Trevor’s comment about their parents flickered through his mind. “It is.”

Her expression softened, and she reached out to brush her fingers along his arm, her touch like a butterfly’s wings, draining away the tension in his muscles. “It’s not a reflection on you. It’s a reflection on them.”

“And you say I have many talents.”

“What talent do I have?”

“You give people what they need.”

“I’m a concierge. That’s my job.”

“No, that’s just what they want. You go beyond that, to what will make them feel good about themselves.”

She fluttered her hands in disagreement. “I’m not any better than any other concierge.”

He gently lowered her foot and placed it on the rung of the stool. Going to the refrigerator, he pulled out the containers Carmen had left for him. He’d asked her to make everything fresh today. Three cheeses, freshly grated. Seasoned chicken, thinly sliced. Tender homemade tortillas. Tangy salsa. With the finishing touch of Carmen’s perfectly textured guacamole. He reached up to unhook a skillet from the overhead rack.

“Let me help,” Miranda said, hopping off the stool to join him by the restaurant-size stove.

“You can grab a couple of Dos Equis out of the drinks fridge, but I’m doing the cooking.”

She walked to the undercounter fridge, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor, and bent to bring out two chilled bottles of beer. He took a moment to enjoy the view of his plaid shirt pulled tight over the perfect arc of her rear.

“Opener?” she asked.

He held up his hand, and she carried the bottles over for him to twist off the caps. She tapped the neck of her bottle to his and then tilted her head back to take a hefty swallow with her eyes closed. “That first taste is always the best,” she said, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

“I like the way you drink beer.” He wanted to kiss her and find out how it tasted on her tongue.

Her dark eyes lit with humor. “I guess I should have asked for a glass.”

“Not in my house.” But she’d surprised him with her gusto. For a lot of things. “Sit yourself back down on that stool and let me get some dinner made.”

She trailed a finger down his arm, making his cock twitch. “A quarterback who cooks. Half-naked. If you vacuum, too, my every fantasy has been fulfilled.”

He poured oil in the skillet. “Not big on vacuuming, but I can muck out a stall.”

“Half-naked?”

“When it’s hot enough.”

“I’d turn that into a sexual innuendo, but it’s too easy,” she said, perching on the stool. She tilted her head. “Do you have any idea how tempting it is to lay my ice-cold beer bottle against your gorgeously muscular back?”

He laughed, a full-throated “I’m having a great time” laugh. Something he hadn’t done in a while. “Try it and see where I put my ice-cold beer bottle on your pretty little body.” He let his gaze rest on her and pictured his revenge, heat flashing through him. “I dare you.”

“Maybe after dinner,” she said, giving him one of her half-laughing, half-provocative glances.

She kept him smiling as he made the quesadillas with extra care. He wanted them to be perfect. The smell of warm, zesty Mexican spices soon saturated the kitchen air.

“I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” Miranda said as she inhaled. “At least let me set the table.”

Luke flipped the last quesadilla on the platter. “Already taken care of. Grab that tray with the sour cream, salsa, and guac, and come with me.” He took out two more beers and gestured toward the door to the dining room, letting her go first.

She stopped short as soon as she walked through the door. “Everywhere I go with you, there’s an incredible view.” She looked up at him, her eyes luminous. “And sunflowers.”

Satisfaction warmed him. He’d set up a table for two right in front of the glass wall looking out across New York Harbor. Carmen had arranged colorful Mexican pottery on the table, and he’d ordered the flowers.

“They remind me of our tour.” And of her. The warm, vibrant color with its dark, deep center captured her essence. He nudged her gently with his elbow. “Let’s eat.”

They settled at the table, lighting the candles and dishing out the food. The candlelight shimmered along the waves of her dark hair and danced in the brown velvet of her eyes.

She heaped guacamole on a slice of quesadilla and took her first bite, groaning in appreciation. “Okay, you don’t have to vacuum. The quesadillas are enough.” She ate another mouthful, then stopped. “Your stomach started this. Why aren’t you eating?”

Because he wanted to concentrate on her every movement, to soak up her presence. He decided on the truth. “It’s like the strawberries at the ballet. I want to watch your reaction.”

A strange, unsettling expression crossed her face. It reminded him of the way DaShawn had looked around the football stadium after the last game he played. Except Miranda was looking at him across the table.

He felt an urgent need to know everything about her. Picking up a slice of quesadilla, he asked in a casual tone, “So, why did you want to be a concierge?”

Miranda stopped chewing. They’d been flirting, bantering, keeping things light. Except for the sex, which was intense. And now he’d asked her a real question. She didn’t want that kind of emotional connection with him. It would just make tomorrow more dismal.