She waved her hand in front of her face, like a fan. Hell, just the thought of him was turning her on. Grabbing her phone, she began to dial his number to find out when their next lesson was. But before she hit the final digit, a neon sign flashed through her brain, blaring: Let me pursue you.

She had to do the same with Nate.

Letting him lead this unconventional arrangement was part of her much-needed romantic transformation from intimidating to demure.

She set down her phone and focused on work, eagerly diving into her projects. Because here, in the office, overseeing this company she’d loved and founded, she was allowed to be her true self—to pick and choose, to decide, to direct.

Even so, as she stayed late, burning the midnight oil, she couldn’t deny that inside she was squirming, hoping he’d reach out soon. When she packed up to go, she stopped to consider the painting on her wall, a favorite of hers. She’d studied business in school, but had minored in art history.

She ran her fingertips lightly over the illustrated lips, then touched her own lips, as she closed her eyes, remembering how Nate had kissed her. Like a field course in kissing. The kind of kisses scientists would study for years in an attempt to dissect all the elements of a perfect kiss. Sultry, possessive, as if he were claiming both sides of her—the side that wanted a tender, lingering touch and the side that wanted it rough and hard.

“He’s the perfect dog. The girls love him and he’s so obedient,” Kat said as she leashed up the Dachshund, who’d immediately burrowed into his sister’s arms when Nate dropped him off Saturday after the flight, and now, two days later, had clearly made himself at home with his new family.

“He’s a chick magnet already,” Nate quipped and Kat flashed him a smile as they walked down the steps of her brownstone on Park Avenue.

“I already picked a name for him,” she said as they reached the sidewalk.

“You didn’t let Chloe and Cara name him?”

His sister shot him a stern look. “They’re one, Nate. I’m not giving them naming rights to the first dog.”

“Fair enough. What’s his name?”

“Indiana Jones,” she said, as if it were an obvious choice. But then, it dawned on him what she’d done and why. “Because it was your favorite movie growing up. Remember we went to see it when you won the election for class president in eighth grade?”

Nate nodded, the memories flashing by of their childhood, summer days at the shore, dinners together every evening, movie nights to celebrate special occasions. His home had been happy, his parents had been in love and still were, and they’d worked together in a tourist shop they continued to run in his hometown of Mystic, Connecticut. His mind flicked to Casey. Her parents had split the second she’d left the house for college, so eager to be divorced. It was ironic that he and Casey had the opposite experiences, and each veered in the other direction. Despite her unhappy parents, she hadn’t soured on love; she still had faith in it. Meanwhile, Nate believed in un-love.