“Then I lucked out.”

“I’d promised you a meal, although this is just starters. Feel free to hold me to my offer.” For some reason she was making him operate way the hell out in left field. Not that he was about to parse his feelings at the moment; he had more interesting options. Such as eat, then fuck until he couldn’t get it up anymore.

He arranged the platters between them on the bed, handed her a napkin, drank down the glass of champagne she’d given him in one long draft, set the glass aside, and then, dropping into a propped-on-one-elbow sprawl, waved his hand at the food. “Please… be my guest.”

Seated opposite him, her legs crossed in an effortless yoga pose, she lifted her glass of champagne in his direction. “This is way nice.”

“Yeah… I agree.”

Their eyes met, and they both felt the freaking magic.

Absurd, he thought.

Only in movies, she thought.

“The food’s getting cold,” he said. The last person in the world to subscribe to voodoo emotion, he picked up a shrimp and took a bite.

Quickly draining her glass of champagne in an effort to dismiss the radical feeling with a dose of alcohol, she laid the empty glass on the bed, picked up her fork, and speared a piece of sausage.

They ate in silence for a brief time, both busy rationalizing away that moment when their eyes had met-words like aberrant and crackpot common to their thoughts.

Liv spoke first. She was less comfortable with silence. “This is absolutely delicious.” She waved her fork over the food. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled. “I’ve been eating out since I came, but fortunately, Chaz’s freezer and larder were full.”

“Having a personal chef is very nice.”

“You within reach is nice. Even if you’re doing a number on my head. But, whatever… I’m not complaining.”

“I’m feeling a little wacky, too. And it’s not as though this is virgin territory for me”-she lifted her hand to the room at large-“you know… sex.”