I head into the kitchen and start pulling ingredients out of the fridge to make dinner. I don’t know how to make many dishes, but there are still a few Mum taught me that I remember.

Now that I’m in the kitchen, with the soft sizzle of the sauté pan to keep me company, my deception doesn’t seem quite the earth-shattering catastrophe I thought it was going to be. I’m not a coward, not really lying. I’m just being thoughtful—taking care to choose the right moment to bring up a sensitive topic.

I work efficiently, chopping and dicing as I wait for my wife to get home from work. It all feels so normal, so utterly mundane.

My phone chimes, and I see there’s a new text from Olivia.

Olivia: I’m on my way home. Everything still on plan for tonight? Because we’re totally going to fuck. Right, Mr. Tate?

Reading her dirty words sends a little thrill racing through me. With my heart kicking up speed, I reply.

Noah: Absolutely. I’m down if you are.

Olivia: It’s time to put up or shut up. Time to get with the program. And from what I can tell, it’s a big program. ;)

Noah: See you soon, wifey.

I chuckle and set the phone aside to finish dinner.

What the hell was I freaking out about?

This is going to be fun.

Chapter Ten

Olivia

The smell of fish, lemon, and fresh green herbs greets me when I come home. Stepping into the apartment, I inhale deeply and my stomach growls. I quickly take off my work flats so I can check out the kitchen.

I walk in just in time to see Noah bending over to pull a pan of roasted salmon filet and asparagus out of the oven. When he looks over his shoulder at the sound of my footsteps, I try to pretend that I was staring at the food and not his ass.

“Hey, Snowflake, great timing.”

“That looks amazing.” I swear I just mean the dinner when I say that. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

With a chuckle, Noah sets the full pan on the counter and turns to pull plates from the cupboard. “Wait until you taste it before you get too excited. I learned how to make baked fish from Mum, and the vegetables and rice from the Internet.” He points at a glass dish full of steaming pilaf that I hadn’t noticed before.

“Well, it looks good,” I chirp, then immediately remember I already said that. Goddammit. I might be freaking out a tiny little bit. I want this, I really do . . . but it’s still nerve-racking.

And my butterflies only get worse when Noah glances at me with a catlike half smile, full of sinful promise. “I thought we should ease into things before . . .” He lets his words trail off.

My mind jumps ahead to where he’ll be “easing into” later tonight. My stomach jumps with it, and almost without realizing, I wet my lips. Then I yank my eyes away from his.

“I, um, I guess I’ll get the drinks,” I stammer, sweeping past him with more bustle than strictly necessary.

I find a bottle of chardonnay chilling in the fridge, pour two glasses full, and get the silverware while Noah plates the food. Once the table is set, we take our first bites . . . and a quiet moan of pleasure escapes me.

Our dinner is just as delicious as it looked and smelled. The salmon filets and asparagus are fresh, fork-tender, and lightly seasoned with salt, pepper, and olive oil. The lemon-herb rice perfectly rounds out the meal with its fragrant fluffiness.

“I take it I’ve earned your seal of approval,” Noah teases. “I hope I can hear that sound again later tonight.”

I flush slightly, but I’m in too good a mood to tell him to shut up. Teasing him back, however, is something I can manage. “What was with all your false modesty earlier? ‘Oh, it might suck, just bear with me . . .’”

He laughs. “I never said it like that. For your information, I do like to cook—I just don’t usually take the time. And I haven’t mastered many recipes. A real man accepts his limitations.”

“Evidently a real man also talks in third person.” I grin at him. Then my tone sobers. “So, you’re still feeling okay? Not sick at all?”

What I’m really asking is are you ready for sex? Just without actually having to say that big S-word. And maybe I’m also apologizing for acting like a bitch earlier today, without actually having to say the other big S-word.

He pauses, then gives me a firm nod. “Never better. So I’m still on if you are.”

Did his smile slip a tiny bit, or am I just imagining things? I knock back a mouthful of wine to stop myself from overthinking. Tonight is for my body, not my mind. If he says he’s ready to go . . . I chase the butterflies in my stomach with another bite of rich salmon.

When our plates are empty, Noah suggests, “How about we have another glass of wine?”

So I guess we’re not jumping straight into bed. I’m torn between relief and impatience. “S-sure, that sounds nice,” I reply.

We refill our glasses and move to the living room. But when we sit down on the couch, Noah doesn’t touch his drink. He sets it on the coffee table—and rests his hand on mine. I look up to see his expression has turned predatory.

And just like that, everything changes. The atmosphere, already flirtatious before, darkens and thickens like the air before a thunderstorm.

“Did I ever tell you how hot you look in your office clothes?” he purrs. “Well, really, you look hot in everything . . . and I’m sure you’ll look even better in nothing at all.” He gives me a lustful smirk. “But we’ll get around to that soon enough. Anyway, as I was saying, those clothes are so prim and proper that seeing you at work always gives me . . . ideas.”