On my way home from work tonight, I picked up a bottle. Organic, naturally. But I can’t pop it open without him.

So, as I slather on lotion, then get dressed in jeans and a casual pink blouse, I try—truly try—to figure out what’ll ease my nerves.

Not a hot soak.

Not a drink.

And not some more girl time.

I look in the mirror, studying my face, asking the hard questions.

What do you want? What do you need?

I want the man.

And I want to know we’re good. I want to know we’ve got this. I want to talk to him, or text with him.

So I pick up my phone, open our text thread, and write him a note.

Something that’ll set the mood.

The mood of who we are.

Nadia: Remember that time I asked to see your dick pic?

I put the phone down on the bathroom counter as I swipe on some powder and blush and then mascara, feeling a little more settled already. He writes back quickly, for which I’m grateful.

Crosby: You’re changing your mind about tonight and you want a pic instead of the real thing? I SUPPOSE I can live with that. But the bigger question is—do you still want the grain bowl?

Nadia: I wanted to say I’m secretly glad you didn’t show the picture to me, because I liked experiencing it live last night.

Crosby: Whew. So you want the grain bowl and the sausage? Good thing, because I’m on my way over with both.

Nadia: Excellent. I’ll be ready with this . . .

I step away from the mirror, unbutton my shirt to a scandalous degree, then send him a picture.

Of the tops of my breasts.

His reply is instantaneous.

Crosby: Did you hear that? It was the sound of me tripping and falling flat on my face from the ABSOLUTE HOTNESS of you. I hope you have a Band-Aid for my nose.

Nadia: I have Band-Aids with foxes on them. I know you love your cute animal socks, so these will match.

Crosby: You do know me well. Also, thank you for the world’s sexiest image.

Nadia: You can see them live in a few minutes.

Crosby: I intend to, Wild Woman. I fully intend to see, touch, feel, lick, kiss, and devour them.

Nadia: Mmmm . . .

Already, my pulse is slowing, warmth returns to my cheeks, and my mind is calm, but eager.

And because talking to him seems to settle my nerves, I’m guessing that making him laugh might do the trick even more, so I do a quick Google search.

Then I send him a shot of a cat lounging seductively across a bed.

Nadia: Here’s a naughty shot for you.

Seconds later, my phone pings.

Crosby: Meow! Also, here’s your shaft shot.

Crosby: I meant, here’s your wiener pic.

I crack up as the shot of a dachshund fills the screen.

I am officially relaxed. All I needed was this. This banter, this connection, this fun.

When the clock strikes eight, he texts that he’s in the lobby. I buzz him up, and a minute later, I open the door.

“Hey, you,” he says in a tender voice that sends a charge down my spine.

“Hey to you too.”

I’m still nervous.

But I’m also ready.

Champagne and food help.

My chest flutters as I take another bite of the food, another sip of the champagne.

“Did you know this is organic?” I ask, holding up my flute.

He takes a bite of his dinner then smiles, speaking when he finishes chewing. “You might have mentioned it a few times.”

“Oh, right,” I say, waving a hand. But I’m still rattling off randomness about champagne. “See, when I went to the store this afternoon, I wanted to make sure it would work for you. The champagne. It’s made without sulfites. And no chemicals either. Also, it’s made from sustainable grapes. Hey, what are sustainable grapes? Are there unsustainable grapes? What makes a grape unsustainable?”

He sets down his fork and reaches for my hand. “It’s a grape that’s wildly nervous.”

I let out a long, heavy breath. “I’m not nervous,” I say, lying, patently lying.

“We don’t have to do this, Nadia.”

Tension slices through me as I stare daggers at him. “Don’t say something so awful.”

He smiles, stands, and offers me his hand. “Come with me.”

“But the table is a mess,” I say, grasping at straws.

“We’ll clean it up later.”

He takes my hand, guides me to the couch, and gently sweeps out his hand for me to sit. I do.

He goes back for the champagne flutes then sits next to me, reaching for my hand, running his thumb across the top of it. “If you’re not ready, no hard feelings.”

I swallow roughly. “I am ready, I’m just . . .”

“Nervous?” he supplies.

I nod, admitting it at last. “I am.”

“Do you want to talk about why?”

I take a sip of my drink then set down the glass, waiting for the floaty feeling to kick in.

But champagne isn’t the answer.

Crosby sets his glass on the table next to mine, waiting for me to tell him the truth I’m holding in.

I part my lips, draw a shaky breath, then blurt out, “I don’t want to be bad in bed.”

A laugh bursts from his chest. “Nadia,” he says softly, then weaves his fingers through mine. “Would you think it’s crazy if I said the same thing?”

I scoff. “There’s no way you could think that.”

He gives a but I do shrug.

My jaw drops. “Do you really worry about that?”

He inches closer, clasping my hand tighter. “I want this to be good for you. Fuck, that’s wrong,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. He stops like he’s collecting his thoughts, then his blue eyes lock with mine. His blaze with heat, but something else too—something sweet, something vulnerable. “I want it to be spectacular.”

My heart lodges in my throat, and I swallow past a lump that appears out of nowhere.

What the freak?

Now is not the time for my crying-on-cue gland to activate. I draw a steadying breath. “I don’t want to be unspectacular,” I admit, feeling terribly vulnerable too. “I want you to feel good as well.”

He cups my face in his hands and presses his forehead to mine. “It’ll feel good because it’s you, and it’s me, and it’s us.” His heady whisper sends me spinning into a whirlwind of lust and longing and something else too—something that feels dangerously close to another L word.

He brushes his lips against mine, a hint of a kiss, then he pulls back. “But we can put the brakes on this for now. Or forever, if you want. There’s no pressure. Hell, if you want to play poker or watch SportsCenter or scroll through Netflix in the hopes of finding a new comedy you haven’t seen, we can do that.”