“Short but not too short. Do you know what I mean?” the bespectacled woman with the Hermès scarf asks, moving her thumb and forefinger back and forth, back and forth, as if to indicate the moving target of her grooming request for her border collie mix.

Thus begins my Friday morning, six days post fantastic kiss.

“I have the gist of it, but if you could be a tad more specific, that would help. When you say short but not too short, tell me what short means to you,” I say with a smile as I check-in Lucy the collie.

“Two inches or maybe three, but one might be best.”

The debate lasts five more minutes, until I get out a ruler and we settle on the ideal length for Lucy.

A little later, a nanny brings a snarling Pomeranian in and swears that Freda’s owner says she won’t bite, even though Freda’s favorite activity seems to be baring her teeth.

Fortunately, we’re used to these jaw-baring pups, and the key isn’t putting them in a chokehold during a bath. It’s soothing their nerves beforehand. “Funnily enough, aromatherapy works well for panicky pooches,” I tell the nanny, and a half hour later, Freda is chilling out to some Bach and a little vanilla essence in a bubble bath.

When a man dressed in a suit, like a chauffeur, arrives with a pair of pussycats in pink rhinestone-studded carrying crates, he informs me the owner has requested the Bird TV grooming room for their brushing and sends his assurances that Betsy and Daisy won’t scratch.

The owner’s not entirely truthful, and my cat stylist, Lizzie, shows me the claw marks on her jacket that afternoon. But when she ushers me back to the Bird TV room, she’s smiling proudly as she shows me a pair of long-haired Siamese who are stunning with their new blowouts.

“Don’t they look perfect?” Lizzie asks excitedly, caring more about the end result than a few nicks on her jacket.

“You did good work, heading into battle with the girls.”

Once the day mercifully ends, I’m grateful to head home. Along the way, I check my emails, finding one from Genevieve. I brace myself for bad news, but when I click it open, I nearly squeal.

Everything is ticking along. Expect an update soon. Also, thank you for taking such good care of Betsy and Daisy. I changed to your salon after hearing of your impeccable escape-free record.

I unleash an excited hoot as I strut down Park Avenue. “It pays to be nice to pussycats,” I say to no one at all, and since it’s New York City, no one cares that I’m talking to myself in the crowds.

When I reach my building, the doorman informs me a food delivery’s waiting for me. He hands me a fancy white box that’s chilled on the outside, which means it must have some sort of ice pack inside. Who would send me a food delivery? Could it be a tuna company has discovered my home address and is trying to gain stocking rights in the salon by wooing me with meals for Alan and Gloria?

They’d be pretty damn pleased with a tuna sponsorship, I suspect.

I thank him, go upstairs, and say hello to Alan and Gloria when I unlock the door. Alan’s tail twitches back and forth as he meows plaintively, then rubs his head against my leg.

“Yes, you’re hungry, I know.”

He gives me a look that would convince anyone that he’s saying I love you, but I know means he loves kibble. I scoop out some food and set it on the floor, and he serenades me with a purr as he eats. When he’s done, he’ll let Gloria have the leftovers, so I don’t even bother to feed her till he’s finished. He’s such a strange alpha-hole.

Once he’s settled at the trough, I take the box into the kitchen and open it. Laughing, I check out the contents. I can’t believe Miles sent me this.

Inside the box is a plastic container of gourmet pickles from the fanciest pickle shop in Brooklyn—a store that only sells pickles and somehow still manages to boast lines every day—as well as two pints of Talenti gelato.

A white card is tucked inside. I slide it open to find a note.

Just in case that craving kicks in at some point. Thanks again for being my bodyguard. XO Miles

I stare at the card for a few seconds, tracing the black lettering, wondering if he wrote it himself or called it in to the delivery company. I kind of hope it was him. But does it matter?

Oh, right. So I can keep it and feel those dang butterflies again.

Which is ridiculous, so I try to shove them and the zings far from my mind.

My stomach growls, and that’s as good a reason as any to call him. When he answers, the chatter of children playing echoes in the background, as if he’s at the park.

“Potential Pregnancy Cravings Delivery, at your service,” he says.

“So if I eat this now, does it mean I had a craving for pickles and ice cream or just that you sent me an excellent dinner?”

He laughs, a deep, warm sound that makes me smile. “That does sound like an amazing dinner, but only if you include a sandwich between those two courses.”

“Ooh! That gives me an idea. Mackenzie sent me her recipe for one of her most awesome sandwiches, and I picked up all the ingredients the other day. I think I know what I’m having for dinner now, along with the ice cream and pickles.”

“Is it her apple cinnamon grilled cheese special? Because she made that the other day for us and it was spectacular.”

A little voice echoes in the background. “It was so yummy!”

“We’re at the playground in Central Park,” he adds.

“I had a feeling. Anyway, it’s a portobello mushroom sandwich with aioli and avocado. It’s so yummy even Ben would like it.”

There’s a pause, then Miles says, “Want to test that theory?”

* * *

“I don’t want to say I told you so, but I told you so,” I say proudly when Ben finishes the sandwich, licking his fingers and smacking his lips.

“You’re an amazing chef, Roxy,” Ben declares.

“Nah, I’m just good at following recipes. Be sure to tell Mackenzie she’s a great chef when you see her again.”

“I will, but who should I thank for the ice cream?” he asks, practically batting his eyes, since he won’t let me forget about dessert.

“We haven’t opened it yet,” Miles says, laughing as he takes another bite of a pickle.

Ben shrugs happily. “I’m just thinking ahead.”

I wink at him. “You can thank the cow for the ice cream and thank your dad for picking it out.”

Ben taps his chest. “Actually, I picked out the peanut butter and chocolate flavor when I helped Daddy shop for you earlier today.”

“You’re a fantastic shopper, then.” I stand, give him a kiss on the forehead, and scoop up his plate. “And I’ll thank you in advance for the ice cream.”

But before I can head into the kitchen, Miles pops up from the table, grabs the plates from me, and says, “I’ll clean up.”

I thank him and sit on the couch. Ben joins me on the floor, parking himself across the coffee table from me. “Now, Ben, I’ve been dying to know. How is your drawing of the alien whale coming along?” I ask. He was working on that in art class the last time I saw him.

“I finished it. It’s awesome. The whale lives on Saturn, so he has rings around him, but he also works on a spaceship that flies him back to Earth’s oceans.”

“That must be a powerful spaceship.”

“Oh, it definitely is,” he says, his tone serious.

Gloria slinks out from the couch and wanders over to Ben. He smiles, stretching out his arm to pet her. She arches her back, asking for more.

“She’s my friendly cat.”

“The other cat’s not friendly?” he asks as he strokes her fur.

“No. Alan’s a conundrum. He hides from strangers and then acts like he rules the place when it’s just him and Gloria.”

“What’s a conundrum?”

“Something confusing and hard to explain.”

“Maybe he’s an alien. Like in the books my dad reads.”

That intel tugs at my lips. “Your dad reads about aliens?”

Ben nods emphatically. “He does, and that’s why I made the alien whale for him.”

“I hear you talking about me,” Miles calls out from the kitchen. “And aliens are totally cool.”

“Well, friendly aliens are cool, Dad. Scary aliens are not cool. Those aliens are conundrums.”

A minute later, Miles returns with the pints of ice cream, spoons, and bowls.

I arch a brow. “I’m impressed you found everything.”

“My ability to open cupboards and root around is quite astonishing,” he says.

“I expected more of a man look and a cry for help.”

He lifts a brow in question.

“Usually when a man looks for something in a cupboard or drawer, it’s right there shouting ‘I’m here!’ and they still don’t see it. Because they give it a man look.”

“Well, I guess I gave it a capable-man-who-knows-how-to-get-stuff-done look,” he says, with a little checkmated-you-didn’t-I grin.

The fact that he’s so helpful is another point in his favor. He flops down next to me on the couch, his leg touching mine, sending a zing through me that I absolutely shouldn’t feel. But tell that to my body. I’m zinging, and it’s not just from the leg. It’s from the dinner too—and that he had thoughtful and funny gifts delivered, and then wanted to join me, and is now hanging out with me.

We eat ice cream, and I expect Miles to take off after, but he doesn’t seem to be in any mood to leave once he finishes his peanut butter and chocolate ice cream. I don’t have a ton of games and books for kids Ben’s age, so I grab a deck of cards and ask if anyone wants to play Go Fish. “Is that what six-year-olds like?”

Ben chimes in with an intensely serious answer. “Roxy, I’m too old for Go Fish. Daddy and I play Crazy Eights when we fly.”

Miles mimes dealing a hand or two. “We spread out the cards on the tray tables and engage in a fierce card battle.”

Somehow, that image delights me. “The two of you playing cards in first class sounds adorable.”

“How did you know we fly first class?” Miles asks.

I roll my eyes. “Please.”

“You should come with us some time,” Ben says, bouncing on his knees. “We have a lot of fun. We pretend we’re fancy when we ride in that section.”

I lower my voice to a faux whisper. “News flash—you are fancy when you ride in first class.”

Ben dips his spoon into his bowl, hunting for one last morsel, then finds it. He finishes the treat with gusto, getting nearly all the final spoonful of ice cream down the hatch, except for a streak on his cheek. Miles leans across the coffee table and cleans up the ice cream patch.

As we play a few hands, I tell Miles that things are looking good with the apartment I’m trying to snag, and he offers a high five. “And you didn’t even have to sell a kidney to get it.”

“Don’t jinx me. They might still ask for one.”

“If they want a spleen, I’m happy to give mine. I read somewhere that you can live without one.”

I pat his knee. “You’re so sweet to offer your inessential organs.”

After another round, Ben pops up and declares he has to pee. I point him to the bathroom then turn to Miles. “Aliens?”

He shrugs. “What’s wrong with aliens?”

“Nothing. It’s just not what I expected for your reading taste.”

“What did you expect? Music bios? Pop magazines?”

I laugh. “I’m not honestly sure, but maybe it’s just that aliens seem delightful.”

He scowls as if he’s adopting a tough-guy attitude. “Aliens in sci-fi are rarely delightful. Also, not all sci-fi books have aliens. Some are about total badass dudes trying to save the entire solar system while piloting awesome ships.”

“That does sound like good, manly fun.”

“What do you like to read?” He scans my apartment looking for evidence, but I’m an e-reader girl.

“True crime,” I answer.

Laughing, he shakes his head. “I would not have pegged you as a true-crime fan.”

“What would you have pegged me as?”

He stares at my face then lets his eyes travel down my body, like he can find the answer by assessing me. But he stops at my belly. “You’re getting rounder.” His voice dips, hitting a huskier tone.

I glance down, setting a hand on the small pillow that my stomach’s becoming. “Just a tiny bit. Enough that I told Sam the news the other day when Mackenzie and I took her to the nail salon. Then I told Campbell and Ally and Miller later that day.”

“The gang all knows then?”

“They all wanted to touch my belly. Well, mostly Sam and Ally. Your brothers didn’t,” I say with a laugh.

His eyes darken. “They better not.” Then he looks me over again, shaking his head almost in disbelief. “You look great. You look . . . amazing,” he says, his voice a little raspy, a lot sexy, and like he’s completely lost his train of thought. His eyes drift back up to my chest, and he lingers there too. I don’t mind. Normally I’d be offended if a man stared at my rack, but Miles has done the dishes and brought me dessert and talked with me all night long.

I also don’t mind because I like the way his eyes show desire as he looks at me.

I like, too, that he’s unabashed about drinking me in. That he’s shameless in the way he stares. He raises his gaze to my face, and his blue irises are fiery again, like how they looked at the reunion. He lifts a hand, swipes his thumb over the corner of my lips, and says, “Looks like you have ice cream on your cheek too.”

I tremble because he’s lying and we both know it. But I love the feel of his hand on me. My body screams for him to touch me more, however he wants, and maybe he can sense it, because he runs his thumb over my jawline and whispers, “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for the gift,” I say, and my voice has never sounded so wobbly before.

“We should do it again,” he says, and I swear he’s looking at me like he wants to rip off all my clothes.

But it must be my hormones talking. That’s all it can be. I’m clearly assigning way too much desire to him simply because I’m an aching mess of want. There’s no way he can want me the same way I want him, this intensely, this deeply.

“Roxy, do you have ice cream on your face too?” Ben asks, returning from the bathroom.

I flinch and yank away from Miles, scooting to the other side of the couch, caught red-handed. But doing what? Enjoying his dad’s thumb on my jawline?

And holy hell, did I ever enjoy his thumb on my jawline, because my body is still humming a few minutes later as we return to the card game.

I’ve enjoyed this evening so much.

I wasn’t even craving ice cream and pickles. But maybe I was craving company.

Their company.

So much that when Ben mentions his next school visit in a few weeks, and Miles asks me to go, I don’t hesitate to say yes to my plus-one duties.

I’m liking them as much as the bodyguard ones.