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“My grandma,” he says. “My parents divorced when I was young, and both were super career-oriented, so I stayed with my grandma a lot. She didn’t have TV, but she did have a big garden. We spent a lot of time out there, growing our own food, canning and pickling, making jam. She always had me in the kitchen with her, and I learned a few tricks over the years. When she passed, I...”

His voice catches, and I pause midbite to turn my full attention to him.

He takes a moment, then continues, his voice normal. “When she passed, nobody else knew the recipes she used to make, or how to prepare them, since her writing was barely legible chicken-scratch. So family meals fell to me. And it’s like a little part of her lives on through her cooking. We’re all sitting together at the table, one spot is empty, but the kitchen smells the same and the food tastes the same and, for a little while, she’s not gone.”

My heart aches as I listen. He has no idea, but he’s checking all of my boxes. He’s exactly the type of person I always imagined myself with. Capable, emotional, could start a homestead and live out in the countryside with cows and goats and chickens. And now my fantasy includes a huge garden and a cellar full of pickles. Is it possible I’ve stumbled upon the perfect man?

Matt glances at me, then drops his eyes back to his plate, his shoulders raising in a self-conscious way.

I reach out and take his hand again, giving it a squeeze. “Your grandma would be so proud of you.”

He looks at me, his earnest brown eyes warm and vulnerable. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile as he regardsme. He leans in closer, hovering just out of reach. “Just wait until you try my pie.”

I gasp and release my hand from his hold to slap him in the chest. “You made pie?”

Later, when the leftovers are packed and stored away in the fridge, when the dishes have been washed, dried, and put away, when I’m vibrating from how close I feel with Matt, when I’m pinching myself to wake up from this dream, we settle down on the couch to watch a movie.

“I have a surprise for you, too.” I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Oh yeah?” He grins. “What’s that?”

My laptop is set up on the coffee table, primed and ready to go. I press a few buttons andDie Hardstarts playing. “Your favourite Christmas movie!”

“You’re so thoughtful. You know that?”

I give him a coy shrug, reaching for his hand. He provides it eagerly, his long fingers enveloping mine. “You really put a lot of effort into today,” I say, glancing out the window to the bright July sun. “And I really appreciate it. It’s been a long time since anyone put this much consideration into a date with me.”

He reaches with his free hand and tucks a strand of loose hair behind my ear, blazing a trail of fire with his fingertips along my cheekbone. “You should be with someone who puts this much effort in every day.”

My eyes dance with his, my heart pounds in my ears, and my stomach is somehow up in my throat. Matt tugs me with his hand. I oblige, inching closer, the pull between us growing more intense until I can barely think, until I can barely do anything except bridge the last bit of space between us.

When our lips finally connect, his are warm and soft in contrast to his hard body. I press myself against him. Matt draws me in, pulling me onto his lap. I straddle him, not thinking about how fast this went from innocent date to provocative dry humping as I grind on his lap, feeling him hard beneath me.Our lips lock and unlock, tongues tangling with one another as his hands grip my waist and my fingers scratch his beard.

My hands make their way to his man-bun, and I part from him for a moment. “Can I take your hair down?”

He replies with a nod before bringing his mouth to my throat. I pull his hair free of its tie and let his golden-brown waves down, running my fingers through his locks. “Not fair,” I pout. “Your hair is nicer than mine.”

His chest rumbles with a half laugh. “I love your hair.” He then proceeds to grab a fistful and give it a little tug, tilting my chin to the ceiling and baring my throat for him, which he licks.

I gasp at the sensation. “Matt?” I manage.

“Yeah?” he replies, hoarse.

“Take me to bed.”

He grinds against me once more. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He manoeuvres me over his lap and picks me up in his arms. I drape one arm around his shoulder, my other hand gripping his bicep. He carries me to the bedroom and lays me down carefully, as if I’m made of porcelain. Matt’s eyes move up my body, meeting with mine. I reach for him and tug him onto me while shifting farther onto the bed. The weight of him on top of me, pressing between my legs, is everything.

I pull at his shirt, lifting it up and over his head to reveal an intricate pattern of overlapping tattoos. My fingers trail over them, surprised he has any; he didn’t really seem like a tattoo guy, what with his home-cooked meals and tales of pickling, but I like this layer to him. I’m eager to learn the stories behind each one.

But not right now.

Matt lifts the hem of my shirt, and I wiggle free from it. I’m always self-conscious about my breasts. I was told I’d grow some during puberty but was robbed of that particular experience. If Matt minds, he doesn’t show it, kissing the line of my bra with enthusiasm and care. I arch my back and he reachesbehind me, snapping the bra off and sliding it down my arms. He brings his lips to my nipple and sucks my whole breast into his mouth, a low moan humming in his throat.

Matt lifts off, kneeling on the bed and towering over me, all long golden-brown hair, smouldering eyes, and rippling abs. My mouth parts as he undoes his pants and pulls them down lower and lower, leaning into my delayed gratification of seeing him completely naked. Finally, his cock springs free and he grabs hold of his length. He draws his fist over it from base to tip, a bead escaping and dripping down his knuckles.

I squirm as I watch, need building deep in my belly.