My head wobbled up and down. Yes.

“Come early. Five o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”

“Sure. Five.” I turned, staggered, and walked into the wall. Oops.

Eric grabbed my elbow, keeping me upright. “Careful,” he said mildly. “Don’t fall.”

Too late, I thought as I locked up behind him.

I’d fallen already, fathoms deep. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever climb back out again. Or if I even wanted to.

That night, Eric pulled back from our hello kiss to look down at the pie dish in my arms. His eyebrow raised in the way I was coming to love. “What is this?”

“I brought dessert.” I thrust it at him.

He took the plastic-wrapped plate. “You made this?”

“Hey, I can cook.”

“I know you can cook. But . . .” He regarded the plate in his hands, seemingly at a loss.

“What?” I asked. “You don’t like apple pie?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Jo. I love that you made pie. Baking is different, yeah? Special. I just . . . Nobody ever cooks for me.”

Of course not. He was Chef. Nominated for best 30 Under 30 chef the year he came to America, winner of a James Beard Award. The best cook, the best butcher, the best baker at Gusto.

“Because you intimidate everybody,” I said.

His gaze met mine. “But not you.”

His look warmed me to the soles of my feet. My toes tingled. “Oh, I’m intimidated,” I said airily. “But I figured you might like a home-cooked dessert for a change.”

“You are good to me.”

I snorted. Bethie was good, and Meg was nurturing, and Amy knew how to get along with everyone but me. I was stubborn and bad-tempered. Selfish, according to Aunt Phee. Heartless, Trey had said.

I wasn’t like Momma, that was for sure, needing to take care of everybody all the time. But this afternoon, after I’d finished writing my blog (Low and Slow: How to Make the Best Scrambled Eggs Ever!), I’d wanted to do something for Eric. He made me feel bigger somehow. More generous. Like I could give a little of myself and still have something left over.

“You haven’t tasted it yet,” I pointed out.

“I can’t wait.”

He hung my coat on a hook in the hall. His gaze warmed as he looked at me. “You look beautiful, Jo.”

I managed not to squirm. Because, yeah, I had gone to extra effort tonight. Fixed my face, left my hair out of its ponytail, dug a soft blue cashmere sweater—a castoff from Amy, actually—from the back of my closet. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”

Very adult, right? Date-like. Date-ish.

He guided me forward, one hand at the small of my back.

“Wow,” I said. “You have a fireplace.”

A working fireplace with burning gas logs.

His building was a few blocks and a world away from mine, a renovated co-op with a doorman and an elevator and a view. Through the windows, I could see bare tree branches and the Christmas lights in the apartment across the street. Not a lot of furniture, but what there was looked sturdy and comfortable—an oversize leather couch, a big new TV. High-end guy stuff. A granite bar top separated the living area from the kitchen. He seated me at the counter, gave me a glass of wine, and went back to stirring something on the stove. A Viking range. Six burners. And a dishwasher.