The guy was a player.

Often he suggested playing with me.

I have a steadfast rule against amour in the workplace.

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I

But Ryan's thinking is often at odds with mine. And he likes a chal enge.

He persisted, I stood firm. Moving force. Resisting object. I'd been separated two years, knew I wouldn't be returning to my husband, Pete. I liked Ryan. He was intel igent, sensitive, and sexy as hel .

Four months back. Guatemala. An emotional y battering time for us both. I decided to reassess.

I invited Ryan to North Carolina. I bought the mother lode of skimpies and a man-eater black dress. I took the plunge.

Ryan and I spent a week at the beach and hardly saw the ocean. Or the black dress.

My stomach did that flip thing it does when I think of Ryan.

And that beach week.

Add another item to the list of positives. Canadian or not, the guy is Captain America in bed.

"vv'c'J been, if not "a couple," at least "an item" Mnce August. A secret item. We kept it to ourselves.

Our times together looked like the cliched sequences in romantic comedies. Walking hand in hand. Cuddling by fires. Romping in leaves. Romping in bed.

So why the feeling that something is wrong?

Turning right onto Guy, I gave the question some thought.

There'd been long, late-night conversations fol owing Ryan's return to Montreal from North Carolina. Recently, the frequency of those cal s had diminished.

Big deal. You're in Montreal every month.

True. But Ryan had been less available on my last trip. Slammed at work, he claimed. I wondered.

I'd been so happy. Had I missed or misread some signals? Was Ryan distancing himself from me?

Was I imagining the whole thing, mooning like the heroine in a pulp fiction romance?

For distraction, I clicked on the radio.

Daniel Belanger sang "Secbe Tes Pleurs." "Dry Your Tears."

Good advice, Daniel.

The snow was coming faster now. I turned on the wipers and focused on my driving.

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Whether we eat at his place or mine, Ryan usual y prepares the meal.

Tonight I'd volunteered.

I cook wel , but not instinctively. I need recipes.

Arriving home at six, I spent a few minutes recapping my day for Birdie, then took out the folder in which I stuff menus clipped from the Gazette.

A five-minute search produced a winner. Gril ed chicken breast with melon salsa. Wild rice. Tortil a and arugula salad.

The list of ingredients was relatively short. How hard could it be?

I threw on my parka and walked to Le Faubourg Ste-Catherine.

Poultry, greens, rice, no problem.

Ever try scoring a Crenshaw melon in December in the arctic?

A discussion with the stock boy resolved the crisis. I substituted cantaloupe.

By seven-fifteen I had the salsa marinating, the rice boiling, the chicken baking, and the salad mixed. Sinatra was flowing from a CD, and I reeked of Chanel No. 5.