They say men fall in love through their eyes and women through their ears, but as far as I was concerned, all right-minded people could be seduced through their stomachs. It wasn’t just food, it was mountains of food. It was Stew’s mum’s Boxing Day buffet after a full Hollywood glow up. There were so many different stations, groaning with silver serving dishes, platters and tureens, not to mention an actual ice cream van parked in the corner of the room complete with a man in a white paper hat, handing out perfectly scooped cones to the partygoers.

‘What do you think?’ Evan asked. ‘Hot, cold? Sweet, savoury? Whatever you want, it’s yours.’

‘The cheese,’ I murmured, dropping his arm as I was drawn across the room in a dairy-fuelled daze. ‘Look at the cheese.’

Now, I had been known to put together a pretty nice cheeseboard in my time. Four, sometimes even five different cheeses from the deli on Sharrow Vale Road, a selection of Carr’s crackers, and even a few nuts and grapes if I was feeling fancy, but this was something else. They must have milked every cow in Christendom and come up with a different cheese for each day of the year. Christmas had come early, and Christmas was made of cheese.

‘You’re a cheese gal,’ Evan said. ‘Duly noted.’

‘When I was little, my mum used to slice up a tomato, give me chunks of cheese and call it a salad,’ I told him as I gazed longingly at my first love. ‘It would still be my last meal, if I had to choose.’

‘You’re telling me, if you were on death row, you’d ask for a plate of cheese and a tomato and you’d be happy?’

‘Throw in a crusty baguette and I’d turn on the chair myself,’ I confirmed.

‘You prefer savoury over sweet?’

‘I believe in equal opportunities,’ I replied, swooning at the sight of an untouched wheel of Brie. ‘Just because cheese is incredible, doesn’t mean ice cream can’t change your life. And don’t get me started on baked goods. I can’t be left alone with a plate of brownies.’

The server behind the cheese counter began slicing tiny slivers of cheese and placing them artfully on a plate. It was all I could do to physically stop myself from grabbing the knife from his hand and cutting off a proper chunk of Cheddar.

‘A good brownie is practically crack,’ Evan agreed. ‘Although crack is not delicious at all so that’s kind of a dumb analogy.’

‘You’ve done a lot of crack, have you?’ I asked, chuckling at my own joke while keeping a very serious watch on the cheese preparation.

‘No,’ he replied casually. ‘I wouldn’t say a lot.’

I turned to stare at him, reminded of the fact I really didn’t know anything about him at all.