“I’ll bet.”

“But never in all my years—”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“I have forty-nine years,” Artur answered absently, his gaze shifting from Steve’s Greek Cuisine to La Pastaria.

“For… forty-nine? As in, almost fifty?” Fred was shocked. If asked, she would have put Artur at early thirties. “Wow! You’re way older than I am.”

“That makes sense, though.” Thomas put his big warm hand on her face. “Cool to the touch. I bet your BP’s in the basement, too. Sluggish heartbeat. And all that time in the water, of course. Keeps you looking young. Because you don’t look twenty-nine, gorgeous. Not even close.”

“How’d you know how old I was?”

“Took the time to find out,” he said carelessly, like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t borderline stalking.

She took his hand away and gave him a look. “Well. It’s true, I get carded everywhere I go. But—”

“You know, Fred, I think it’s great that you don’t look your age. I mean, I don’t care how old you are, I wouldn’t care if you were an ancient, drooling doddering old man like Artur is.”

She grinned. “Watch it, pal. You may have flipped him once; but I get the idea you might have gotten lucky that first time.”

“Not lucky enough. You were naked, as I recall.”

“Thomas. I didn’t have legs. And, by necessity, the place between them.”

“A guy can dream, can’t he?”

She laughed. “I can’t tell if you’re open-minded or just a pervert.”

He edged closer. “Find out,” he said, his breath warm on her lips. She couldn’t help it; she closed her eyes and moved closer to his warmth, and—

“You two! Come at once! I require a King Corn Dog!”

Thomas groaned and backed off. “Honey, I thought we were going to get a sitter for the baby.”

She snorted and trotted after Artur. He was standing in the middle of the walkway (bad Faneuil etiquette, but she’d tell him later) staring wildly all around. It almost looked like he wanted to try everything at—

“I also require a bread bowl of clam chowder and a fruit cup and a Frappuccino and an eclair.”

“Jeez, Artur, I didn’t win the lottery on the way over here. Hey, rich romance novelist! Get over here!”

“Oh, bad enough he’s living with me? I have to pay to feed him, too?”

“Produce the money items from your clothing,” Artur commanded. “I shall start with the eclair.”

It was great fun watching Artur sample everything from coffee-flavored gelato to a chicken sandwich. He had a stomach of iron and was inexhaustible. He even wore Thomas out; the guy finally just handed Artur a bunch of twenties and sat back to watch.

“You don’t have any allergies that I as your roommate should know about, do you?” Thomas asked, nervously watching Artur slurp down another Frappuccino.

“By my father’s name, this food is fit for a king! I ought to know. What is this?”