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I’m in the kitchen balancing Ma’s ancient, handwritten recipe book while I stir the pot of eggplant. It’s actually labeled Melanzane alla Parmigiana, which I’m guessing means eggplant parm in Italian.

“Secret ingredient, the zest of one lemon.” I’m reading softly as I cut the deep purple vegetable into coin-sized slices. “Interesting.”

Running to the fridge, I chant a prayer. “Please have a lemon, please have a lemon, please have a—a lemon!” I shout, snatching the little yellow fruit out of the drawer.

Back to the cutting board, I do not allow myself to consider how I’m chopping up a phallic emoji symbol. This dish is delicious when Ma makes it, and I had no clue she put lemon zest in it.

I imagine sitting at the table, gazing at Sawyer through the golden candlelight, which flickers off our crystal wine goblets. He takes a bite of perfectly baked eggplant with bubbling tomato sauce and zesty, melted cheese.

“Why, Mindy! It’s so good… there must be a secret ingredient!”

I’m not sure why Sawyer sounds like Mr. Peanut in my fantasy. It’s seriously not sexy.

“How did you guess?” I bat my eyes. “It’s our secret family recipe…”

Okay, that daydream is creepy AF. I need to socialize outside the nursing home more.

Returning to the tomato sauce, I grab the zester and the lemon. I’ve never zested a lemon, so I’m not really sure how much is enough. For a few seconds I scrub until the white starts

to show, but looking in the bubbling pot, it doesn’t seem like nearly enough. I scrub it more, until I’m almost to the inside and stir it in good. That should be good and zesty.

My heart is beating so fast as my eyes fly to the clock and back to the baking dish. I’m running out of time as I dip the eggplant medallions in egg whites and roll them in the breadcrumbs, parmesan, and panko mixture. It’s Ma’s trick for keeping them crisp and not soggy—that part I remember. Frying makes the medallions soggy.

A quick mist of olive oil, then I pour the special family marinara sauce over everything. Finally, it’s all covered with shredded Mozerella, grated parmesan, and fresh basil. Presto! Into the oven for… thirty-five minutes. Shit. He’ll be here in five.

“That’s okay… the house will smell like good Italian food.” I’m talking to myself again. I’m officially crazy.

Rushing to the sink, I give the pots a quick scrub, letting the big one soak. I grab all the prep materials in my arms and quickly put them in the fridge. I throw the scraps and paper in the trash. Kitchen clean, I’m just corking the wine when I hear a tapping on the door.

“Shit.” I manage to get the cork out and put the bottle on the table.

Stopping at the mirror behind the ficus, I straighten my denim skirt and smooth my hair back. I don’t look like I’ve been running for an hour. Cool, sophisticated, sexy…

Then I see him, and all my cool flies out the window.

Sawyer LaGrange is standing on my front porch in all his dark-haired, hazel-eyed, square-jawed, bulging-bicep sexiness.

Opening the door, I’m glad I’ve got something to hold onto. “Hey.” I hear the wobble in my voice.

We’ve never done this before.

Ever.

It’s officially our first date.

“Hey, baby girl.” I love the way he says that, all deep and rumbly as he steps into the house. “Smells delicious in here.”

“I baked.”

He doesn’t get the reference, and I laugh nervously. We go in for a hug at the same time and almost bash our noses together.

“Oh…” I step back quickly. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“Here… Stay there.” He holds out a hand, and I swear to God, I don’t know how he’s so in control all the time. I’m acting like he’s never been to my house before.

“I won’t move.” My bottom lip goes between my teeth, and he steps forward to hug me.

He smells so good. He’s deep woods and fresh linen and soap. I want his soap. Leaning back he looks down at my cheek.