"No worries." He swiftly places his arm around my waist and guides me out of the bakery.

An ache in my heart appears. It feels so normal, like I'm meant to have his arm around me.

He says, "I only live a few blocks from here."

We make our way through the crowds and get to his building. I feel at ease with Sebastian, like before when I thought we fit together. But I can't escape the awkwardness that's also present...and I see it in his expression too.

We go inside and take the elevator to the penthouse. I gravitate toward the window and stare at the beautiful night view of Dallas, commenting, "This is really nice."

"It's what sold me on the place," he admits.

I glance around. "I can understand why. It's beautiful."

Sebastian goes into the kitchen and I follow. He opens a bottle of champagne and fills two flutes. He hands me one, holds his glass out, and says, "Happy New Year."

I clink his glass and offer a smile, replying, "Happy New Year."

We each take a sip, and things become awkward again. "Georgia—" He snaps his mouth shut.

"What do you want to say?" I ask.

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "Nothing. Let's get dinner in the oven." He spins and turns on the oven.

I open his refrigerator and laugh.

"What's so funny?" he questions.

I point to the contents. "You have the most organized fridge I've ever seen." Several days' worth of precooked meals are stacked on shelves, with labels describing each dish and the macro count.

"It would probably drive you nuts, huh?" he questions.

I lock eyes with him. "No. Not at all. You should see my pantry."

He grins. "Don't tell me your baking ingredients are alphabetized."

I put my hand over my face, admitting, "Guilty."

He chuckles.

I spin back toward the fridge. There's a large throw-away casserole dish with a matching silver lid. I pull it out and ask, "I assume these are the enchiladas?"

"Yep."

I set it on the counter and remove the lid. "These look really good."

"They're the best," he claims as he picks up the tray and puts it in the oven. He sets the timer and adds, "But wait until you try the salsa."

"Oh! Salsa. Now you're spoiling me," I tease.

He wiggles his eyebrows and removes a container from the fridge. He opens it and a brown, grease-stained paper bag. Then he takes a chip out, dips it in the salsa, and holds it in front of my mouth. "Try—"

I bite it before he can finish.

His eyes widen, and he laughs. "Hungry?"

"Starving," I confess with a mouth full of chips and salsa. I suddenly feel like my appetite is back. "This is so good," I say on a moan.

"Told you!" he exclaims, then stuffs one in his mouth.