After I’ve returned from sending my email, it takes a few more awkward minutes to regain our footing than I’d like to admit. I have to give credit to Milo for his undeniable effort. Were it not for him, the dinner would’ve been a complete disaster.

Being the shit that I am, my mind lingers on my mistake, wondering how poorly this will reflect on me as an employee, and whether or not Felicia will be able to tell that I’ve phoned my selections in. I’m hopeful I won’t receive too much flak given this is a first offense. I’ve never not given her my recommendations on time. So if I’ve only slipped up once, she can’t really fault me for not having a perfect record.

Or can she?

The missing hours have done a number on me as well, and I find it hard to keep my mind from searching for them. But after about thirty minutes of Milo working full-charisma, not to mention a couple cocktails, I loosen up enough to focus on the task at hand. It helps that I find every little thing that Milo does so goddamn charming. To be honest, he could dunk my vindaloo in my glass and chuck it across the room and I’d probably still swoon.

He doesn’t, but it’s a thought I have while he tells me about his house-touring experiences. How nine times out of ten he can tell when a client has found the one, and how that’s the most rewarding part of the whole affair. Not when the papers are finalized—although he doesn’t knock that portion; after all, he’s got to make a living—or having the opportunity to see so many different cool and interesting homes. No, his bread and butter is when a couple walks through the front door for the first time and simultaneously look at each other with that euphoric expression of belonging.

“It doesn’t happen every time,” he says. “Sometimes it takes a few viewings before they fall in love with a home. But the ones who have that moment of clarity”—he snaps his fingers—“that’s the best part.”

I ask him if he ever falls in love with the houses too. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from imagining the life I could have in each.

Milo shakes his head.

“No. I mean, some of them are really nice houses, don’t get me wrong, but something about the fact that I’m showing them for other people keeps me at arm’s length.” He lifts his fork to his mouth and spends a few seconds chewing in thought. “I’ve only fallen in love with one house in my entire life, I think. An old house I stayed at in the Northeast one winter when I was visiting family. Something about it was so haunting. I’ll never forget.”

“You fell in love with a haunted house?” I ask, meaning to tease him.

“Not every haunted thing is bad.”

By the time we decide to head for the exit, I can’t believe it’s been nearly four hours since he picked me up. The night is fucking freezing, and the moment we step outside, my body begins to vibrate violently.

“Jesus Christ!” I say, wrapping my arms around myself. I’m definitely not dressed for this temperature.

Milo laughs. “Quick, to the car!”

When we draw near, the Jetta beeps as if cheering us on. In my haste, I practically yank the door off the hinges before throwing myself inside. Milo slides himself into the driver’s seat and wastes no time turning the key in the ignition and cranking the heater for all it’s worth.

“That was a close one,” he jokes.

“You’re telling me.”

“Jack Dawson could never!”

The reference sends me into another flurry of laughter.

“Did you just casually allude to the late nineteen hundreds classic disaster romance Titanic?”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Are you really shivering so hard that my car is rocking?” he asks as I cover two of the heater vents with my palms. He grabs my left hand in both of his, and my heart skips a dozen beats. “Your fingers are like ice.”

I stumble over my words, not sure what I’m trying to say. For a moment, we’re looking into each other’s eyes, this incredible smile on his face and mine agog and paralyzed with stupidity.

“So, should I take you home?” he asks, purposely drawing out the question to give room for argument.

No, let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go to your place.

My heart is racing. How am I so worked up over such an innocuous question? If I wasn’t amply aware that I’m in my thirties, I would’ve guessed I was a teenager from the way electricity ricochets through my body, igniting my veins. He’s fishing for the invitation, for the chance to extend our evening past the perfectly lovely dinner we’ve just had.

Of course, I want to. I would love nothing more. But there’s a buzzing in my head now and it won’t leave me alone. This is too much too soon. It feels like jumping from the first step to the tenth in a single leap. I know there will be expectations if I ask to go to his place, and as much as I want to run my hands all over his perfectly defined chest, and down to his narrow waist, perhaps into the waistband of those dark jeans. Does he wear boxer briefs? Trunks? A jock? Great, now I’m picturing him in a jockstrap. I don’t think I could handle being in that setting just yet.

“Yes, thanks,” I respond. He’s still smiling, but I can see a flicker of disappointment in there as he lets go of my hand and takes hold of the steering wheel. To keep the words flowing, he asks me about my music tastes, though in that department I can’t say I’m very interesting. It’s not that I don’t like music, I’ve just never been someone whose life needs a soundtrack. I’ll play it in the background while I’m doing something else—which often leads to me knowing various melodies but having absolutely no idea who the artist is or what the lyrics are. Milo finds this all fascinating, and teases me about being an old man. Apparently, he’d once had dreams of being a rock star. He even played drums in a band in high school called Those People. I pry a bit, because I enjoy hearing him talk about these details, but he doesn’t shy away from his past. He admits now that the band was never very good, although they had made a few recordings in their day.

“I have to hear these,” I tell him.

“No way. Never in a million years.”

“Why not? I’m sure you’re amazing.”

He laughs. “Maybe I’ll put it on in the background when you’re not paying attention.”

This earns him a punch in the arm.

He pulls into the driveway of my condo and steps out into the frigid night again. I do the same, immediately regretting my decision to leave the heated car. There aren’t enough layers in the world to warm me up. He walks with me to the front door, and I can barely enjoy having his arm around my shoulders because of how painfully cold I am.

“I had a lot of fun,” he says, lingering on my front step after I’ve managed to still my hands long enough to get the door unlocked. With me standing just inside the threshold, we’re almost the same height. I can look straight into his eyes, marvel at the beauty in them.

Invite him in. Ask him to stay a little longer.

“Me too,” I say. He has one of my hands in his, fingers warm despite the temperature outside.

“I’d like to do it again soon.”

“Me too.”

Would you like to come in? We could watch a movie. Sit close enough on the couch that our thighs touch. Maybe he’d rest his hand on my knee, or maybe he’d keep an arm around my shoulders. I’ve found that I like this go-to move of his. It wouldn’t matter what we watched, because I know the whole time I’d be thinking about him sitting next to me. Wanting to know how it would feel to wrap my arms around him. I wouldn’t think about what Aunt Evora or anyone at Saint Anthony’s might say. It’s my business, not theirs. Some of the parishioners might even be supportive if they found out—not that there’s any reason they should. Find out, I mean. Why does it matter?

“We could go for that hike. Or maybe next time we can do something a little cozier,” Milo says, probably thinking many of the same thoughts as me.

Invite the fucker inside, Jesus Christ.

He steps closer to me, our faces inches apart, and leans in. Just like that, we’re kissing. His soft lips press against mine. His mouth is gentle yet passionate and somehow also reserved, like he knows anything too aggressive will scare me away. But I no longer have any thoughts about running away. All I want is to keep kissing him. I have been utterly cleared of every negative thought that’s been plaguing me for the past half hour. I’m lighter.

How could anyone think the feelings I have in this moment are wrong?

Then he pulls away and I nearly follow him with my face. Damn, how do I get more of that?

“I’ll see you later,” he says, handing me my bag of leftovers.

“See—see you then,” I say, unable to wipe the stupid grin off my face. He leaves and I watch him go, not retreating into my house despite the cold until his Jetta’s red taillights have disappeared around the corner.