So the minute I heard the front door close, I threw back the covers and launched myself out of bed.

I put on new undies—ecru, lacy, sexy—and a pair of loose-fitting yoga pants (that Josie disapproved of me buying, looking at them with revulsion and stating she feared yoga pants were heralding the death of fashion). I paired these with a powder pink, light cashmere sweater that had a deep dip in the back that was held together with a thin strap of cashmere across my shoulders.

I arranged my hair in a messy knot at the top back of my head, pulling out tendrils around my ears and neck that I hoped looked both adorable and appealing.

Then I dashed out of my bedroom, got rid of the omelet, did the minimal clean up and ran around lighting candles and lamps so the effect would be cozy and romantic.

I left Pandora on my Billie Holiday station. I wasn’t feeling the blues but Billie Holiday worked for a variety of situations.

I was pulling down plates when Mickey came back.

I watched as he caught my eyes, grinned, then looked around the house and back to me, his grin turning smug.

I didn’t care. He knew I was into him and I wanted him to know that what we’d just shared and spending time with him was important to me.

He could be smug about it. He was gorgeous.

And right then he was all mine.

The delivery guy came, Mickey paid and I brought plates, silverware and napkins down to the sectional while Mickey pulled out food. I also got myself a glass of wine and Mickey a beer (something I started stocking when the possibility of him being over became a probability, something that, until then, I’d never had the chance to offer him).

Mickey was lounged back with an eggroll over a plate and I’d torn the corner of a crab cheese wonton loose and had dipped it in some sweet and sour sauce that was resting on a scrap of the brown paper bag the delivery came in that was sitting on the couch between us.

I held the dripping wedge over my plate, my eyes to it, when I said quietly, “I like spending time with you, Mickey.”

“Got that, Amy.”

At his response, I lifted my gaze to him and put the wonton in my mouth.

As I was chewing, Mickey went on, “Need you to get that I like spending time with you, too, baby.”

I nodded, swallowing.

“We both got busy lives,” he told me. “This isn’t going to be easy. We just gotta work at making it worth it.”

He was right about that.

His tone had changed when he continued, “And I gotta admit that I took it for granted you’d get it without me giving it to you.”

It wasn’t an accusation.

It almost sounded contrite.