But his big, rough chef’s hand felt so good holding mine. I held on, at least until we reached my building.

Climbing the steps to my apartment, I was aware of him behind me. Not too close, just . . . There, muscled and sure, moving lightly, confidently up the stairs. I could feel his eyes on my butt. Or maybe that was my imagination.

I unlocked the door, squeezing to one side to let him enter.

Ashmeeta and I had chosen to sacrifice space for location, the way you do in New York. Even so, our studio apartment had always been big enough for the two of us. She’d had a bed by the window; I slept on a mattress on the platform above. Now that she was gone, I’d turned the alcove where her bed used to be into a space for my desk.

My desk. I threw a panicked glance at my laptop. Closed, thank you, Jesus.

Chef turned slowly in the center of my . . . Well, not a living room, exactly. One chair, two lamps, shelves crammed with books, cooking supplies, and photos from home. He was so much larger than Ashmeeta. Like a fire burning in the middle of the room, sucking up all the available oxygen.

What was I thinking, inviting him here? Into my space.

What was I supposed to say? Want to climb a ladder and have sex?

“I stink,” he said. “Use your shower?”

Another question? Or a suggestion? I must stink, too.

“Uh, sure. Through there.” I waved a hand in the direction of the tiny bathroom. Which I’d cleaned . . . Not recently. Damn it.

“Thanks.” His eyes crinkled, and then he was gone, leaving me in possession of the empty room.

I drew a deep breath, wondering if I’d left hair clogging the drain. On the other side of the door, a faucet creaked on. I listened to the rush of water, imagined him tugging off layers of shirts.

His deep voice echoed in my head. “What do you want?”

Everybody I cared about was busy getting on with their lives, Ashmeeta with her job and Rachel with her boyfriend. Beth had her show, and Amy had Paris. Meg had John and the twins. I had . . . a blog. Readers. Advertisers, even. But I missed feeling connected to somebody by something more than words on a screen.

Before I lost my nerve, I stripped off my clothes and followed him into the bathroom.

Behind the steam-clouded glass, his shape moved, big and dark against the white tile. I opened the glass door.

He turned in a cloud of steam, soap lather sliding over his skin like foam on a wave. My heart was beating so hard I could almost hear it.

“March. You are . . .” He stopped.

“Naked?” I suggested.

Laughter leaped in his eyes. “I was going to say beautiful.”

I grinned back, relieved. “For most guys, it’s the same thing.”