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then put his hand at the small of her back and led her through the hallway.
    God, she loved it when he had his hands on her.
    There was no clutter in the living room, and the walls were all painted white. The curtains on the windows were a simple green, and the carpet was a light brown. He had a huge black leather couch and a coffee table that looked like a steamer trunk. His TV was mounted to the wall, and a stereo system sat underneath it. That was pretty much it.
    “You hungry?” he asked, dropping his hand from her back and going into the kitchen.
    “Starving,” she said, nodding.
    Mel hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she’d smelled what he was cooking. She hadn’t really eaten that much all day; she’d been too nervous. Not that any of that nervousness had gone away. Nope. It was still all right there, fluttering around in her stomach.
    The dining room was just an alcove off of the kitchen, with a table that sat four. It just about fit into the small space. The table was set with plates, silverware, and two folded cloth napkins. A bowl of salad and another of garlic bread were in the center.
    So he knew how to set a table. One more thing to add to the list of his domesticatedness.
    “Do you need any help?” she asked, standing in the kitchen doorway. The kitchen was small, with barely any counter space around the appliances.
    How did such a big man live in such a tiny space?
    “Nope. It’s all ready.” He pulled two casserole dishes out of the oven and set them on the table. “So,” he said as he opened a drawer and grabbed a corkscrew. “What did you do today?”
    Besides obsess about tonight? Not much. “Got ready for school on Monday, ran a few errands, cleaned. It was a thrilling day.”
    “Sounds it.” He poured them each a glass of wine and put the bottle in the fridge.
    “You?”
    He handed her one of the wineglasses. “A lot of the same. I had to go to the store to get what I needed for tonight. And I cleaned up a little.”
    “So you can clean, too?”
    “Yes, I clean. You keeping a tally or something?”
    “Maybe,” she said as she walked over to the table.
    “Well, you can add this to it as well.” He put down his wineglass before he pulled out her chair.
    “I guess I can,” she said.
    He helped her sit, and when her bottom was firmly in the chair he leaned over and put his mouth very close to her ear.
    “So what number am I at?” he whispered.
    “Umm,” she said as her mind promptly went blank. “Five?”
    He just laughed, his breath tickling her skin. He straightened, moved to his side of the table, and sat down. Mel was still trying to find her tongue as Bennett proceeded to load her plate with food.
    Find something to say. Find something to say. Anything. Say. Anything.
    “I thought you said you read a lot of books,” Mel said, looking at his living room.
    “I do.”
    “Where are they? You don’t have any bookcases.” She unfolded her napkin and put it across her lap.
    “I haven’t made the ones I want for myself yet. Right now my books are in boxes in a closet.”
    “You hide your books?” Mel asked in a mock-horrified tone, putting her hand to her heart. “That’s an offense.” She grabbed her silverware and started to cut into her chicken.
    “I know, I know,” he laughed. “This place is only temporary, though, so I haven’t really settled in.”
    Mel took a bite of her chicken. It was moist and cheesy and just perfect. “Oh my gosh,” she said after she swallowed. “This is amazing.”
    “Thank you.” He looked pleased as he took a bite of ravioli. “Is that number six?”
    “No.” She shook her head as she reached for her wine. “Cooking was number one. That was the first thing you said you could do. You just proved you could do it.”
    Something flashed in his eyes, and if Mel wasn’t mistaken—and she was sure she was—it looked like he wanted to prove some of his other skills to her. But she had a feeling that those skills