I stand beside her while I marinate the meat, and she cuts the lettuce. She leans over, and our hands slide next to each other, and she takes another sip of wine. Moving around her, I touch her just because like little touches on her hips.

Every single time I touch her, she takes another sip of wine. She does just as much touching, and every single time she finishes doing something, she either walks by and touches me or leans into me. I see her cheeks flushing, so I lean in and give her just a little peck. Then she drinks more wine, and my stomach sinks. Is she drinking because she thinks we are going to sleep together?

I walk away from her to go to the grill. “I’ll be grilling,” I say, and she nods.

“I’ll set the table.” She turns and gets on her tippy toes and her shorts ride up, showing me her long, lean tan legs. Her shirt also rolls up, showing me her tan tummy even more. I swallow down the lump in my throat and then go outside.

I watch her set the table from outside. She drinks another two glasses of wine, and her hands are almost shaking. When the meat is done, I walk in, and she turns around with a smile. “Smells good, Mr. Mayor.”

I smile at her as I walk to the dining room table that she set. I sit at the head and she takes the seat to my right. The salad bowl sits in the middle of our plates. She put another bottle of wine beside her and even put my whiskey on the table. I set the plate of steak down next to the salad, and she turns and walks back into the kitchen to grab the baked potatoes. I wait for her to sit down before taking my seat. She picks up my plate, preparing it like she always does.

“Thank you,” I say, taking a sip of my whiskey.

“You’re welcome, dear,” she says, laughing while she prepares her own plate. “How many women have cooked for you?” I look at her. “I mean, you date a lot.”

“Some would say you date a lot also,” I say, and she just looks at me. “Do they cook for you?”

“Not even once. I make sure my dates are out in public so there is no gray area,” she says, taking another sip of wine. “What about you?”

“No,” I answer, my stomach burning. “They don’t cook for me.”

“Well, at least I have that one up on them then.” She cuts into her steak. “Have you ever been in love?”

I take my glass of whiskey. “Yes.” Her eyes now fly up, and I see that they are a darker blue.