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I don’t do that.

Neither does Cas, to my knowledge.

But Casildo had coaxed confidences from her she’d shared with few others—her desire to run her own business, to choose her clients. Returning to her office held no bogeymen. Casildo had neutralised Smithers as a gnat buzzing around her equilibrium. Casildo believed she was better than Smithers. His praise warmed her every bit as much as his kiss.

Kisses, because he’d come back for a second and a third. He’d tasted of coffee and teasing and shared secrets. She’d had to grip her hands tightly together to stop herself from reaching out to hold him in place. Keep him in place, tangle her hands in his too-long locks and keep his mouth on hers, slide her tongue between his lips. Pretend they were lovers sharing a kiss and anticipating more.

For magical seconds she’d forgotten her own name. She pressed a hand to her roiling belly. She still wasn’t sure where she’d got the strength to draw back.

The whisper of his breath against her ear before he’d left had been another caress. Her body had shot signals in all directions sayingYes, please. She’d barely stifled her moan.

Inhaling deeply, she released the air trapped in her lungs on a conscious exhale. Yoga breathing to create calm. Not that she did yoga. Casildo’s kisses were real and not real.

Hold on to the not real, Bea. He gave a bravura performance for a specific audience.

“I’ll make dinner.”

When was the last time a man, other than Papá at his beloved barbeque, had offered to cook her a meal? Her next in age sister’s husband had, but he was a professional chef and had turned on a feast for the family.

If she’d expected living with Casildo to dilute her crush, she’d made a major miscalculation.

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Bea heard his voicebefore she unlocked the front door. A bass baritone singing smoky blues while cooking a—? A curry, maybe Indian, if her nose was right in detecting garam masala.

“I’m back”—she stuck her head around the kitchen door—“I’ll get changed and join you.”

“Hi.” Wearing a full-length apron that covered the front of his shirt and trousers, he waved a wooden spoon in the air, while concentrating on the pot in front of him.

The lure of the real swamped her. She wanted to insert herself between him and his stove and kiss him witless. Instead, she took herself to her bedroom and swapped her work gear for old jeans and a sweatshirt before returning to the kitchen.

“How was the rest of your day?” He turned to face her, his scrutiny serious.

“News of ‘the kiss’ arrived at the office before me.” Her stomach did a slow somersault.

“How’d that play out?”

“You were scored.”

“What? By people who didn’t see us?” He held the spoon above the pot.

“I debated whether to tell you this because it’s demeaning.”

“Treating me like a body, not a person? Happens to women every day.”

“No one should be treated as a set of body parts.”Or as a bank.

“Preaching to the choir. How’d I score?”

“Some reports had you off the charts.” She dropped onto a chair. “‘Am I dating you? Are you trying to poach me?’ Can I please, pretty please, introduce you to at least a dozen people, including Dolly the waitress?”

“Who calls their daughter Dolly?”

“Someone learning the English language? It might be better than Candy, from an old movie, or Fergus, which I was told came from an English dictionary of names dating back several centuries. Although my favourite is Choc-Wedge”—she held up a hand when he stared at her—"I do not lie. It came from a dope-fuelled haze.

“I was doubtful, but I have to admire your strategy. Jackson Smithers the Barbarian’s successful promotion couldn’t top the notoriously private Casildo Hariri’s lingering kiss in a public place.

“Surprised you, didn’t I?”