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“Come in, Ivy,” James says with a kind smile, his eyes still hungrily taking me in.

I return his smile. “Thanks.” When I step into his house, the first thing I notice is the smell — whatever he’s cooking for dinner smells incredible. The second thing I notice is how nice his house is. It’s on the smaller side, which makes sense since he lives alone, but it’s neat and cozy, with muted gray-colored walls, a black leather couch, and a red plaid blanket thrown over it. The space is open, with the living room opening up directly to the kitchen.

“This is really nice,” I say, looking around and noting a small bookshelf in the corner of the living room. I’ll have to check that out later.

“Thank you. I hope you like chicken, by the way.” He nods toward the kitchen where the food is still cooking.

“I do. It smells incredible.”

He smiles as he makes his way to the kitchen and I tentatively follow him. “Wine?”

“Absolutely.”

He pours us both glasses of white wine and hands one to me as he stirs something on top of the stove and peeks in the oven. “Looks like it’ll be about ten more minutes.”

He offers me a chair at the table, so I sit. I feel incredibly awkward, not knowing how to interact with him in such a different setting than what I’m used to. Even though we were alone that night in the gym, this feels so much different. Less risky, but more intimate.

James, on the other hand, seems the picture of contentment as he sits across from me at the table with his wine in hand. What do I say? After spilling my hopes and dreams to him over text yesterday, I don’t know how to act.

Luckily, he interrupts my racing thoughts before they can go too far. “You look beautiful, Ivy.

“Thank you. You’re not looking too bad yourself,” I add with a teasing smile. At the gym, he’s usually in shorts and a t-shirt, but tonight he’s wearing dark jeans and a forest green shirt that draws a beautiful contrast to his dark hair and hazel eyes.

He raises an eyebrow, staring at me in a way that sends shivers through my body. I sip my wine to distract myself from the unholy feelings he’s giving me with that penetrating gaze.

We make small talk about some of the things we had discussed through text last night, and I slowly begin to feel more comfortable, both due to his laid-back demeanor and the copious amounts of wine we’re making our way through. By the time he serves dinner — herb-crusted chicken and mashed potatoes — my face is flushed and I’m giggling entirely too much.

“This food is incredible, James.”

He smiles. “I’m glad you like it. It’s been awhile since I’ve cooked something this good, honestly. I’m glad you gave me an excuse to go all-out.”

“You definitely didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.”

We both finish our plates, and as we continue to drink and talk, the tension in the room becomes palpable.

“Tell me something about yourself that you’ve never told anyone,” I blurt.

He looks at me for a moment, not saying anything. Oh god, why did I say that? We are definitely not that close yet. He probably thinks I’m nuts. “Sorry, never mind. Ignore that. I’ve had too much wine, I think.” I speak quickly, rushing through the words awkwardly.

“No, it was a good conversation starter,” he assures me. “Just give me a second to think about it.”

I notice I’m biting my lip in nervousness, and his gaze is locked in on my mouth. I’m glad the wine has already flushed my cheeks so he doesn’t notice me blushing at his attention.

Finally, he says, “I’ve watched the entire Twilight series and didn’t hate it. It wasn’t necessarilygood, but it was entertaining.”

I laugh at his admission — definitely not what I was expecting, but it works. I counter with something equally trivial. “I’ve never watched Star Wars.” That’s always something people, particularly men, seem to be shocked by.

“Wait, like, at all?”

“Nope.”

“Well, we’re gonna have to fix that,” he says, dropping his fork on his now-empty plate with the finality of his statement.

“Fine,” I laugh, “but I can’t promise I’ll like it.”

He stands, collecting both of our empty plates. “Oh, you’ll like it.”

I insist on doing the dishes, telling him that I can handle a couple plates, pots, and pans so he can get the first Star Wars movie ready on the TV. He reluctantly agrees and steps into the living room.

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