And I have to grip the counter to keep myself from face-planting on the hardwood floor. Was that—is this—does that count as foreplay?

Jack releases my wrist, a smug smile tugging on his lips. He pulls a red cape from one of the bar stools, tying it around his neck. He points to his blue shirt, a big red S on the center of his chest. “Shirt, cape, Clark Kent glasses, I think I’m good to go.”

“Well, which are you, Superman or Clark Kent?” I’m arguing for argument’s sake. And because he caught me off guard with that wrist grab/bite and I don’t like it.

Things have been . . . playful . . . around the brownstone since the whole I-hadn’t-painted-for-seven-years-until-you-came-along-to-be-my-muse fiasco. We seem to have moved from easy friendship to mostly innocent flirting, though the sexual tension is still most definitely present and accounted for. Even if it never goes beyond tension. Jack’s grabbing my arm and chomping half of my chocolate bar is the most action I’ve seen in months.

Which reminds me, I need to charge my vibrator.

“As with most things in my life, Sadie”—the rumble of Jack’s voice distracts me from the needs of my sex toys—“I find myself caught somewhere in the middle.”

“How poetic.” I reach for a bottle of wine, popping it open and pouring myself a glass. A big one.

“What about you?” He takes the bottle from my hand and pours himself a glass.

“What about me?”

“Is this your costume?” He looks me up and down, even though there isn’t much to take in.

That doesn’t stop me from feeling every inch of his gaze as it rakes over my jeans and tight white tank top, Bridge and Blooms emblazoned across my chest in glitter letters. I open the fridge and take out the pink and lavender floral crown I crafted earlier today, settling it on top of my loose curls. My once-highlighted-into-blond-oblivion hair has faded and grown out, slowly returning to its natural brown, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t even had time to think about it. Things like regular hair appointments just don’t feel like priorities anymore.

“Wanna hand me my wings?” I gesture to the back of the bar stool where Jack is standing.

He hands over a pair of iridescent, sparkling fairy wings, which I slip over my shoulders.

“Voilà. Flower fairy.” Spinning around, I kick up my heel in a princess pose.

“Cute and promotional.” Jack holds up his wineglass.

I clink mine against his. “Happy Halloween, Jack-o’-Lantern.”

He takes a long sip of wine. “I’m pretty sure you’ve used that one before.”