“I want to see your eyes. They are the door to your soul,” I say. “Now pick where you want to eat.” I turn, walking back inside, and toss her hat on the counter, and when I walk back outside, I see that she’s taken off her shoes and is sitting on one of the loveseats. With her legs outstretched, her dress hangs in the front, showing all her legs. “Couch, it is.”

“Look at this view. I’m in heaven,” she says to me, and I place the plates down in front of her. “Did you cook that?” she asks, pointing at the eggs and the pancakes.

“No,” I tell her. “I ordered that, but I did run out and get the pastries.”

“Well, look at you.” She smiles, and I lean down and kiss her lips. I don’t even know if I should have, but I do, and she lets me.

“Do you want coffee or orange juice?” I ask her, my hand coming up and my thumb rubbing her bottom lip.

“There better be champagne in that orange juice,” she says softly, and I nod at her, going back inside. The cold air hits me right away as I pop the bottle of champagne and make her drink. When I hear the door open, she says, “I came to help.”

“I was just making your drink,” I tell her, and she comes over to me, grabbing it and taking a sip. “You didn’t put any champagne in it.”

“I filled it halfway,” I tell her, laughing.

“Halfway isn’t the whole way.” She winks at me and adds more champagne. “Just perfect,” she says and grabs the plate of pastries, and I follow her out with the orange juice and champagne.

I place the fruit plate down and sit on the couch in front of her, grabbing a strawberry and putting it in my mouth. “Those are sweet,” I tell her, and she takes one and bites into it and moans.

“Those are to die for,” she says. “This whole thing is incredible.” She takes a bite of the croissant. “Had I known this would happen, I definitely would have called you sooner.”

I lean back on the couch and stretch my arms across the back. “Would you have?”

“Probably not,” she answers honestly. “I shouldn’t have called you this time.”

“And why is that?” I ask her and see her eyes struggle with the answer. “If we go anywhere in this, it has to be done with one hundred percent truth. If you can’t give me that, we’ll chalk it up as two friends having a couple of meals together.”

She downs her mimosa and then pours some more. “Where do you think this is going?”

“I have no idea,” I tell her. “But I would love to find out.”

“I don’t do relationships, Mark,” she tells me. “Ever. No exceptions.”