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“I didn’t take you for a person who cooks.”

“Are you judging me?”

That gets a laugh out of her, but she doesn't defend herself. She reaches inside the purse still hanging from her shoulder and retrieves a bottle of wine, turning it in her hands until she finds the label. “I brought this. I didn’t want to assume, you know.”

“That’s okay. You can be nervous, too.”

She smiles, then drops her tote on the island. Flora somehow navigates my kitchen like a seasoned pro and finds the wine opener, and I go back to the stove as she uncorks the bottle. For a little while, that’s all we’re doing. She opens the wine while I drain the pasta, then moves aside when I reach past her for two glasses. I nearly knock one against the cabinet, recover before disaster, and pretend neither of us noticed.

Flora notices, but doesn’t say anything.

Which makes me giggle nervously, a chill of anticipation coursing through my body.

“You’re making a face.”

She pours the wine. “I’m letting you have this one.”

“That’s very generous of you. Thank you.”

And then she’s smiling, and I’m smiling, and I have the strange awareness that I’m not nervous anymore.

Or not in the same way.

Saturday night, every second between us seemed to be moving in the direction of something. A kiss, another kiss, my house, my bedroom. Tonight, there isn’t anywhere we’re supposed to get to. Flora is standing in my kitchen pouring wine while I attempt to impress her with my subpar cooking skills, and somehow that feels more significant than anything else.

Her hand brushes my back when she moves behind me. It’s barely a touch, but it makes me realize that I like her here.

I carry our bowls to the living room while Flora brings the wine, and the conversation finds its own way there with us. She tells me about her brother (she calls him little brother, but really once she shows me the pictures I see that he’s a massive over-six-foot young man), about her mom, and about some of the coffee shop regulars and their many antics (apparently, I’m not the only chaotic diva out there.)

By the time we start eating, we are back to talking about work, and that leads, inevitably, to Phillip.

“Oh, wait. The weirdest thing happened to me at work yesterday.”

Flora looks up. I have to figure out where to start, because there is more context required than I realized.

“So, Phillip is our CEO. Technically, his family owns Briarwood, or most of it, I think. His grandparents started the company, and now he runs it.”

“Okay.”

“And for some reason, he knows who I am.”

Flora’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she keeps eating.

“Which I realize doesn’t sound noteworthy, except there are thousands of people who work at Briarwood and I’m absolutely not important enough for the freaking president of the company to know my name. But he does. He has for a while.”

I take another bite, buying myself a second before I add the part that makes the whole thing more embarrassing.

“My friends think he’s gearing up to ask me on a date.”

That gets Flora’s attention.

Not dramatically. She doesn't freeze with her fork halfway to her mouth or choke on her food like I potentially would. She just looks at me for a moment longer than she had before.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know, honestly.”

And that’s the irritating part, and it sums up my life perfectly.