Grace sat across from me on the other end of the couch, absorbed in a story she was telling me about one of her students, and while I was doing my best to listen, I couldn’t help but be aware of how fast I was falling for her. We’d been talking for nearly three solid hours, completely comfortable, flirting and yet at ease, and the only thing that was stopping me from kissing her again was the memory of her reaction the first time. I tried to remember if I had felt like this about Dianne, so totally immersed in her, every thought somehow connecting itself to her, and I was almost sure I hadn’t. It was baffling and intense and not a little disquieting, and yet completely inviting.

And there was something different about her tonight. She seemed more open, more engaged than in the past, although she’d been warm and friendly since the beginning. It drew me to her all the more.

I poured another glass of wine and sipped it slowly, watching her over the rim of the glass as she leaned back and stifled a yawn. “I’m incredibly boring, I know,” I said sadly, setting down the glass and slumping in my corner of the sofa.

She chuckled and shook her head. “I was up at six this morning for school; I’m never very fun on Friday nights. I should have asked you over for tomorrow night instead.”

“Nonsense,” I laughed. “You’re plenty fun. And a fantastic cook.”

“I swear that’s the only dish I know how to make; I’m the most undomestic woman in the country. I live purely on boxed foods that require less than five minutes of microwave preparation. My mom always joked that I’d need to marry a chef or I’d die of malnutrition.”

I threw my hands up in defeat. “Well, that puts me out of the running. I live off of Taco Bell and McDonald’s.”

“Yes, but you’re rich and famous; you could just hire a chef.”

I slapped my forehead. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” I winked at her, and she shook her head, laughing.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“So I’ve heard. It’s your own fault; you incorrige me.”

She groaned. “Oh sure, blame it on me.

We continued like this for another two hours, flirting and teasing and trading barbs in between bouts of real conversation. The bottle of wine I’d brought disappeared quickly, and soon Grace was in danger of falling asleep sitting up.

It was almost physically painful to admit aloud that I ought to go. “Look at you, you’re nodding off practically in the middle of your sentences,” I countered when she argued that she was fine.

She stood and stretched. “It’s the demon liquor,” she stated.

“Well, next time I’ll bring some Red Bull or something.”