Bradley, a forty-six-year-old forensic accountant formerly from Cleveland, glances at me hesitantly, then down at the dumplings nestled in the bamboo steamer between us. A determined look crosses his face, and he reaches for a little swirl-topped pillow of dumpling heaven, carefully lifting it and setting it on his spoon.

“Remember to let the broth cool for a moment or you’ll burn your tongue.”

Bradley follows my instructions with exacting patience that serves him well in his profession. A cloud of fragrant steam escapes as he pierces his dumpling.

“Allow yourself the experience of inhaling all those lovely aromas.”

“It smells fantastic,” he says happily, and then slurps up his soup.

No matter how many times I witness the phenomena, it never fails to satisfy seeing someone eat a delicious new meal for the first time. The look of wonder and pleasure on their faces, followed by an almost childlike glee, makes me feel like a kid again too.

“Delicious,” he says with a sigh. “This is the best place to eat them?”

I eat a dumpling before I speak again. “There are other good places. I’ll send you a list. But I like it here because you can have a variety of excellent dishes.”

We’re in the East Village, a few subway stops from Bradley’s new place.

Bradley nods and takes out his phone to tap in some notes. It’s cute, if overly efficient. Some people treat their time with me as a sort of class in which I’m their teacher and they are the eager-beaver students. Others just soak up the experience. Bradley is clearly the former.

Which is fine by me. Whatever floats his boat. He’s paying for this, after all.

“Let’s try the scallion pancakes next,” he says with mounting excitement.

When I met Bradley, he barely spoke but blushed shyly and asked if we could try some soup dumplings. He’d read about them when he was preparing to move to New York, only when he’d arrived, he was too shy to go on his own or invite one of his new coworkers.

“You’ll love these,” I tell him, as he serves us each a section. “How’s the new job going?”

“Very well, thank you.” Bradley flushes. “My coworkers are … pleasant.”

A smile pulls at my lips. “One in particular maybe?”

The blush grows, and he adjusts his tie. “Perhaps. But not as lovely as you, my dear.”

I’m ready for this. It happens from time to time. I give him an easy smile. “You are sweet. But I’m thinking this coworker of yours is pretty great.”

Bradley studies his food but can’t hide his expression. Yep, he’s a goner on whoever this woman is.

“Tell me about her,” I say.

Bradley begins to talk. And I really mean to listen, but my attention idly glides over the restaurant and suddenly collides with a pair of jade-green eyes.

Jax Blackwood stares back at me with an evil grin.

At least I’m fairly certain it’s Jax—John. Or yet another version of him. This guy has on a white Oxford button-down shirt. The kind young office workers wear. A pair of silver wire-rimmed glasses rests on the bridge of his nose, and his once messy hair is parted on the side and swept back into a neat and tidy style. Geek chic. Total Clark Kent.

The only thing that remains the same is that sly, lopsided smirk and the way his eyes crinkle with deep laugh lines. And, of course, it is John. No one else looks at me as if he knows my deepest secrets and finds them amusing.

He doesn’t know me at all, though. He only thinks he does. Annoyance skitters over my shoulders when he raises a pork bun in salute before taking a voracious bite out of it.

My thighs clench, and I instantly curse myself for even looking his way. I focus on Bradley, who is happily chatting away about a woman named Grace.

I engage in conversation but, for the first time in ages, I’m on autopilot. My concentration is shattered by a certain devious rock star who keeps staring at me, eating his dim sum with a level of sensuality that is outright perverse. No one could possibly enjoy food that much. And how the hell am I supposed to focus when his eyes won’t leave me?

Every other bite, he winks or licks his lips in a lewd way, all clearly designed to unnerve me. And I’m so damn tempted to flip him the finger that my hand twitches on the table. I break a soup dumpling before I can get it into my spoon, and I swear John laughs.

Gritting my teeth, I finish my meal with Bradley. We stand to leave, and I can’t help but glance John’s way. He’s gone. I should feel relief but am horrified to realize I’m disappointed instead.

Fucking rock stars.

“Well, this was lovely, Stella,” Bradley tells me on the sidewalk. “At first I didn’t know what to think about your service. But I can’t thank you enough. It was worth every penny.”

A lot of new clients are nervous about our first meeting. I’m happy that I won Bradley over.

“Don’t thank me. It was my pleasure.” Mostly. Stupid John Blackwood, shoving himself in the middle of my work. “I’m glad you had fun.”

Bradley adjusts his tie. “I would like to schedule another meeting, if that’s all right with you?”

Despite what my clients might think, our first date is a testing ground for me as well. If I don’t feel comfortable with a person, I walk. But Bradley is sweet and genuine. If I can help him come out of his shell a bit, I’ll be satisfied.

“Of course it is. Just text me a couple of dates and times, and we’ll make something work.”

“Okay. Good. Thank you.” Bradley leans in as though he might hug me but halts, clearly flustered.

I help him out and give him a friendly hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. “Take care, Bradley. And talk to Grace, okay? I’m sure she’d love to try soup dumplings too.”

His smile is wobbly. “Okay, Stella. You’re the professional.”

“Yes, I am. Go forth and prosper, Bradley Tillman.”

He blushes red but walks away with a bit of a spring in his step. It’s so cute, I watch him with a big grin on my face.

“Actually,” says a smooth male voice behind me, “it’s ‘live long and prosper.’”

My heart nearly bursts out of my chest, but I don’t react as I turn on my heel to face John. He stands far too close, a smirk on his face, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his loose, flat-front chinos. His shirt isn’t tucked in as a typical office worker would do, but other than that, he’s got the preppy intern look down.

I haven’t seen him since the unfortunate naked guitar incident. The memory is still strong enough to make it difficult to meet his eyes. I’ve seen him naked. I’ve seen his dick. His long, meaty, beautiful dick. Damn it all, I want to see it again.

No, no, no, Stella. Calm yourself. I can’t let him know I’m affected; he’ll never let me live it down.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a false smile. “Do I know you?”

His expression clearly says he thinks I’m a smartass. But he extends his big hand with those long, talented fingers. “Hi, I’m John Blackwood. You glared at me all over a grocery store, kissed me, then stole my dessert.”

I don’t take his hand. “You seem fairly stuck on that whole kissing and stealing bit.”

The corner of his mouth pulls higher. He might be dressed like a geek, but he looks like sin incarnate. I have no idea how he does it. His voice remains mellow, a slow tease. “I admit, I am. I’ve never had anyone steal a kiss and not stick around for me to return the favor.”