“So are you,” she said softly, never taking her eyes off his, and the way she looked at him did funny things to his heart. Foreign things he hadn’t felt in years. “But don’t start thinking calling me beautiful is going to distract me.” She snapped and pointed to the oranges and the fallen apple. “Juggle. Now.”

She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, waiting.

He grabbed the apple, tossed it high, then threw the oranges and juggled them round and round for at least a minute, his full concentration on keeping the quartet in the air, and impressing her with this skill. He slowed, ending the whirl, taking a bow and returning the oranges to the counter. He dropped the bruised apple into the basket, grabbed another one, and walked to Casey. He tugged her arm, and gestured to the couch. They sank into the cushions, next to each other on the lounge section.

“Say it. Say you’re impressed with my skills,” he said.

“I am so impressed with your skills,” she said as he crunched into the apple. He offered it to her next, and she bit into it, passing it back to him. He draped an arm around her shoulder, and she snuggled in close as they finished off the apple. He stretched across her to set the core down on the table, the same one that held the tickler and blindfold. The crop was still on the floor.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“For you? Yes. For food, the answer is also yes. What do you have in mind?”

“Food first. Want to order from the House of Nanking around the corner? I’m craving their moo shu pancakes.”

“Of course. And you know what I like.”

“I do,” she said, grabbing her phone.

That’s what was so odd between the two of them right now. As she ordered his favorite dish, sesame chicken, it occurred to him that she knew so many things about him. She knew bits and pieces of his past with Joanna, she knew his challenges and his triumphs in business, she knew what he liked to eat, to read, how much he enjoyed watching the Yankees, and she knew what he liked to do on the weekends. Oftentimes, the answer was work. They both had admitted how much they actually did love the siren call of the deal, the decision, and the chance to increase the profit margin. “I like working late,” she’d once confessed. “I can’t resist it either,” he’d seconded.

Except now.

He had no desire to be anyplace but here. When she ended the call, he gestured to the artwork on her brick walls.

“You got a new print of one of Lichtenstein’s kisses?”

She nodded. “Yeah, but it’s not an original.”

He laughed. “I know. I didn’t think it was an original one. They’re kind of pricey. I think one of them went for $6 million at auction.”

She arched one eyebrow, giving him a curious look. “Since when do you know the prices of artwork?”