I admire his culinary skills out of the corner of my eye as I tear up kale leaves and toss them in a colander. “Still, it’s nice of them.”

Once he sets his spoon down, Ben moves behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I know I’m grinning like a loon. His hugs are just that great.

“There’s something else. We don’t really talk about it though.” His tone gets serious, so I set aside my lustful thoughts and listen in. For a moment, we stay quiet together. Only when I’m dying to ask does he finally share. “They want to control Sammy as much as they can.”

“Really? Is he out of control or something?”

The brief interactions I’ve had with Ben’s friend made the guy seem like an overworked stress ball who ruled the dance floor after a drink or two. Not necessarily someone I’d consider out of control. Pent-up is more like it.

“By their standards, I guess. They wanted him to go to medical school. Planned for it his whole life. But Sammy told me, the first time he observed a surgery, the minute they cut into the patient, he puked and then passed out.”

My snort escapes unbidden, but I bite my lip and shake my head, trying to convince myself that the image of Sammy fainting into some med student’s waiting arms isn’t hilarious. Who am I to judge? One needle stick, and I’m in for the same fate.

Then, Ben chuckles, and I not only hear it, but I also feel his chest vibrate against my back.

My mind disregards images of Sammy and starts making up fantasies of Ben sliding his hands lower than my belly.

“Yeah, so, after that, he switched to pre-law. Even though it stresses him out like crazy, that’s where he belongs. He loves it. He can’t wait to be a lawyer.”

“And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Are you excited about becoming a lawyer?”

We haven’t really discussed Ben’s major since the day he first showed me his tattoos. Bravo on his part for finding exactly how to distract me. Even now, my body yells at my brain to shut up, turn around, and rip his shirt off.

But that’s what you do when you’re hooking up. Not when you want to get to know someone.

“Sure.” He retreats, unwrapping his arms from my waist.

The loss of his warmth is like stepping out of a hot shower and straight onto ice-cold tiles.

“You know, we’ve been friends slash ‘more’”—I air-quote around the word before returning to my salad making—“for over two months now. We’ve talked about your art and tattoos plenty of times. But you’ve only ever talked about being a lawyer once.”

Turning around to wipe my hands on a towel, I find Ben pouring broth into the soup pot, his shoulders tense.

“So?”

Trying to keep the conversation light, I reach for the croutons instead of making him look me in the eye like I want him to. “Why is that?”