I looked at each of the pictures. They were perfectly straight and evenly spaced. Baker had taken the time to measure the room, center the pictures on the wall, and hang them with anchors that he set in the concrete mortar joints.

The sideboard was positioned underneath them, and had a large decorative vase at one end, and a small one at the other. In the center, a miniature decorative easel displayed the building’s only announcement. My Gala Christmas Bash.

The door opened slowly. Much to my surprise, it was Baker. Seeing him twice in three days was unusual, but welcome.

He was wearing tight-fitting jeans, worn Chucks, and a white tee shirt with a heather gray vest over it. On his head was a cool gray hat with a purple feather in the side. He looked like a walking commercial for a hipster bar, not a biker.

I smiled. “Good morning. I like the fedora. It’s a nice look on you.”

“It’s a porkpie.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not a fedora.” He took it off and tipped it toward me. “It’s a porkpie.”

“Well, whatever it is, I like it.”

He scooped his hair away from his face and put it on. “Thank you.”

While I was busy trying to come up with a good reason to keep our relationship a non-relationship, he sat down and glanced over his right shoulder. I studied his tattooed hand as he stroked his beard. His hands were sexy. Too sexy, to be honest.

A man’s hands were a weakness of mine.

A man’s hands and his dick.

And, his beard. And clothes. And eyes. Oh God, yes. His eyes.

Baker’s eyes were impossible to describe. It wasn’t the color or the shape that made them unique. It was what happened when he looked at me. His intentions seemed to be scattered about in the iris, which often left me staring into them in hope of learning his thoughts.

“I like the decorative touch,” he said.

I nodded toward my awesome display, even though he was looking away. “All the floral stuff is real. It’s just dried. Michael’s is awesome.”

“Who?”

“Michael’s. It’s craft porn for girls. I went on a shopping spree with my new company credit card.”

He turned to face me, pinning me in place with his beautiful orbs. “It looks great.”

At that moment, I wished he didn’t have eyes. Actually, I wished a lot of things.

I wished what he wore didn’t matter, but I looked forward to seeing his outfits each time he came. I hoped the day would come when I could sit across from him and not become aroused, but being in his presence always brought a tingling to my nether region.

I wanted to detest him for how he made me feel, but I couldn’t. I simply stared back at him with eyes of admiration.

“I feel like starting over,” he said.

I propped my cheek against my palm. “Putting on a different outfit?”

“No. With us. You know, a fresh start.”

I broke his gaze and reached for a pen. After an unsuccessful attempt to twirl it in my fingers, I flipped it onto the desk between us. Embarrassed, I reached for it and looked up. “Us?”

“You and me.” He stood and held his hand over the desk. “Nice to meet you, I’m Baker.”

I smiled and reached for his hand. “Andy Winslow. Nice to meet you.”

“Graham Baker, to be exact. But I don’t use my first name.” He released my hand. “Ever. It’s just Baker.”

“I like it. It’s--”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Ever.”

“Okay.” Whether I could use it or not, I liked knowing his first name. I liked starting over, and decided to do a little of it myself. “My Dad was from New York. My mom was first generation Brazilian-American. They met in Times Square. When I was thirteen, he cheated on her. She found out from my aunt. The girl you met? Remember Holly?”

He nodded.

“She’s my cousin. It was her mom that told mine,” I explained. “A friend of hers saw them out together. She was a waitress and they kept coming in to her restaurant.”

He reached across the desk and cupped my hand in his. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m far from done.” I forced a smile. When I was younger, I couldn’t talk about it. Enough time had passed that doing so now wasn’t easy, but at least it was possible. “So, my mom got his gun and confronted him. He tried to take it, and she shot him. He uhhm. There were complications with his liver and pancreas. He uhhm….he died.”

He squeezed my hand.

There was more. I pinched the bridge of my nose between my eyes and hoped I could keep from crying. After swallowing a lump that had risen in my throat, I continued. “She was thirty-seven when she died in prison. They said natural causes. I say a broken heart.”

“I don’t know what to--”

“Nobody does,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you, so you’d know. I don’t trust men, and that’s part of the reason why. Part of it. There’s more, but we’ll save that for another time.”

“Do you want to go on a date?” he asked.

My heart palpitated. It was a surprise attack, and I wasn’t ready. Not even close. I swallowed a knot of fear and looked at him with wide eyes.

“A date?” I whispered.

He squeezed my hand gently and nodded.

“Yes.” I smiled. “Yes, I would.”