“Well, I whisked you out of there before we finished our champagne, so how about a bottle of that?”

I nodded enthusiastically and said, “That sounds perfect,” just like a normal human being would in the same situation.

Bubbles were a good way to go. They made me a little tipsy, but never morose and never rolling-around-on-the-floor drunk like I’d been once or twice on other drinks, like red wine and tequila and rum and Cointreau. Okay, that had happened more than once or twice.

Champagne was also a good choice, because if I did spill—and I was going to try very hard not to—it wouldn’t leave a mark on James’s luxurious couch.

While James disappeared downstairs to what I presumed was the kitchen, I examined the rest of the room from my perch on the couch. It was accented with wood—teak?—which appeared in the sideboard, the low asymmetrical coffee table, and the floating shelves that dotted the walls, each with its own subtle lighting and showcasing some kind of knick-knack. Do rich people even have knick-knacks? Artefacts? Objets d’art?

I heard the pop of a cork from downstairs. Any moment now, James would be back, and I’d have to find something interesting or intelligent to talk about. I turned around to look at the giant painting above the couch, splashes of vibrant blues and reds on a white canvas. It wasn’t really to my taste, but it was striking. I wondered how much of a conversation I could elicit about a painting I didn’t like.

Glancing around at the rest of the room, my eyes landed on the two bay windows that looked out over the street. And—Oh, my god!—beneath each was a window seat! Ever since I’d met James, I’d pictured him in a fancy apartment, sipping his morning coffee and reading the Sunday papers as he casually lounged on his window seat. And there were two of them, one for James and one for me.

“Here you are.” James was standing right in front of me, holding out a flute. I’d been so lost in my fantasy of whiling away a Sunday morning together on twin window seats, I hadn’t even heard him come upstairs. I took the glass and he settled in beside me on the couch.

“A toast,” he said, looking intently into my eyes. I could get used to being looked at like that. “To you, a woman like a breath of fresh air and warm sunshine.” Something like a shiver, but much nicer, shot through my body. I clinked the rim of my glass against his and took a sip. It was definitely a step or two above what we’d had at the gallery. I’m not saying I knew a lot about actual champagne, but the bubbles were fine and silky, and it had that toasted honey flavour I loved.

And I’m not sure if it was the toast or the first sip of bubbles that emboldened me, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed to kiss James. I placed my glass delicately on the table in front of me, without spilling a drop, and then took his from him and placed it next to mine. I took a steadying breath as subtly as I could, turned back towards James and kissed him, tenderly at first, and then the longing I felt took over.