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“It’s well-written. Interesting.” He shrugged and took another bite. “He’s not Krakauer.”

“I’m halfway through a book on embracing one’s vulnerability.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “It’s horrible.”

“The book or the idea?”

A cherry tomato speared on the end of her fork, she fixed him with a look. “You know the answer to that.”

Grinning, he relaxed into his chair and twisted the top off his water. “You don’t have an issue being vulnerable with me.”

“That’s different.” This time a cucumber fell prey to her fork. “Don’t be disingenuous. Our level of intimacy clears the way for me to be vulnerable with you. With other people, it’s like free climbing.”

She waved her fork in punctuation. The conversation lulled for long moments while they ate, then she laid her fork down with precise care and lifted her gaze to his. “Normally, being vulnerable with you is easy.”

“Normally.” He kept his voice steady.

“I think . . .” She lifted a shoulder in her elegant shrug. The thin gold chain he’d given her years ago, the ring pendant hidden inside her blouse, glinted at her collarbone. “In some ways, last year, the year before might still be with us.”

The time when his withdrawal had made her insecure in them, in him. Ignoring the way that hit his chest, because this was about her and not him, he nodded. “I get that.”

“Not forever, though.” A slight smile lifted the corners of her lips, her eyes clear as she looked at him. “And not every day.”

“Good.” Ignoring all their self-imposed workplace rules, he covered her hand with his. “I’m glad.”

She rotated her hand, brushing a fingertip across his palm. “Free climbing is supposed to be exhilarating.”

“I think I’ll leave it to guys without a wife and three kids.” He played a finger over her wrist, pulse jumping under his touch. “Besides, if anything happened to me, you’d rehome my dogs.”

“Fisher.” With her other hand, she lifted her fork, tines up. “I’d rehome Fisher. He’s awful.”

“He’s a great dog.” Affection tugged at his lips. “You just don’t understand him.”

“Wait until you get the bill for those shoes.” She lifted a cherry tomato to her lips, smirking as she popped it in her mouth.

“I bought you those shoes.” He tapped his chest. “Remember?”

Fork over her plate, she stilled, eyes on his. “I do.”

That fast, the memory was alive between them, their bed and the two of them, her naked beneath him except for those shoes and his navy tie around her wrists, his name on her lips while he thrust inside her.

And that wasn’t only remembered desire darkening her green eyes — that spark of wanting was alive as well, not as bright or consuming as he was accustomed to, but it was there.

That look was worth any number of designer shoes. Hell, he’d empty his dog fund.

“You choose.” With a smile, Caitlin looked up from the four folded papers in Tick’s palm. A hint of anticipation curled through her. She knew which of her ideas remained, while wondering what his other plans could be created a pleasurable sense of suspense.

Lifting a brow, he scattered the choices on the island and pinched one between his thumb and forefinger. Unfolding it, he laughed, the low, rueful sound rumbling over her. “A movie. I’ll be reading subtitles all night.”

Her final option, so all of his remained on the table.

“We can choose something together.” She lifted a shoulder, ignoring a ripple of apprehension. When was the last time they’d watched a film alone together? Or rather, not watched an entire movie together, because they always ended up in a clinch. Clearly, she’d not been thinking when she scrawled the idea because she wasn’t ready for this, despite the tiny flashes of wanting that had unfurled for her the last day or so.

Her concentration in that meeting had been no better than his, her gaze falling on his long fingers while he took notes, so she remembered him clutching her hair on a muffled groan of pleasure, remembered the feel and taste of him.

And lunch . . . knowing exactly what memory tightened his face with desire as they parried over her destroyed shoes. Her ankle had tingled as though he’d stroked a finger over her skin as he’d done that night, kissed his way up her calf to her thighs to find her swollen and wet and aching for him.

Her stomach clenched, a pleasantly painful ripple unfolding low and between her thighs.

“Action? Drama?” Leaning on his forearms, he scrolled through his phone. One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Horror?”