She tilted her head the other way, considered. “I like a good romantic comedy. I’d be willing to bargain a romantic comedy for two action movies.”

“Maybe. If there’s partial nudity.”

God, he made her laugh. He made her tremble. She took a slow, deep breath. “I hate football.”

His face crumbled into the lines of a man in serious, physical pain. “Oh, man.”

“However, I have no objections to a man who enjoys spending a Sunday afternoon watching football on his enormous TV or at a stadium—as long as he doesn’t paint his face like some crazy person.”

“Have you ever seen my face painted?”

“Just putting it out there, in case,” she echoed. “I wouldn’t feel obliged to drag him to the ballet, which he wouldn’t like, and he shouldn’t feel obliged to drag me to a football game. I like basketball.”

Intrigued, he walked back, picked up the glass of champagne he’d poured himself and hadn’t thought he’d actually wanted. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I like the speed and the uniforms and the drama. I don’t have any serious objections to baseball. I’d need to withhold judgment until I’ve seen a game at a stadium.”

“Minor or major league?”

“I think I should sample both before coming to any conclusions, or any definitive policies thereon.”

“Okay, fair. I don’t want any more pillows on the bed than what you sleep on.”

She shook her head, took a slow sip, wondering if it would calm her speeding heart. “No. Absolutely no on that. You just take them off the bed at night, put them back in the morning. It takes a couple of minutes and it adds style and warmth to the bedroom. On this issue, I’m immovable.”

He sat on the bench, stretched out his legs. After some thought, he figured you picked your battles, and pillows weren’t that high on the list. “I don’t go shopping, tagging along to haul bags or getting asked if some dress makes your ass look fat.”

“Take my word as gospel on this point. You’re the last person I’d want as a shopping buddy. And my ass isn’t going to look fat in any dress. Write that down, etch it in your memory.”

“I got it.”

She let out a quiet breath. No, the champagne hadn’t slowed her speeding heart, but that was fine. She liked the rush. “What are we doing, Ryder?”

“You know what we’re doing.”

“I’d like it spelled out if you don’t mind.”

“Should’ve figured.” He had to stand again, take a moment to walk to the rail again. “Right from the first minute. You come walking in, upstairs, and it was like being hit with a lightning bolt. I didn’t like it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I stayed away from you.”

“At least,” she murmured.