Julia’s stomach rumbles audibly as she sets plates and silverware on the table.

She hands me a napkin. A real one, white cloth, monogrammed. Looks like some kind of heirloom.

“Smells so good,” she says.

I grab a chair and pull it out. “Sit. I’ll fix you a plate.”

She hesitates. Gives me that funny look again.

“What?”

“You’re being nice.”

“And?”

“You’re not nice. Ever. To anyone.”

I manage a smirk, even as something in my chest contracts. “Doesn’t mean I can’t feed a woman who’s had the day from hell. Sit.”

She looks at me for another beat, eyes narrowed as they bounce between mine.

My face warms. A familiar tightness gathering in my groin at her nearness.

She smells good. Always has. She never let me kiss her mouth, so I’d always focus on her neck and chest. The scent of her skin there—equal parts sweet and sexy—drove me fucking wild.

Still does, if my heavy cock is any indication.

Do.

Not.

Jesus, I want to though.

Just when I’m about to fling myself out the nearest window, Julia slides into the chair. I tuck it underneath the table.

“Oh!” she says, reaching for her phone. “Before I forget.”

A second later, the opening beats of “Under Pressure” fill the kitchen.

“Just in case Satan doesn’t show,” she says, flashing me a grin.

My heart skips a beat. I look away. Focus on the food.

“I always thought this was a Queen song,” I say as I fix her a full plate.

“The guys in Queen and Bowie wrote it together. And then obviously Bowie performs it with them, too.”

“I take it you’re a Bowie fan, then.”

“Oh yeah. I love to dance. And David Bowie’s music is compulsively danceable, you know?”

I wouldn’t, actually. I haven’t danced in I don’t know how long.

I also haven’t listened to music over dinner. Unless you count the theme song from “Paw Patrol”—Bryce demands that show is on day and night over at Ford’s place.

I haven’t sat down to dinner with someone who wasn’t an investor or potential partner in forever. We have Sunday supper at my parents’ house, and I eat with Bryce and Ford every so often. But other than that, I usually eat dinner out with work people or in front of my laptop at the office, or at the kitchen counter at home. Shove food in my face while I catch up on emails or research.

It’s not glamorous. And it gets boring. But it’s a great way to get shit done.

“Thank you.” Julia looks up at me as I set her plate in front of her. Her eyes are serious. “For doing this. Bringing dinner. Totally unexpected, but I really appreciate it.”

I settle into the seat across from hers and fix myself a plate of steak and collards. I try to ignore the rush of satisfaction I feel knowing I made her day better.

“I’m sorry you’re feeling so shitty,” I say, slicing into the steak.