Maybe me being myself gave him the freedom to be himself, too. Or was it the other way around?

He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get rid of me?”

“No. Kind of. I just . . . I have work to do, too. You can do your thing and I’ll do mine.”

“Your thing?”

I opened my mouth. Shut it again. He thought I was honest. “You speak your mind,” he’d said. But I wasn’t prepared to tell him about Hungry yet. Everything between us felt too new. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, the day, his good opinion, by confessing I was an idiot hipster food blogger.

He was waiting for an answer, watching me with interest. Paying attention, damn it. I had to say something.

“I’m a writer. Was a writer. Before I was let go.”

He nodded. “From the newspaper. I know.”

I looked at him, surprised.

“I read your job application,” he said. “You were a reporter.”

“Lifestyle journalist. Weddings, science fairs, parades.” I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Restaurant openings.”

His eyes lit with amusement. “So, maybe you are glad to get fired, yeah? What are you writing now?”

For some reason, for no reason at all, I thought of my abandoned master’s project, all those finished files going nowhere. My writing was “quite competent,” my adviser had said kindly, sticking a knife in my dreams. If only I could overcome my insistence on sentiment, my dependence on plot.

I cleared my throat. “I want to write a book. Eventually. When I have enough material.”

“I would like to read it.”

A chasm yawned at my feet. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because. Even my own mother doesn’t read my . . .” Blog. Don’t say blog. “It’s not the sort of thing you’d be interested in.”

Fucking critics.

“Jo.” My name, in his deep, slightly accented voice. “I am interested in you. You wrote it, put your heart on the page, the way I put my heart on a plate every night. I want to know your heart.”

My breath went. It was so unfair. Who talked like that? Besides poets and heroes in romance novels. I could feel myself teetering closer to the edge. So close. So far to fall. My heart pounded in panic. How was I supposed to answer him?

“It’s not, er, ready.” I’m not ready. “Anyway, don’t you have to go buy booze? See Ray about a menu?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He stood, carrying his plate. I followed him into the kitchen and trailed after him to the door. He turned.

I folded my arms, hugging myself tight. “So, I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes,” he said again.

He kissed me, hard, hot, and deep, and I kissed him back, rising on tiptoe to meet him, clutching him for balance. Giving him everything I had. When it ended, my lips were tingling and my brain was numb.

His breath was warm against my mouth. “Enjoy your space.”