He hands me the glass, then taps his against mine. “To—”

“Us,” I say.

“To us.” He dips his head, and then we sip with our eyes locked together. He then holds his hand out, and says, “You up for cooking?”

“We’re making dinner?”

“I thought it might be fun.”

I take his hand as we walk back inside. “Thought you didn’t cook?”

“I don’t much, but I learned a few dishes while in Italy.” We reach the kitchen, and I see ingredients bundled in the corner of the counter.

I don’t recognize the brands, and they’re all in Italian. “You’re going to make pasta for me?”

“It’s the food of love. What else would I make for you?”

I melt into a puddle right here beside him, not sure I’ll ever recover from his charm. The last guy ordered me a salad. Harbor wants to feed me carbs. I made the right decision. He gets a pot of water boiling and turns on the TV. “The Yankees game is starting. Do you mind the background noise?”

He knows the way to my heart. “Do I mind the best sport ever played being on? That would be a no.” I bump up against his side. “Since when did you become a Yankees fan?”

“I’m a big fan of yours, if you haven’t noticed, and since you love the Yankees, I can make the sacrifice and cheer them on.”

He’s doing everything right, so right to make me swoon. I want to give in to him, to drop all walls and start fresh. I can see that he’s changed physically with the five years that have passed, but internally, he’s lived a lifetime. I’m so drawn to him, attracted to him body and soul, but we need to get the issues on the table to deal with first.

During the bottom of the second inning, I’ve been put in charge of chopping tomatoes and onions. He toasts garlic and pine nuts, and we add the onions into the pan while the water boils. Lemon slices are added in, then a layer of white wine. While the pan simmers, we stand in the living room, my shoes long discarded, watching the game, telling stories from the years the other missed, and laughing.

It’s light with him. Fun. So much feels good that I’m afraid to ruin it.

Still sipping the drink, I finish it and then head to the terrace on a commercial break with him for refills. While he fills the glasses, I ask, “What did you do instead of going to medical school?”

The question doesn’t seem to faze him. “You know about LA and Italy. I created a business plan and partnered with Italian luxury carmakers and brands to make custom sports cars.”

“Cars?” I grin. “You always loved your Maserati.”

He hands back my glass, and says, “I found a niche market for those who love cars more than I do. I’ve been here in the city for the past two years, growing the company.”