“So where’s brunch?” he calls as I slip into the bathroom to hang up the towel and put on my bra.

“Seventy-second and Madison,” I call back.

“Would have thought you girls would be down at some trendy hot spot in the Village.”

I smile, because he knows me well. “I’m sure the girls will be. I, on the other hand, will be where I always am on Sundays at noon,” I say, plugging in my hair dryer. “At my parents’ house.”

If he replies, I don’t hear it, because I grab my round brush and turn the hair dryer on. Like I said, my hair’s my pride and joy; I can’t let it air-dry and go all frizzy on me.

Several—and I do mean several—minutes later, I use my fingers to add some extra body at the roots, then use a big curling iron to add a little more curl to the style.

I step back into the bedroom just as he walks in wearing only his briefs, with two mugs of coffee in hand. “Made some with your French press,” he says. “Hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” I say, reaching eagerly for the coffee.

He’s watching me with a bemused expression. “You drink it black.”

I blow some of the steam his way. “So?”

“Would have pictured you more as a flavored-creamer, extra-sprinkles kind of girl.”

“Used to be. Too many calories,” I say with a wink before turning and walking to my closet. “Gotta save room for the donuts.”

I survey my outfit options as I sip the hot coffee, settling on a burgundy tunic and dark gray leggings.

I turn back, unsurprised to see him unapologetically looking at my ass.

“What time do you have to leave for brunch?” he asks, his voice so hopeful, his motives so purely guy, that I laugh.

“Too soon to make time for what you have in mind,” I say, setting my coffee on the dresser and stepping into the leggings. “Besides, I’m a tiny bit sore.”

“Sorry about that.”

I snort and pull the top over my head. “See, your words say sorry, but your tone is just the tiniest bit self-satisfied.”

He takes a sip of coffee. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

I reach out and pick up a gold hoop earring from the dresser. “Is this what it’s going to be like da—sleeping with a lawyer?”

I hope he doesn’t know I almost used the word dating. Baby steps with this one.

But he’s more evolved than I think, cupping his big hands around the mug and leaning his forearms on his knees as he watches me continue the primping routine. “Sleeping with. That’s what this is?”

“Well, unless you prefer the Page Six version that we’re involved,” I say with an easy smile, trying not to hold my breath.

“It is considerate of them to shortcut this whole thing for us, let us know where we stand.”

I watch him for a second, trying to figure out just how sarcastic he’s being right now. I can’t tell.

My tongue touches the center of my top lip as I consider the wisdom of what I’m about to do.

Ah, what the hell. I go for it.

“You should come to brunch.”

Andrew slowly straightens. “With your parents?”

The look on his face is so comically horrified that I can’t help laughing. I hold up my hands. “Okay. That reaction right there was my worst-case scenario, but at least I know where we stand. Too soon. Way too soon.”

He scratches his cheek and avoids my gaze. “It’s just . . .”

“Andrew.” I wait until he meets my eyes, then walk to him, cupping his face in my hands, liking the way his eyes go warm at my touch. “Don’t freak out on me, ’kay? I meant it in a no-pressure way. There are mimosas to be consumed and Wall Street Journals to be read, and I’m pretty sure that’s your jam, but it’s also a meet-the-parents scenario, and I could see how that might not be your jam, and I’m totally fine with that. We’re good?”

He nods slowly, but his expression is still troubled. My fault. Rookie move, dropping brunch and parents a mere twelve hours after hooking up with a guy. At least I try to tell myself that’s all it is—that I’m moving too quickly. I don’t want to consider the other possibility: that despite our bodies being made for each other, out of bed we don’t know how to fit into each other’s lives.

“I’ve got to put on my face and be out the door in twenty,” I say, gesturing toward the bathroom. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, drink all the coffee. Although I’m betting you’re getting antsy not being at the gym yet.”

He doesn’t crack a smile, but I don’t expect one.

“Georgiana—”

I pause and turn toward him. He blows out a breath, looking endearingly nervous. “Have dinner with me tonight?”

I smile, my heart giving a happy leap that last night wasn’t a one-and-done deal in his book.

And definitely not in mine.

“I’d like that,” I say, keeping my smile bright, my voice light.

He gives me the slightest of smiles, but his eyes are guarded, and I can’t help but think that the dinner invitation was a cop-out substitute for what he really wanted to say.

Andrew

SUNDAY NIGHT, DINNER

Andrew took a sip of his wine, watching in bemusement as Georgiana chatted animatedly with the server.

Not about the specials, not about the wine list, but about the man’s new Yorkie-Poo, which, based on the description, Andrew could only assume resembled a fancy rat.

Just when he thought the other man would do something crazy like take their food order, Georgiana demanded pictures.

Andrew sat back in his chair in resignation as the server pulled an iPhone out of his back pocket and proceeded to show Georgiana an endless slide show of a small dog named Macaroon, who apparently had just been gifted a brand-new sweater. Ridiculous. No wonder Georgiana was enthralled.

But whereas just a few weeks ago Andrew would have been irritated by such frivolousness, tonight he found he was . . . charmed.

The woman was just so damn vivacious, drawing people to her with every breath. Everyone liked Georgiana.

And she’d chosen him. Somehow, this gorgeous, compelling creature seemed to want to spend time with him.

But for how long? He knew there was a ticking time bomb, but she didn’t. At least, he didn’t think she did. He’d know more when he could actually speak with her, rather than have to listen to a discussion of gluten-free dog treats.