Wallbanger(44)

on the hardwood floor and skidded rather ungraceful y under the dining room table. Trying to regain his dignity, he executed a difficult four-foot leap

from a standing position onto the bookshelf and waved me over with his paw. He wanted me to come to him—typical male.

I dropped my gym bag and sauntered over. “Hi, sweet boy. How was your day? Hmm? Did you play? Did you get a good nap? Hmm?” I

scratched behind his ear, and he purred loudly. He gave me his dreamy cat eyes and then turned his gaze to Simon. I swear he cat-smirked at him.

“Zucchini bread, huh? You want some more, I take it?” I asked, throwing my jacket on the back of a chair.

“I know you have more. Simon says gimme it,” he deadpanned, making his finger into a gun.

“You’re oddly into your baked goods, aren’t you? Support group for that?” I asked, walking into the kitchen to locate the last loaf. I might have

been saving it for him.

“Yes, I’m in BA. Bakers Anonymous. We meet over at the bakery on Pine,” he replied, sitting down on the stool at the kitchen counter.

“Good group?”

“Pretty good. There’s a better one over on Market, but I can’t go to that one anymore,” he said sadly, shaking his head.

“Get kicked out?” I asked, leaning on the counter in front of him.

“I did, actual y,” he said, and then curled his finger to get me to lean in closer.

“I got in trouble for fondling buns,” he whispered.

I giggled and gave his cheek a light pinch. “Fondling buns,” I snorted as he pushed my hand away.

“Just fork over the bread, see, and no one gets hurt,” he warned.

I waved my hands in surrender and grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard over his head. I raised my eyebrow at him, and he nodded.

I handed him a bottle of Merlot and the opener, then grabbed a bunch of grapes from the colander in the fridge. He poured, we clinked, and

without another word, I started making us dinner.

The rest of the evening happened natural y, without me even realizing it. One minute we were discussing the new wine glasses I’d purchased

from Wil iams Sonoma, and thirty minutes later we were sitting at the dining room table with pasta in front of us. I was stil wearing my workout

clothes, and Simon was in jeans and a T-shirt and his stocking feet. He’d taken off his Stanford sweatshirt before draining the pasta, something I

didn’t even have to ask him to do. He’d simply wandered into the kitchen behind me, and had it drained and back in the pot just as I finished the

sauce.

We’d talked about the city, his work, my work, and the upcoming trip to Tahoe, and now we headed over to the couch with coffee.

I leaned back against the pil ows with my legs curled underneath me. Simon was tel ing me about a trip he’d taken to Vietnam a few years

before.

“It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen—the mountain vil ages, the gorgeous beaches, the food! Oh, Caroline, the food.” He sighed, stretching his

arm along the back of the couch. I smiled and tried not to notice the butterflies when he said my name that way: with the word Oh right in front of it…

Oh me, oh my.

“Sounds wonderful, but I hate Vietnamese food. Can’t stand it. Can I bring peanut butter?”

“I know this guy—makes the best noodles ever, right on a houseboat in the middle of Ha Long Bay. One slurp and you’l throw your peanut

butter right over the side.”

“God, I wish I could travel like you do. Do you ever get sick of it?” I asked.

“Hmmm, yes and no. It’s always great to come home. I love San Francisco. But if I’m home too long I get the itch to get back out on the road.

And no comments about the itch—I’m starting to get to know your mind there, Nightie Girl.” He patted my arm affectionately.

I tried to feign offense, but the truth was I had been about to make a joke. I noticed he stil had his hand on my arm, absentmindedly tracing tiny

circles with his fingertips. Had it real y been so long since I’d let a man touch me that fingertip circles sent me into a mental tizzy? Or was it that this

man was doing it? Oh, God, the fingertips. Either way, it was doing things to me. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine O waving at me—stil

far away, but not as far as she’d been before.

I glanced at Simon and saw that he was watching his hand, as if curious about his fingers on my skin. I breathed in quickly, and my intake of

breath drew his eyes to mine. We watched each other. Lower Caroline was, of course, responding, but now Heart began to beat a little wildly as

wel .

Then Clive jumped up on the back of the couch, put his bum right in Simon’s face, and kil ed that real quick. We both laughed, and Simon