I get off the métro and march toward Parc de la Villette where I am to finally meet Noah’s dog, Oscar.

We’ll walk around the park—seeing as dogs aren’t allowed inside—and head to Noah’s for a bite and chilled rosé.

I didn’t take my backpack as I have no intention of sleeping over even if it’s Friday night. Véronique has tasked me with showing an apartment at ten tomorrow morning, all by myself. This fills me with a ridiculous amount of pride… and anxiety. I’ve spent the last two evenings revising my notes about the apartment and the neighborhood and rereading the survey reports. When I get home tonight, I’ll go through everything once again, and one last time tomorrow morning before I meet with the clients.

There’s a second reason I’m seeing Noah this evening, and it makes me even jitterier than tomorrow’s baptism of fire.

Lovemaking.

It’s always so smooth and easy in movies, but it’s been the opposite in my personal experience. Just thinking about doing it again makes my hands clammy.

I’ll think about Oscar instead.

Even though I’m a cat person and have no clue how to act around a dog, meeting Oscar doesn’t stress me at all. Probably because Noah has told me his dog is part feline.

Yesterday afternoon right after I hung up with my soon-to-be lover, Zach texted me that he’d had fun at the Moose and we should get together again sometime.

I replied:

He texted:

In the evening, I went to Mom’s and told her about Zach and Noah, fully expecting a rant on my lack of common sense. Instead, she declared that Noah sounded like the kind of guy I needed.

Mom’s eccentric like that.

She never sees the world the way Dad and I do.

To any rational observer, Zach is the kind of guy I need. The kind of guy who’d be right for me.

Such a bummer I don’t want what’s right! Not at this juncture, in any case.

I spot my wrong kind of guy and his wrong kind of pet from afar. They’re engrossed in a game of catch. Noah hurls a stick. His four-legged friend races after it and brings it back. But instead of giving it to his master, he keeps it between his clenched jaws, bounces around Noah, and wags his tail.

Noah picks up another stick and throws it. Oscar drops the one in his mouth and zooms to snatch the second stick. When he returns with it, Noah pets him and hurls the first stick.

“Doing what you do would drive me mad,” I say after Noah and I exchange greetings.

“It’s not so bad,” Noah says. “Oscar loves this game.”

I point at the stick in Oscar’s mouth. “Isn’t he supposed to give that to you?”

“I’m sure he’s considered it.” Noah shrugs. “But he prefers to keep it for himself.”

“How very… un-doglike.”

“I told you he’s part cat.”

I smirk. “Yeah, you did.”

“It’s not just the failure to fetch, there are other symptoms.” He crouches and begins to play tug-of-war with his dog. “Oscar takes five or six catnaps during the day, with the first one beginning a few minutes after he wakes up in the morning.”

“Why does he even bother waking up?”

“So he can relocate to my bed.”

“Right.”

“But I can close the bedroom door for the night,” he adds quickly. “Oscar will take his first morning nap in his own bed.”

I finger my watch strap. “Can you make him purr?”

Noah nods. “Oscar, sit!”

Oscar looks at him, then at me and then at Noah again. After Noah repeats the command three more times, Oscar sighs and sits down. Noah squats next to him and rubs Oscar’s throat. The dog makes a soft guttural sound you wouldn’t expect from a canine. Noah scratches him behind his ears, and Oscar purrs louder.

“Satisfied?” Noah asks me.

“Awed,” I say.

When we get to his apartment, Oscar rushes to his water bowl and drinks thirstily.

Noah kicks off his flip-flops. “You can keep yours on, if you want.”

“No problem.” I slip out of my clogs. “The floor looks clean enough.”

“It is clean,” he says, heading to the kitchen.

I follow him.

Noah opens the rosé and pours me a glass. “At what time do you usually eat dinner?”

“Nine-ish. Typically a salad or a bowl of soup.”

“I made a Caesar salad with chicken breast and mixed greens,” he declares not without pride and glances at the clock on the wall. “Will you be hungry enough in an hour?”

“Think so.”

A loud snore comes from the TV room, and I give Noah a quizzical look.

“Oscar’s last nap before bedtime,” he explains.

“Is he… snoring?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cats don’t snore.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Neither do dogs, to my knowledge.”

“He’s also part human,” Noah says, bounding around the table to plant himself next to me.

“Of course he is.”

Noah’s gaze settles on my lips and my heart begins to pound.

I point to the rosé. “I thought you were a beer buff.”

“Nah. I’m a wine person. I only drink beer in July and August to prevent my body from overheating.”

“A wine lover, huh?” I tilt my head to the side, eyeing him up and down.

He smirks. “I don’t fit the image of a wine connoisseur, do I?”

I smile apologetically.

He shrugs. “Appearances can be deceptive.”

“So can words.” I jut out my chin in defiance. “What can you tell me about this wine, for instance, since you’re a connoisseur?”

Picking up the bottle, he says, “Côtes de Provence Saint Victoire, 2015 vintage. A great Provence rosé. Dry with a hint of berries. It’s excellent with chicken, so be sure to leave some for the meal.”

I lift my glass to my nose and sniff. “Anything else?”

“This wine comes from the vineyards of the Négrel family in Provence,” Noah says. “They’ve been making it for 200 years.”

My eyebrows crawl up. Could he be bluffing, inventing all this stuff on the fly? Unlikely. But even if he is, he deserves kudos for creativity.

“Cheers,” I say.

“Cheers.” He touches his glass to mine.

We stare into each other’s eyes as we drink.

Noah’s blue gaze holds such unambiguous intent, I cannot but respond. His desire is contagious. This man has accomplished quite a feat, come to think of it. He turns me on. I know I’ll enjoy his touch and I’m almost certain I’ll like his kisses.

It’s what he’ll do afterward that has me on edge.

The doorbell rings.

Oscar runs to the foyer. When Noah and I get there, the dog is sitting in front of the door, wagging his tail. He looks at Noah with an almost palpable joy in his black eyes, like he knows who’s on the other side and is happy to see them.

Noah opens the door to a coquettish gray-haired woman.

Oscar begins to dance around her until she pets him and lets him give her a few generous licks. Then she straightens up and notices me.

“Oh my!” She turns to Noah. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you had company tonight.”

“That’s all right, Juliet,” Noah says. “Meet my friend Sophie.”

Juliet grabs me by the shoulders and cheek kisses me. “So pleased to meet you, darling.”

“The pleasure is mine,” I say, unsure how to act around this exuberant woman or what to think of her.

“Hamlet and I just realized we’ve left our phone charger in the summer house,” she says to Noah. “I was wondering if we could borrow yours until I go to Darty tomorrow and buy a new one.”

“Sure thing,” Noah says, heading down the hallway.

To the bedroom, I presume. Which I’ll most likely discover later tonight. I exhale a shallow breath.

“Hamlet—that’s my husband—is too dependent on his phone,” Juliet explains to me. “Email, Facebook, Solitaire… Me? I only ever remember I have a phone when someone calls me. Are you a smartphone addict, too?”

“I’m somewhere between you and your husband,” I say with a smile.

She smiles back. “You’re even prettier than Noah said.”

“He told you about me?”

“Just that he’s been hanging out with a lovely American girl.”

“I see.”

Noah returns with a charger and hands it to Juliet.

“Guess what,” she says to him. “I’m making your favorite boreks, tabbouleh, and dolma next Sunday.”

Noah widens his eyes. “All three at once?”

She nods smugly. “Why don’t the both of you come over for dinner?”

“You must taste Juliet’s dolma,” Noah says to me before I can invent a polite excuse. “It’s out of this world. And her boreks are to die for.”

“What’s a borek?” I ask.

Juliet gives me a sympathetic look, sighs, and shakes her head as if to say she’s really sorry about my sad borek-less life. But she doesn’t offer a definition.

Neither does Noah.

“I have a prior—” I begin.

“That’s settled, then.” Juliet pats my cheek. “See you at dinnertime next Sunday, darling.”

She waves good-bye to Noah and crosses the landing to her apartment.

I wait until Noah has shut the door behind her and cross my arms over my chest. “Did I just get signed up for a dinner with total strangers even though I was saying no thanks?”

He gives me a please-don’t-shoot-me look. “You don’t have to go if you really hate the sound of it, but trust me, you’ll miss out on the best dolma this side of the Seine.”

I sigh and unfold my arms. “Fine, fine.”

“Cool,” he says, grinning.

“I assume I just met Madame Derzian, right?”

“Correct.”

“And her first name is Juliet.”

He nods.

I narrow my eyes. “And her husband’s name is Hamlet.”

He nods again.

“They are well matched.” I bite my bottom lip to stifle a smile.

“Don’t laugh,” Noah says.

“Sorry.”

“I mean, don’t laugh yet, not until you hear what they’ve named their children.”

“Tell me.”

“Their son’s name is Romeo, and their daughter is called Ophelia.”

This is too precious to be true. “You’re messing with me.”

“I swear I’m not,” he says, drawing closer. “It’s their Armenian sense of humor. Ever heard of Radio Yerevan?”

I shake my head.

“They’re famous for their political jokes,” he says. “My father was a big fan.”

Is there a touch of nostalgia in Noah’s voice at the mention of his “nasty piece of work” dad? Something doesn’t compute…

“An example?” I ask.

He wrinkles his brow. “I can think of only one right now, and it isn’t political.”

“That’s OK.”

“Radio Yerevan was asked, What’s an exchange of opinions?” Noah pauses for effect. “Radio Yerevan answered, It’s when you enter your boss’s office with your opinion and walk out with his.”

I giggle, following him back to the kitchen.

Noah sets his glass on the table. “Back to the Derzians. Obviously, Juliet and Hamlet didn’t fall in love to form a Shakespearean couple. It was a coincidence.”

“That’s good to know,” I say, wondering what his next move will be.

“Both names just happened to be popular among Lebanese Armenians at the time.” He takes my glass from my hand and places it next to his. “But their children’s names are quite intentional.”

“Why?” I ask.

“It was Juliet’s idea. Apparently, Hamlet wasn’t too keen, but she couldn’t resist the temptation.”

I shake my head in fake reproof. “Women.”

“Hear, hear!” He encases my face with his big hands and stares at my mouth as if he wants to devour it.

I suppose, that’s exactly what he wants given the hunger in his darkened eyes.

“I sometimes wonder,” he says, his gaze still on my lips, “if women enjoy watching a man almost lose it with want.”

His voice is hoarse and incredibly sexy.

Those hands on my cheeks, that voice, that look…

“Wonder no more,” I murmur. “They do.”

Without any warning, his mouth is on mine. He presses a soft kiss to my lips and my eyelids drop. Stroking my face, he brushes his lips over my chin, jawline, and throat, before returning to my mouth.

I kiss him back. His lips are warm and a little wet from the wine.

While both of his hands still cup my face, Noah sweeps his tongue over my lower lip. He lingers in the right corner of my mouth, kisses it, and moves to the left corner.

I force my eyelids to open so I can watch his face while he’s kissing me like this. What I see is sexy as hell. His eyes are glazed over with desire, his ruggedly handsome face flushed with need.

I don’t know about women in general, but admittedly frigid Sophie Bander enjoys watching a man almost lose it with want.

If that man is Noah Masson.

“Sophie,” he rasps against my mouth.

A shiver runs down my spine.

He slides the tip of his tongue between my lips, coaxing me to open them.

I do, gladly.

Next thing I know, we’re both lost in a hot, raw, openmouthed kiss. I feel lightheaded as his tongue thrusts against my palate and strokes the inside of my teeth. When he caresses my tongue, I stroke his, getting drunk on his delicious wine-infused taste. I hear myself moan softly.

I could cry with how sweet this moment is.

Why didn’t anyone tell me kissing could feel like this?

Even with our mouths joined, there’s still a good inch between our bodies. Noah slides one hand down the side of my neck. For a few moments, he rests it—hot and fingers splayed—at the back of my shoulders. Then, applying the tiniest amount of pressure, he nudges me closer until my nipples touch his chest.

Through two thin layers of fabric, the contact sets off a spark, electrifying me. My nipples are engorged and rock hard. I had no idea they could be like this.

Noah’s kiss grows hungrier, rougher. Gripping the back of my head, he draws me as close as possible without crushing me against his chest.

I delve my hand into his soft wavy hair as I revel in being held like this, kissed like this, desired like this by a man I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since meeting him.

When he breaks away, I follow his lips, hungry for more.

“Sophie,” he says, taking a step back. “Wait. There’s something I need to ask first.”

With an enormous effort, I steady myself and focus on his eyes.

He takes a deep breath. “Are you sure it’s me you want?”