“I know.” I shrug. “It suits me.”

“What else is on the roof?” she asks.

“Nothing. I didn’t bother with furniture. Wasn’t sure if I’d get to stay in Brooklyn, you know?” Not every rookie makes it. “Besides, the grill is actually against the building’s policy. Don’t turn me in.”

“Me?” Her smile is amused. “Are you kidding? You’re the rule-follower in this marriage.”

I bark out a laugh. She’s right. I am a rule-follower. But, man, the word marriage sounds so wrong. All day I’ve been having these moments of cognitive dissonance.

It’s freaky to hear her say it out loud.

Charli must think so, too, because she changes the subject. “So how do you decide what kind of steak to make?”

“Well, I got you a filet mignon.” I nudge the second package toward her. “And me a sirloin.”

She glances at the label. “Thank you for buying me a steak I can’t pronounce.”

“Really? You can’t say filet?” I say lightly. “Something wrong with your tongue?”

Our eyes meet for a split second right after I say the word tongue. And then we both look away. I open the package and toss the filet on the plate for the salt and pepper treatment.

I need to stop picturing Charli naked.

I need to feed her dinner.

And I need to figure out how to unwind the mess we’re in.

In that order.

* * *

A half an hour later, I’ve got Charli moaning. “Oh God, oh God.” She lets out a dreamy sigh. “I didn’t know it could be this good.”

If only she’d take her clothes off and say that again.

For the moment, we’re sitting at the table, enjoying a nice steak.

“It’s like butter,” she says, wiping her mouth. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“That’s what all the girls say when they taste my meat.”

She reaches around the table and slaps my arm. “Don’t ruin this sensuous experience for me.”

“Have some more of the cauliflower,” I offer, scooting the dish towards her. I’d heard some moaning over that, too. “You know you want to.”

“I have to slow down,” she says, plopping another scoop of it onto her plate anyway.

“You really don’t. Go hard, baby. Go all night long.” She kicks me under the table, and I chuckle as I cut another bite of my own steak.

“Linen napkins, though? You complain about your rep as the fancy guy on the team, but you don’t fight the cliché very hard.”

“Cloth napkins aren’t fancy. They’re better for the environment.” I lift the wine bottle and top up her glass. I can’t enjoy a good steak without a nice, full-bodied red. “Do me a favor, though, and don’t mention the truffle butter at the rink.”

“Deal,” she says, sipping her wine. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to piss off my truffle-butter dealer.” She takes another bite.

It’s very gratifying to cook for Charli. She looks super happy right now.