“I’m not sure yet, but I’m hoping so.” That was, possibly, the most honest sentence I’d uttered all day. I shook my head, trying to break apart all the thoughts of Nate flooding my brain. I had work to do. “Let’s get back to work. I’ll keep returning phone calls, if you can work through my email.”

   “Done. I’ll step out in about an hour to get you lunch.”

   “You know what, Sylvia? I think I’ll go out myself. I need to make a stop somewhere.”

   “Okay,” she said, her voice knowing and singsong.

   Three hours later, I found myself inside Agent Provocateur, thinking perhaps I was in over my head. I didn’t know for sure what was going to happen that evening between Nate and me, but I knew what I wanted to happen. I knew it involved removing clothing. I also knew I hadn’t purchased new lingerie in years. This occasion definitely called for something black, lacy, and new.

   I’d found the perfect set, something I would feel comfortable wearing under my clothes. It was simple and classic. Almost innocent. If lingerie could be innocent and sexy at the same time, that’s what I bought. I also found myself, thinking about the enormous paycheck coming my way, purchasing a week’s worth of new panties. Some innocent, some not. But simply knowing I had them made me feel more feminine than I had in a long time.

   On the drive home that evening, my heartbeat thrummed through my veins and my belly flipped with the thought of going out to dinner with Nate.

   His car was still parked at the curb in front of my house, but all the curtains were closed. I opened the door and walked in, my breath caught, eyes wide.

   Votive candles were placed randomly throughout the bottom floor, casting a romantic light throughout the house. Soft music was playing, but it was wordless, beautiful piano pieces. I walked slowly through the house, wondering where I would find Nate, my heart pounding. I found him standing at the stove, cooking. His back was to me, and I wasn’t sure he knew I was there, so I took a moment to drink him in.

   He had on jeans that clung to every curve of his thighs and ass, leading down to what appeared to be cowboy boots. His black shirt had long sleeves, but they were rolled up, allowing me to see his forearm working as he stirred whatever was making my house smell delicious. His dark hair was barely dusting over the collar of his shirt and I was a little upset I couldn’t see a bit of skin there.

   “I can feel your eyes on me, Lyn.”

   His voice startled me, and heat spread over my cheeks with the realization I’d been caught. He obviously liked it though; he let me stand there and ogle him for a good half minute before interrupting me.

   “It’s not every day I come home to a handsome man cooking in my kitchen.”

   He turned his head to look at me, his brown eyes captivating against the black of his shirt. Then I noticed his shirt was a button-up, and it was tucked in. He was dressed up. He looked fresh, all but for the stubble on his chin, which I never wanted to see him without. In fact, I wanted to feel it up against my skin: on my fingers, my mouth, my thighs.

   A new heat ran through me with the thoughts of his stubble against my skin.

   “I’m not going to pretend like that statement doesn’t make me happy,” he said with an easy smile. “Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes if you want to relax for a little while.”

   I looked down at my jeans, flip-flops, and t-shirt and decided to change. “I’m just going to go freshen up,” I announced. But before I made it out of the kitchen, I stopped and asked him a question. “I had no food in my house. What in the world are you cooking?”

   “I went to the store. Don’t worry about anything. Tonight we’re celebrating.”

   “Okay,” I replied, my voice a whisper. He winked at me and I nearly died, every muscle in my body contracting.

   The next thirty minutes was spent in a dizzying dash around my master suite. I’d never been so glad to have an attached bathroom, as I was running in and out, trying on different dresses, trying to decide exactly how I wanted the evening to play out.

   In the end, with my hair smoothed out, fresh makeup applied, and new underwear on, I decided to take a cue from Nate and wore a black dress just a notch or two up from casual. It wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t something you’d put on to go to the grocery store, either. It was, perhaps, a third date dress. The one you’d wear to let a man know you wanted him to take you out of it.

   I also put on high heels, even though I was only walking down the stairs to my own kitchen. The dress looked silly with anything but four-inch stilettos.

   When I finally thought I’d made myself presentable, exactly twenty-eight minutes after I’d come upstairs, I took a deep breath and returned to Nate.

   When I entered the kitchen, I marveled again at how gorgeous he looked, but was taken by surprise at his response to me. He looked stunned. He stopped, mid-stride, kitchen towel draped over his shoulder, pan in hand, and he took me in.

   I tried not to shrivel under his stare and instead, tried to blossom. I pushed my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and pretended that I was totally comfortable with his eyes roving over me. I wanted his eyes there, but I’d never been so bold as to stand tall and let a man drink me in.

   “It smells great, whatever you’re making,” I said, trying to break the tension building in our silence.

   “Seafood Alfredo. I hope you like shrimp and scallops.”

   “I do,” I said, pleased with his choice of meals. “Where’d you learn how to cook something like that?”

   “Here,” he said quickly, “sit down and I’ll get you some wine. I bought white to go with the meal, I hope that’s all right?”

   “I love white wine,” I said as I sat at my own table, but feeling like I was at a restaurant.

   “Before I went to college, my mom taught me how to make seven meals.” He opened the fridge and produced a bottle of wine, then moved to open it while he continued his story. “She figured if I could cook one meal for each day of the week, I might not starve.”

   “Did your mom know you’d be using your acquired skills to woo women?” I said the words quickly, before I could stop my mouth from spewing them out, and then panicked when I realized I’d insinuated there was more to this dinner than just two people sharing a meal.

   A wicked smile grew on his face and I was fixated on it. He walked to the table with the wine bottle and two glasses in his hands. Placing one glass in front of me, and one in front of his spot, he turned back to me and poured the wine for me.

   “If my mother knew you, I’m sure she’d approve of my attempt to woo you, cooking included.”

   “Oh,” was all I could say as I brought the now full glass of wine to my lips. I took a sip of the cool, crisp white wine, loving the taste. “This is quite good,” I said, setting the glass down.

   “I’m glad you like it.” He moved back into the kitchen and the next few minutes passed with silence as I watched him move around in my house as if he’d lived there with me for the last two years. He never once asked me where something was, or if I had a certain ingredient or utensil he was looking for. He’d seemed to have everything memorized.

   Finally, he turned toward the table with a plate in each hand and placed one in front of me, then made his way to the other side of the table, sitting down with his plate in front of him. The meal looked as good as it smelled and suddenly, I was starving.

   “I hope you like it,” he said, his voice sounding a little shy and hopeful.

   I took a bite and had to hold back a moan. It was delicious. I was a fan of Italian food, always had been, and that was the best seafood Alfredo I’d ever had.