“No? Ready to go?” With a teasing grin, she slid her purse from the back of the chair. “I suppose I don’t have a chance of taking the check.”

“My invitation. My treat.” He slipped a thick, black credit card into the bill pocket. “Chivalry, remember?”

“How could I forget?” The twilit walk to Richard’s apartment in another of the stately Victorian homes on Main Street was a few short blocks. As he leaned to unlock the door, he brushed her shoulder with his in a kiss of fabric on bare skin. An electric shiver twitched across her collarbones.

“Ladies first.”

She stepped just inside the living room.

He tapped a digital tablet embedded in the wall, and instantly, every floor and table lamp swelled to a golden glow.

The room seemed to beckon her inside. “What is this, witchcraft?”

He laughed. “I just had the place renovated. It may be old, but it’s a smart house now.”

“It’s gorgeous.” Sleek, modern lines seamlessly blended with the structure’s Victorian bones. The place would have done a design catalog proud—right down to the funky, metal staircase in the corner. “I love the spiral stairs.”

“I had it made by a small, family-owned company near Philly. It really opens up the space. The master and home office are upstairs.” He hung his keys on a hook by the door. “Arwen, play Swing Mix.”

A jazzy tune kicked up from a hidden speaker.

“Arwen?” She swallowed a giggle. “Your nerd is showing.” Did a faint blush pinken the tips of his ears?

“I couldn’t just call her ‘Computer,’ could I?”

“Not unless you’re captain of The Enterprise.” She stepped onto the plush carpet.

Down to the smallest detail, his place was as well-curated as her former faculty apartment was not. A mid-century sofa and armchair flanked a Victorian fireplace, painted jet black and filled with chunky pillar candles. Artfully arranged photographs and an assortment of antique cameras adorned the mantle. Old Dr. Bruce smiled broadly from a silver frame, an arm thrown around his cap-and-gown-clad son.

She crossed to towering windows bordered by potted fiddle leaf figs. An antique, cherry rocking chair with a wide, cane seat angled toward her, somehow fitting perfectly into the mélange of old and new decor. Sensing he was as proud of his apartment as she was of her gardens, she gestured toward the rocker. “That’s a great chair.” He smiled, but his gaze held a hint of sadness.

“It’s a nice piece, isn’t it? I put most of my parents’ things in storage when my father died, but I couldn’t part with Dad’s chair. He spent hours rocking and listening to jazz on vinyl.”

She ran a hand over the curved wood. “The carving is exquisite.”

“I’ll take you on the grand tour later.” He nodded toward a well-stocked bar cart. “Can I get you a drink?”