The next morning, I wake in Josie’s bed, feeling like there’s a dark cloud hovering above me. I barely slept last night. And not in the fun, staying-up-and-having-sex-and-deep-conversations way. No, I was up in the anxious, tossing-and-turning, going-over-all-our-plans, thinking-and-rethinking-every-single-thing way.

Josie seems to be feeling optimistic, and I’m doing my best to pretend I am, too.

“I can hear you thinking,” she says. Her head is on my chest, and she looks almost ethereal in the early morning light.

“Oh yeah?” I say, trailing a finger down her arm. “What am I thinking about?”

“Peanut butter.”

I don’t know what makes me laugh harder—the contemplative tone of her voice or the words themselves. “I wasn’t, but I am now,” I say, remembering around three a.m., when my sweet tooth got the best of me. I wandered, naked, into Josie’s kitchen and was disappointed to find her pantry nearly empty. The only thing she had that came close to satisfying my craving was a jar of peanut butter. So I introduced her to one of my favorite childhood delicacies: a peanut butter lollipop—a.k.a. a spoon dipped in peanut butter.

It hit the spot, and so did the sex we had afterward on her kitchen counter.

“Want me to get the jar?” she asks.

“I thought you said no eating in bed? Besides, I want to make you breakfast. A real breakfast—not that instant oatmeal crap.”

“Oats are nutritious,” she says. “They’re rich in fiber—”

“—and they taste like cardboard. Let me cook for you.”

“Fine.” Josie sighs, but she looks pleased. “I suppose it’s not every day a tall, naked man offers to cook you breakfast.”

“It could be,” I accidentally say out loud.

In a pathetic attempt to distract her from my lovestruck blunder, I kiss her on the nose and pop out of bed. I’m trying not to be all the way in until I know Josie knows, too, but it’s hard when she’s literally everything I’ve been looking for.

It’s unsettling, knowing none of what happens next is up to me. Whether or not she becomes my business partner is up to Xander, and the rest is up to Josie.

One thing at a time, I remind myself, as I run down to the corner store to grab a few ingredients. How can I love a woman who doesn’t have butter in her fridge?

Thirty minutes later, Josie emerges from her bedroom, smelling like gardenias, her hair wet from the shower. “Wow, you went all out,” she says, surveying the array of dishes.

“I forgot to ask how you like your eggs, so I made them all the ways.” I place the last plate on the table. “I’ve got sweet and savory bagels, too, with butter, jelly, cream cheese, and lox. Sorry, the bagels got a little burned.”