Not gonna lie.

And I would enjoy that aspect of this project. A basically unlimited budget? I couldn’t wait to get started.

In the end, it was a nice evening. As with all old flames, there was a feeling of knowing, a nostalgia you can only share with someone who has known you intimately—especially at that age when you’re still forming. It was great to see him again. James has a very strong personality, intense and confident, and I was reminded why I’d been attracted to him in the first place. We laughed and told stories about things we’d done as a couple, and I was relieved to find that his charm remained. We could get along quite well in a social setting. There was none of the awkwardness that could have accompanied this.

As the evening wound down and he drove me home, he got around to the question I knew he’d been dying to ask. He pulled the car to a stop in front of my building and turned to me.

“So, are you seeing anyone?” he asked quietly.

“No, I’m not. And that’s hardly a question a client would ask me,” I teased and looked toward my building. I could see Clive sitting in the front window in his usual post, and I smiled. It was nice to have someone waiting for me. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing next door to see if there was a light on in Simon’s apartment, and I also couldn’t stop my tummy from doing a little flippity-flop when I saw his shadow on the wall and the blue light of his television.

“Well, as your client, I’ll refrain from asking those kinds of questions in the future, Ms. Reynolds,” He chuckled.

I turned back to face him. “It’s okay, James. We passed designer/client relationship a long time ago.” I felt triumphant as I saw a blush carve a chink in his careful façade.

“I think this is gonna be fun.” He winked, and it was my turn to laugh.

“Okay, you can call me tomorrow at the office, and we’ll get started. I’m gonna fleece you blind, buddy, Get ready to work that credit card,” I taunted as I stepped out of the car.

“Oh hell, I’m counting on it.” He winked and waved goodbye.

He waited until I was inside, so I tossed another wave his way as the door closed. I was glad to see I could handle myself with him. Upstairs, as I turned the key in my lock I thought I heard something. I looked over my shoulder, and there was nothing there. Clive called to me from inside, so I smiled and stepped in, scooping him up and whispering softly in his ear as he gave me a tiny cat hug with his big paws around my neck.

The next evening I was rolling out the pie crust when the text came in from Simon.

Come on over whenever. I’ll start dinner once you’re here.

I’m still working on the pie, but I’ll be over soon.

Need any help?

How are you with peeling apples?

The next thing I heard was a knock on the door. I walked over, hands covered in flour, and elbowed the door open. “Well, hello there,” I said, holding the door open with my foot.

“Looks like the end of Scarface in here,” he observed, reaching out to touch my nose and show me the flour on the end.

“I tend to lose control when there’s pie crust involved,” I said as he shut the door.

“Duly noted. That’s good information for me to have,” he responded, swatting at my hand as I tried to slap him.

He took a good long look at me then, blue eyes dropping from my face and traveling across my body. “Hmm, you weren’t kidding about the apron, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hang in here without trying a little grab-ass.”

“Get in there and grab an apple, buddy,” I said and walked toward the kitchen, adding a little extra swish to my hips. I heard him sigh heavily. I glanced down at my outfit, noting my tank top, old jeans, bare feet, and chef’s apron that said, You should see my scones…

“Now when you said ‘grab an apple,’ what exactly were you referring to?” he asked from the kitchen where he’d started taking off his sweater.

I shook my head at the sight of Simon in a black T-shirt and weathered jeans. He was in his stocking feet once again, and I marveled at how at ease he seemed in my kitchen.

I walked around the kitchen counter and picked up my rolling pin. “You know, I won’t think twice about whacking you over the head with this if you continue this borderline sexual harassment,” I warned, running my hand up and down the rolling pin suggestively.

“I’m gonna have to ask you not to do that if you’re serious about me peeling apples here,” he said, eyes widening.

“I never joke about pie, Simon.” I sprinkled a little more flour on the marble.

He was silent while he watched me pat out the pie crust, breathing through his mouth. “So, what are you gonna do with that?” he asked, his voice low.

“With this?” I asked, leaning over the board, and perhaps arching my back a little as I did.

“Mmm-hmm,” he replied.

“I’m gonna roll this crust out. See, like this?” I teased again, thrusting the pin back and forth over the dough, making sure I arched my back each time and the forward action pushed my girls together.

“Oh my,” he whispered, and I grinned naughtily at him.

“You gonna be okay over there, big guy? This is just the top crust, I still need to work on my bottom,” I said over my shoulder.

His hands clutched at the edge of the counter. “Apples. Apples. Gonna peel me some apples,” he told himself and turned away toward the colander filled with apples in the sink.

“Let me just get you the peeler,” I said, coming up behind him and pressing myself against him as I curled around his side to grab the vegetable peeler from the other sink. This was fun.

“Peeling apples, just peeling apples. Didn’t feel your boobs. No, no, not me,” he chanted as I openly laughed at him.

“Here, peel this,” I said, taking pity on him and removing myself from his cooking space. I might have sniffed his T-shirt.

“Did you just sniff me?” he asked, keeping himself turned away.

“I might have,” I admitted, going back to my rolling pin, which I squeezed mightily.

“I thought so.”

“Hey, if you can sniff, I can sniff,” I shot back, taking out my sexual frustration on a defenseless Pâte Brisée.

“Only fair. So how do I rate?”

“Good. Very good, actually. Downy?”

“Bounce. I lost my Downy ball,” he confessed.

I laughed, and we continued to roll and peel. Within fifteen minutes, we had a bowlful of peeled and sliced apples, a perfectly rolled-out pie crust, and we’d both consumed our first glass of wine.

“Okay, what’s next?” he asked, wiping up flour and generally tidying.

“Now we spice things up and add a little citrus,” I answered, lining up cinnamon and nutmeg, my sugar bowl, and a lemon.

“Okay, where do you want me?” he asked, taking care to show me his hands, now covered in flour.

Visions ran through my head, and I had to bite back an invitation to show him exactly where I wanted him. “First dust yourself off, and then we’ll get started. You can be my assistant.”

He looked around for a dishtowel, and I turned to look for the one I knew I’d left out. I’d already started for it on the counter when I felt two very strong and very specifically placed hands on my ass.

“Um, hi?” I said, freezing in place.

“Hi,” he answered cheerfully, not releasing his hands.

“Explain yourself, please,” I ordered, trying not to notice how my heart was trying to leave my body by way of my mouth.

“You told me to find something to clean my hands with,” he stuttered, trying hard not to laugh as he gave each cheek a little squeeze.

“And you took that to mean my ass?” I laughed back and turned to face him, removing his hands with my own.

“What can I say? I take liberties with my neighbors,” he replied, his eyes darting back and forth now between my lips and my eyes.

“We have a pie to make, mister. I’ll thank you to remember your manners. No one touches my ass without an invitation.” I giggled, still holding his hands. I felt his thumb trace little circles on the inside of my palm, and my head got swimmy. This guy was going to be the death of me. “Get over there, handsy, and behave,” I instructed.