I always loved having company over for dinner parties, but that night everything felt different somehow. I paid more attention to the menu and the cleaning. I stressed, to be honest. I wanted every detail to be perfect, from the tapers to the chocolate truffles.

I settled on a veal roast blanquette, a dish that my mother used to make. There was nothing fancy about veal in a creamy gravy, but I hoped it would get at what Oliver and I had talked about during that first date: comfort food. I wanted everyone to feel relaxed and comfortable tonight. I wanted them to feel appreciated—and what better way to show my appreciation than some simple but delicious cooking?

I smiled, remembering my mom bustling around the kitchen. She had always had music on, and she used to hum or sing along to her favorite songs. She’d had a lovely voice—unfortunately, I hadn’t inherited even half of her music talent.

I remembered my father, how he would come into the kitchen and try to snitch things while no one was watching. Of course, my mother was always watching, as though she had eyes in the back of her head. She could be working on a ratatouille and still know when someone was trying to grab one of her fresh lemon tarts or even so much as a slice of brie.

“I didn’t spend all morning arranging that appetizer plate for you, Henri,” she would scold my father, but from the twinkle in her eyes, it was obvious that she didn’t mind. It was just a game between them—and a couple minutes later, she’d turn to him with a spoonful of something else and ask him to try it. Giving him just a taste of what was to come.

As usual, those thoughts opened up a fierce ache in my chest. I missed them. I’d been on my own since they died, and even though I knew that I would never “get over them,” I had to wonder if I was ever going to be able to think about them again without feeling that painful ache.

Somehow, my thoughts slipped from there to thoughts of how Oliver would be in my apartment that night. I wondered what cooking with him would be like.

I wondered if Oliver had ever cooked in his life.

He could probably burn water, I thought amusedly. He had probably had a string of cooks his whole life—but then, my father had never really been a great cook. He could make grilled cheese and spaghetti, and that was about it. But in nearly all of my memories of my mother in the kitchen, my father featured in some way as well.

I frowned, thinking about how my feelings for Oliver had changed. There was no defining moment that I could point to when they had shifted. Somehow, I had gone from being disgusted with him at the fundraising banquet to . . . comparing him to my father and considering him being there in my kitchen?

I shook my head. Of course, it was just my sexual attraction to him that was clouding my judgement.

Just as I was about to ponder that thought, there was a knock at the front door.

“Shit,” I said out loud as I quickly checked my appearance in the hallway mirror. It was way too early for anyone to arrive. I wasn’t ready yet.

I opened the front door. To my surprise, it was none other than the man himself.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I know I’m a little early,” Oliver said. “I got out of a meeting and it didn’t make sense to drive all the way home and then all the way back over here. And I figured that maybe you could use an extra set of hands.”

I was so off-kilter that I hadn’t even thought to let him in . . . or say hello.

“How rude of me, please come in,” I said, trying to sound composed. I gestured inside and he slid past me, so close that I could smell his body wash. Body wash… Don’t think about Oliver in the shower I told myself sternly.

“Do you know anything about French cooking?” I asked as I led him into the kitchen.

Oliver shrugged. “Escargot and baguettes?” he asked.

I laughed and shook my head. “I don’t think you’ll be much help, then.” I slapped his hand away from a tray of cheeses. “Do you know how long it took me to arrange those?” I asked. “At least let the others see them before you devour them.”

Oliver grinned at me and gave me a mocking bow. “As you wish,” he said formally. “How about this: have you set the table yet?”

“You don’t need to help set the table,” I said, turning back to the food.

“I know I don’t need to,” Oliver said. “I’m sure you’ve done this before—it certainly smells delicious. But I’m offering to help.”

“All right, all right,” I said. “I’ve already laid out all the plates and cutlery and napkins on the buffet. Just throw the tablecloth over and then . . . have at it. Don’t light the tapers just yet; I want to see the final arrangement before I commit to using those candlesticks.”

“Got it,” Oliver said, disappearing for a moment as he moved into the main room of the apartment. “You have a really nice place,” he called in as he reappeared through the big window between the kitchen and the main room. He looked up at the high ceilings and shook his head. “The style’s different to my place, of course—mine is a lot more modern-looking—but I honestly think you might have a nicer place than I do.”

I laughed and shook my head. “I doubt that’s true, but thanks,” I told him.

“Well, it’s at least more comfortable than my place,” Oliver said. He sighed. “But I guess I don’t spend all that much time there anyway.”

“Too busy at work?” I asked.

“Something like that,” Oliver sighed, running a hand through his hair. I got the feeling there was more to it than that, but whatever it was, I didn’t want to press him and make things awkward between us for the whole night.

Oliver came back into the kitchen as I started to plate everyone’s food. “Are you sure I can’t help you with anything?” he asked.

“Nope, it’s basically done already,” I told him, glancing at my watch. “And right on time, too. I’ll just make sure the plates all stay warm and then I’ll have just enough time to check out the table, put a little music on, and fix my hair.”

“I like your hair like this,” Oliver said, coming closer and tugging on a curl that had escaped my bun. “You normally look so proper. I like seeing you a little disheveled.”

“You’ve only seen me in situations where I look proper,” I told him. “When I’m volunteering on one of our projects or even just hanging around the house, I look anything but.”

“Well, it’s a good look for you,” Oliver said again, his eyes traveling down my body.

A silence fell between us as we both leaned back against the counters on opposite sides of the galley kitchen. I suddenly became aware of how alone we were. All alone, in my apartment. Oliver rubbed his thumb along his bottom lip and by the look on his face, I could tell that he was mulling over the same thing. The tension was palpable and it seemed like neither of us knew what to say.

I could feel the body heat radiating off him. I shivered a little, wanting to get closer to him but also knowing that I should walk away, now, before I did anything that I would regret.

Like stepping towards him. Like turning my face up to gently press my lips to his.

I acted before my mind could even catch up with what I was doing. My heart was beating out of my chest and I could hear how heavily he was breathing.

Realizing what I had done, I pulled my lips away from him in a flash. But Oliver caught my hips before I could get away and walked me back so I was pressed against the countertop, my body arching towards his. There was nothing holding Oliver back. He leaned in and kissed me, and I was powerless to stop him, incapable of pulling away. Instead, I moaned and opened my mouth to him, letting him push his tongue into my mouth, making desire erupt in hot, prickly waves through my body.

I tilted my head to the side to allow him better access, tentatively moving my tongue alongside his. He explored my mouth, seeking out the most sensitive spots. He was obviously the more experienced one here, and it made me feel a little nervous—the way he took control, using his hands to cup the back of my neck and hold me where he wanted me. I could only imagine what such attentiveness and experience would translate to in the bedroom.

Not that Oliver and I were going to sleep together. Of course not.

But Oliver had other ideas when he suddenly lifted me up in one swift motion and placed me on the counter top. He moved his mouth along my jawline, sucking gently at my earlobe and making me shiver at the unexpected pleasure. Meanwhile, his hand stroked chilling lines up my side before caressing my breast with soft touches designed to infuriate me and make me desperate for more.

Not that there was a long way to go for me to be truly desperate. I needed him desperately now—enough so that I could hardly focus, could hardly think at all, could only mindlessly cling to him.

Oliver gripped my behind and brought me forward so that our hips were grinding into each other. I could feel how hard he was and the thought of him being so turned on by me was heady. I had never felt this turned on before either, and I wondered how Oliver had managed it. His movements had been so simple; he hadn’t done anything that another guy wouldn’t have done. But there was something about it being Oliver touching me, stroking me, biting at my neck . . .

But before I had time to enjoy the feeling any longer, there was a knock at the front door.

I blinked up at Oliver, feeling as though I was coming out of a daze. Then, I pushed fruitlessly against his chest. “Get off me,” I hissed. “There’s someone at the door”.

“Just ignore them,” Oliver muttered, nuzzling my neck again, as though there had been no interruption. “No one’s going to just waltz in; it’s your house and they’re your guests.”

“So are you,” I gritted out, pushing at him again. “Oliver, please.”