My sharp tongue, the traitor, abandons me, and so do any illusions I had about the swimming session being a good idea. An urgent need to flee is tugging me toward the exit while the growing desire pulls me to step closer to Ben. Both make my chest a little tighter. The door is not that far away and leaving Ben here would look even more awkward than taking my clothes off. We are at a pool, the exact place for people to swear swimsuits. The moment I was dreading has arrived. I peel my jeans and t-shirt off and shove them into my bag.

Avoiding eye contact with Ben, I attempt to put my silicone swim cap on. Instead of a careful and fluid motion I was hoping for, it gets stuck halfway up my head and then snaps out of my hands and falls on the floor. Ben picks it up.

"Let me help you." He reaches for my hair. "I wear one when my hair is long, and I know a trick."

"OK." I will my heartbeat to slow down. Ben comes within inches of me, twists my ponytail up, places one of my hands on top to hold it in place. My eyes focus on the light smattering of hair on his chest. I'm afraid to breathe. He puts two hands inside the cap, stretches it wide, makes the front catch on my forehead, and pulls it down to cover my head. It works.

Maybe it's the chilliness of the room, or the cold of Ben's hands but his innocent touches send goosebumps all over my body. With the tenderness that squeezes my heart, he tucks the loose strands under, grabs my goggles off the table, puts them on me, and rests them on top of my cap. Every place he comes in contact with me is screaming for more. I'm too aware of my skin.

"I told you I am good at it," he says.

Yes, you are. And I'm sad his hands are no longer in contact with me.

Ben interlaces his fingers with mine. Jinx. He pulls me to the steps into the pool. Before he enters the water, Ben's calm blue eyes return to me to trace my body and face. "The swimsuit looks even better on you in person."

Those words spin a little tornado in me. The swirls of emotion feed off the heat from every spot he touched. Let's do it.

The rest of the hour is ... anticlimactic. When Ben said swimming, he meant swimming. He goes back and forth without pauses practicing drills at various speeds. It's like his pacing— measured and relentless. The arms fly out of the water and the flips at the walls are precise. My hopes for more touches, or whatever was happening before we got in, wither. The not so balmy water gives me actual chills and I need to get moving. Swimming it is.

While I used to be a strong swimmer, I've never been good enough to make it onto my high school's swim team. But today is not a competition. If I compete with Ben, I might as well admit I already lost. I warm up and when my body no longer shivers, relish in the meditative state of the repetitive strokes. I don't know about runner's high, I've never run enough to get there, but there's definitely a swimmer's high. I don't kill myself, take frequent stops to catch my breath, and use every chance to openly stare at Ben's lithe body moving through water.

At nine, we stop. Ben's white towel is low around his hips, water droplets running down his toned abs, while I wrap my 'Nantes Skyline' beach towel, Mom's gift as well, around my chest. It covers me down to my ankles, so I'm as prim and proper as one in a wet swimsuit can be. Ben's adherence to what I consider acceptable dress code is problematic. The ride to the fortieth floor with Ben's naked chest succeeds at bringing back the yearning in my stomach I thought swimming got rid of. Elevators must have signs like stores do: no shirt - no service. A heart attack inducing naked man's chest close enough I don't even need to fully extend my arm is a danger to society. I don't see any defibrillators stored here. At least neither of us talks, because I don't trust my mouth.

The foyer of his apartment provides little relief. His dry skin is no less tempting than when it was wet. I'm parched. Hopefully form swimming, truthfully—from Ben's proximity.

"The guest bathroom is through this door." He points to the right. "Clean up and then meet me in the kitchen. It is that way. You cannot miss it." He gives me my bag and goes straight down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen. The foyer fills with oxygen.

***

My waves are a mess. I need my diffuser or celestial intervention. Translating from Latin must be taking up all of my brain function, how else can I explain that I brought no products for my hair. Towel drying only does so much and I don't bother to wipe the condensation off the mirror to look at my reflection. Why disappoint myself further? I brave it out of the guest bath and find the kitchen. It opens to a breathtaking view of the water through the floor-to-ceiling windows—the best feature of the living room. If it weren't for the steady rain pounding on the glass, the balcony that wraps around one corner of the room would have been my first place to explore. 'Next time, when the weather improves.' I think and smile.

"I love the view, as well. This floor was the highest one with a two-bedroom apartment when I rented it two years ago."

Ben's feet are bare but he isn't wearing the small towel around his waist anymore. What a waste and a relief. The white t-shirt and black jeans are a good enough barrier to guard him against my lusty thoughts.

"Tall requested butternut squash ravioli, and I have an easy recipe."

"Yummy, I love ravioli." Yes. Let's talk about food. Much more comfortable with my hunger for food. "I didn't see you buy them at the store on Tuesday."

"Buy them? We will make them from scratch."

I should've known.

"But that'll take ages."

"Not at all. With the two of us, we will be done in no time."

There is no uneasiness between us. Making the dough in the food processor is a breeze. While it rests in the fridge, Ben teaches me to whack the garlic with the flat side of the knife to loosen up the skin for easy peeling. When we cut up the squash, onion, and garlic for roasting, I show off the knife skills Mom taught me. Ben does not take over every time I hesitate. His quiet confident words encourage me through each step, like his written instructions did.

This is somehow both the smart and precise Ben I came to know from our parking lot discussions and not at all the same person. The new additions are the light touches of hands, the feel of our bodies brushing against each other as we move in the kitchen, the heat of his chest hovering less than an inch behind me as he leans over my shoulder, watching and guiding me through rolling out the dough. They make the giddy excitement feel more acute. I'm full of these bubbly feelings; light and tingly, they make my chest and stomach sweetly ache with happiness.

I successfully stretch the dough over the ice-cube tray and fill it with the butternut squash and herbs mixture we've pureed in the processor. "It worked!" I clap like a five-year-old. The brown butter, sage butternut squash ravioli and the light green salad are done.

"I can't believe how easy this was." I turn to Ben. My smile is wide, and I burst with elation over accomplishing the meal that seemed impossible. "Thank you. I've never enjoyed making something from scratch so much." I'm on cloud nine and Ben got me there. "I—" Words cannot express how full of happiness I am. I kiss him.