“Three o’clock Saturday. It’ll be great.”

“And I’ll see you in your natural habitat this time.”

“Yes, you will. Speaking of cake, I don’t have room for dessert yet. I’ll work off this amazing meal by doing the dishes.”

“No, I don’t want you to bother.”

“You made dinner, twice. I’ll clean it up while you have brandy and a cigar.”

“I don’t have any brandy, or a cigar.”

She patted his shoulder as she rose. “An English professor ought to recognize a metaphor when he hears one. Have another glass of wine since you’re not driving.”

She poured it for him herself before stacking the plates. “I actually like doing dishes. It’s the only household chore I do like.”

She ran hot water in the sink, found the detergent in the under-cabinet and squirted it in for the pots and pans. He liked sitting there, watching her perform the basic, mundane chore. And he hoped she wasn’t saying anything important because his mind was blurring.

It had nothing to do with the wine, and everything to do with imagining her being there, tidying up the kitchen next week, next month. Next year. Imagining her sitting with him to share a meal.

Too far, too fast, he knew it. But couldn’t help it. Infatuation had taken a quick, hard turn on him so he was rushing down the steep road into love.

“Where are your dish towels?”

“What? Sorry?”

“Dish towels,” she said and opened a drawer at random.

“No, not there. Other side. I’ll get it.”

He rose, opened the right drawer and got out a towel. “Why don’t I dry the pans?” he began. When he turned, his stomach sank down to his toes.

She stood, head cocked, reading Bob’s list.

“You have a list.”

“No. Yes. It’s not mine. I mean to say, yes, it’s mine, but I didn’t write it. Make it. God.”

With a thoughtful expression, she continued to read. “It’s very detailed.”

“Bob. You met him. He’s a lunatic—I don’t believe I mentioned that in the introduction.”

“It has bullet points.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. He’s determined to play Cyrano. I mean—”

She looked over the paper, into his eyes. “I get the Cyrano reference, Carter.”

“Oh, of course. He got married a couple years ago, has a baby on the way.”

“Congratulations to Bob.”

“He has this idea stuck in his head about helping me, ah, in this area. He brought it over Tuesday. I told you he came over for dinner Tuesday, didn’t I?”

“For the draft.”

“Yes, exactly, for the draft. I should’ve thrown it away after he left, but I tossed it in the drawer. Just . . .”

“In case? Like backup.”

“Yes. Yes, and I have no defense. I don’t blame you for being upset.”

She shifted her attention from the list to Carter. “Do I look upset?”

“Ah . . . No, now that you mention it. You don’t. Which is good. Which is a relief. Would you say you’re . . . amused?”

“That would be one level,” she replied. “According to the List of Bob, we’re pretty much on schedule.”

“I didn’t go by that. My word on it.” He held up a hand, palm out as if taking an oath. “I have my own list. A mental list. Which I suddenly realize is equally stupid.”

“How are we doing on yours?”

She smiled, but he couldn’t quite read the meaning. There could be subtext. “Good. We’re fine. Maybe we could have cake.”

She shook a finger at him when he reached for the printout. “I see here we were merely to stack the dishes—unless, I note here in parentheses, you sense I’d feel that was sloppy. Bob believes—and we know Bob—that doing the dishes together, if necessary, could be employed as foreplay.”

Mortified, he closed his eyes. “Just kill me. Please.”

“Sorry, but that’s not on the list. The list says that after making sure you have the appropriate music on—Barry White is his considered suggestion—you dance with me. Kitchen or living room each are acceptable as venues. Slow dance, which proceeds into the seduction portion of the evening. He advises that you should be able to tell, at this point, whether I’m amenable to taking it upstairs.”

“Would you like me to kill him? I’ve thought about it.”

“I don’t hear Barry White.”

“I don’t think I have any . . . Even if I did, I wouldn’t have—Did I mention Bob’s a lunatic?”

“Here’s something I wonder, Carter.” Watching him, she set the list on the counter. “I wonder why you’re not dancing with me.” She stepped to him, lifted her arms to wind them around his neck.

“Oh.”

“We wouldn’t want to disappoint Bob.”

“He is an awfully good friend.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head as everything settled back into place. “I’m not a very good dancer. My feet are too big. If I step on yours just—”

She tipped her face up to his. “Shut up and kiss me, Carter.”

“I can do that.”

Swaying, he covered her mouth with his. Soft and quiet, to fit the moment. He circled, cautiously, while her fingers slid into his hair, and her sigh filled his mind with mists.

She turned her head to skim her lips along his jaw. “Carter?”

“Mmm?”

“If you’re paying attention you should sense that I’m amenable.” She kept her eyes open and on his when their lips met again. “Why don’t you take me upstairs?”

She stepped back, held out her hand. “If you want me.”

He took her hand, brought it to his lips. “It feels as if I’ve spent my whole life wanting you.”

He drew her out of the kitchen. At the base of the steps he had to stop, had to kiss her again. He wondered if the wine, the needs, the images swam in her head as they did his.

He led her up, his pulse thumping with every step.

“I thought about flowers and candles, in case,” he said as they walked into his bedroom. “Then I thought—and I’m not normally superstitious—that would be the way to jinx it. And I wanted you here, too much, to risk it. I wanted you in my bed.”