He’s wearing a heather-gray T-shirt and a pair of black sweat shorts, the latter sitting low on his trim hips. This outfit is just as appealing as the three-piece suits he wears to work every day, maybe even more, because it’s a peek around the curtain of perfection he’s so fond of hiding behind. Instead of telling him all of that, I relax into a sultry expression. “The important point is that we’re both dressed for easy access.”

“Right,” he says, his head tilted as if he’s not sure what my deal is.

Honestly, I’m not sure I know what my deal is either. In my head, I’m chanting, Summer fling, summer fling, summer fling. But I’m being ridiculous. I don’t need a personality transplant to keep things casual between us. I just need to remember not to fall for him.

Dean drops my bag next to his entryway table and takes my hand, pulling me into the living room. “I made lasagna. And a salad. There’s wine too.” He snakes a hand around my waist and draws me close, his head dipping so he’s at my eye level. “I’d like to feed you. Listen to your beautiful voice as we talk. Where it goes from there is your choice.”

“Sounds like the perfect evening,” I say.

There’s a beeping noise, then Dean rounds the counter, throwing on an oven mitt as he rushes to the stove. “Perfect timing. You hungry?”

“Depends,” I tell him as I approach and peek at the dish he’s pulling out of the oven.

“On?”

“Whether you’re expecting me to eat it directly off the peninsula like that trend I saw the other day. TikTok is the devil.”

He hip-bumps me out of the way. “I thought you knew me better by now. Just for that, I’m depriving you of seconds.”

We talk through dinner (delicious, thanks to Dean) and the kitchen cleanup (meticulous, also thanks to Dean), and then I enlist his help juicing the limes for the caipirinhas. Lots of limes. Dean puts his whole body into the task, giving my eyes a lot of surface area to study. I’m particularly drawn to the way the corded muscles in his forearms strain against his skin as he twists the limes along the reamer. I’m tempted to keep handing him citrus all night.

“Why am I doing all the work?” Dean asks on a huff.

“The acidity tends to irritate my skin.”

“Really?”

“No.”

He stops twisting the lime and stares at me.

I give him a teasing grin and put out my hand. “My turn.”

We switch off. Rather than sitting at the counter as I did, Dean remains behind me, inches away from touching my back, giving off a wall of heat that makes it difficult to concentrate on the relatively simple job before me.

“You’re just going to stand there and watch?”