gain a few pounds.”

I couldn’t help it. I blushed. Oh God! This man sure knew how to say all the right things.