We go to Boston—twice—once to the zoo, and another time for a ferry ride by the harbor (or harbah, as he calls it). We visit the New Bedford Whaling Museum, check out the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, and take a day trip to New York when both our schedules permit. We eat one-dollar oysters in Lynn and hit up an old record store in Ipswich. We ride bikes, smell flowers, run to the balcony, and dance every time it rains. Staying true to his promise, he drinks his morning coffee from my clay mug. At least when he doesn’t work night shifts.

I haven’t done so many things since my trip to Barcelona with Pippa, but Dominic insists I have the full Massachusetts experience. “You’ve spent enough time in New England purgatory. You’re one of us now.” He hooks his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close when we leave an axe-throwing joint. “Time for an early suppah.”

Indeed, we cover a lot in the four weeks we date. Other than one serious milestone—we haven’t had sex yet.

We’ve cuddled, we’ve spooned, we’ve fallen asleep holding each other, and we make out all the time, but we haven’t gone all the way yet. I still fear taking the final step. Maybe because having sex is admitting the girl I created six years ago is no longer there. It’s not like I’m not attracted to him. I truly am. And I don’t know many men on the cusp of thirty who would wait around for a woman to have sex with him. But so far Dom has been understanding and hasn’t pushed the subject.

The weekend before Thanksgiving, Dom picks me up for a dinner date. It’s the first time we’ve gone out to a restaurant in Salem, and it feels like we’re officializing our relationship. Christening our hometown, so to speak.

Loki is sitting on the windowsill, watching us with a malicious expression while snapping his tail here and there. Holding the passenger door, I wiggle my finger at my cat. “Be good to Auntie Nora, and don’t you dare pee in my new boots.”

He huffs and gives me his back.

“They grow up so fast,” Dom sighs from inside the car.

I slide into the passenger seat and kiss him on the lips. He looks amazing. Freshly shaven and sporting a new haircut. There’s a duffel bag strewn in his back seat, which I recognize not to be the same one he takes to the gym every day.

“Are the Feds after you? Are we fleeing?” I arch an eyebrow.