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His gaze flicks down to my foot and his lips twitch again before his eyes return to mine. “I’ll tell you what I think, Birdie. I think you were waiting for me. I think you like spending time with me and realized maybe doing everything alone—even your beloved grocery shopping—isn’t as fun.”

Bastard.

I scoff. “You’re delusional. Your grocery commentary is mediocre at best, and the food you buy makes my skin crawl.”

I fumble to get the door unlocked, pushing it open.

He leans close to my ear, whispering, “You’re a liar, Pam Beesly.”

The scrape of his beard on my skin and the depth of his voice is some kind of potent combination that makes my eyes close.

My “Fine,” barely makes it out of my mouth as I step inside the house. If Bo wasn’t so damn close to me, he would have never heard it. “I was waiting for you.” I pause before saying with only slightly more conviction, “Because you need guidance with your food choices.”

He vibrates with a laugh then faces me again, standing up straight. “Such a little liar.”

He’s got me. There’s nothing else to say. I was waiting for him because I like being around him. It’s a truth that I can’t grasp.

George Strait circles us excitedly, whimpering with maniacal tail wags, before retreating back to his dog bed. On instinct, I walk into the kitchen and flick on the lights, only to remember I don’t have any groceries to put away.

Without an invitation, Bo follows me.

I face him, hands on my hips, ignoring the way his hair is pushed back and how I seem to very much appreciate that look. “Well, you’re here with my full attention. How can I help you?”

“Don’t I get a tour?” He leans a hip on the counter, letting his eyes dance around the kitchen and connected living room before landing back on me.

“Ha!” I bark. “No. You’ll get a tour when you don’t show up after doing some kind of weird psychological experiment on me.”

He smiles, like this isn’t unnerving—like him being in my house after making me wait for him on a bench isn’t at all annoying—and pulls a sticky note from his pocket, waving it through the air.

I scoff. “Are you kidding me? After all this, you want to do something for your little list?”

“What are you thinking about right now?” he asks, ignoring me.

“Hmm…I’m thinking about the irritating man in my house, the fact I need a shower, and wondering if I have the parmesan cheese I need for Huck’s meatballs tomorrow.”

“Perfect.” He hands me the sticky note.

Be fully present.

I hold up my arms. “Be present? Done. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Not if you’re thinking about tomorrow’s meatballs and parmesan cheese,” he teases, plucking the toothpick out of his mouth and tossing it in the trash can beside the refrigerator.

I roll my eyes.Of course he makes it look effortless.

Before I can argue, he takes three quick steps to the doorway and turns off the light. The glow from a small lamp in the connecting living room and the moonlight filtering in through the windows are all that light the space.

It’s one small move—a flipping of plastic and the connection of wires—but it shifts the energy of the entire house.

Standing in the dark, my defenses strip away. Like all the effort I’ve put into ignoring whatever I feel for him vanished with the light.

When he’s standing in front of me, I realize I’m holding my breath.

“What do you see?” he asks, voice low.

“Umm. You, I guess. I see you.” My gaze goes over his shoulder. “And the lamp.” I drop my head side to side. “Are we done?”

He ignores me. “What about me? Tell me more. Being present means you are tuned into the moment, your senses. In the dark, you have to work harder. You can’t just glance then let your mind wander off to meatballs.”