An embarrassingly big cardboard box.

Then we went grocery shopping together, and I found myself the object of so much envy from other women I thought they’d all get together and make a voodoo doll of me to stick pins into. Their jealousy was palpable, and all I was doing was walking next to him. They probably thought I was his housekeeper, but the looks I got . . . yikes.

The looks he got gave me a glimpse into how his ego had inflated to its Godzilla dimensions. Those women looked at him like he was the juiciest filet in the butcher’s case. Like they wanted to rip off all his clothes and mount him, right there in the organic vegetable aisle. Like he wasn’t even an actual person, really, just a big ol’ piece of tasty man meat they wanted to sink their teeth into.

I was embarrassed for my own gender.

He took it all in stride, though. It was hard to tell if he was absorbing the admiration or deflecting it, because in public his smiles were more brittle than when we were alone together. He clearly enjoyed the attention, but my female intuition told me he wasn’t as easy with it as he seemed.

Or maybe that was my overactive imagination again. Either way, neither of us mentioned all those hungry eyes at the grocery store when we got home.

I’m standing in the kitchen in the office Friday morning, making myself another cup of coffee, when a male voice says behind me, “What a pretty dress.”

I whirl around so fast I almost topple over but steady myself against the counter before I can fall flat on my face. Two feet away stands Michael, wearing a charcoal-gray suit with a pocket square, looking like a movie star.

He smiles at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a dress. Is it new?”

I glance down at myself. “Oh. This? Um.”

I struggle to think of some excuse for this dress that doesn’t involve the embarrassing truth that I dug through my closet last night looking for something he might like on the off chance we’d run into each other and this was the only thing I came up with. It’s blue, which I remembered is his favorite color. Also, due to some ingenious quirk of design, it performs the minor miracle of making my childbearing hips look slimmer.

I open my mouth to answer and hear Cam’s mischievous brogue in my head. Tell him you have a date.

“I have a date,” I blurt so loudly Michael blinks.

“Oh?” His gaze flickers over me, up and down, head to toe, assessing. “Well, whoever he is, I envy him.”

My fingers curl so hard into the Formica counter I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. I attempt a coquettish laugh but end up sounding like I’m trying to expel a hair ball.

Michael must sense my impending mental break, because he cocks his head, his smile growing wider. “Do you mind?” he motions to the coffee maker directly behind me.

“Oh! Of course, sorry!” I leap out of the way and stand to the side, where I can admire his beauty from a safe distance.

Michael wordlessly holds out the mug of coffee I left on the machine. I take it with shaking hands, avoiding his eyes because all my nerve endings are pulsing with lust and I’m afraid he’ll be able to see it if we make eye contact.

He smells crisp and clean, like fresh linen. Like new one-hundred-dollar bills.

Busying himself with brewing his own cup of coffee, he says casually, “I reviewed your application for the associate editor position.”

I stop breathing. It’s a good thing I don’t have a mouthful of liquid because it would be all over his elegant suit right about now.

He glances at me from beneath thick black lashes. His blue eyes sparkle. A dimple flashes in his cheek. “Sonnets?”

Instantly, my face blazes with the heat of a thousand suns.

On the application was an area that asked for any additional information not included on your résumé that would be pertinent to your job performance. Special skills, relevant hobbies, any experience outside your formal education or work history that might give you an edge. On a whim, I’d listed the only thing I thought might fit, this being the publishing industry and all.

I write sonnets as a hobby. Classically structured, Shakespearean-style sonnets, because I am a pathetic human being with a nonexistent love life who will someday die alone surrounded by my cats.

Looking at my shoes, I mumble, “Um. Yeah.”

“It’s all right,” says Michael with a laugh. “Don’t be embarrassed. I think it’s quite charming.”

Charming? Did the man of my dreams just describe me as charming? I’m not sure what a heart attack feels like, but it’s probably close to this.

I look up at him, thrilled by the warmth in his eyes, but my thrill quickly turns to horror when he says, “Recite me one.”

My blood ceases to circulate through my veins.

“Oh, come on,” he urges gently, seeing the look on my face. “I want to hear one of your sonnets, Joellen. Please?”

Oh God. OhGodohGodohGod. My mouth is a desert. My palms start to sweat. I feel a case of the runs coming on, but Michael Maddox is standing two feet away, looking at me with expectation after uttering the word please. I’m doomed to obey him, no matter how much I’d prefer to suffer a massive stroke and die on the spot.

I moisten my lips. My voice comes out as a whisper, barely discernible over my thundering heart. “Please don’t laugh.”

His expression turns deadly serious. “I promise I won’t.”

“Okay.” I inhale a deep breath I hope will give me courage, which utterly fails. “This is called ‘Ode to Old Chicks.’”

Michael’s brows shoot up.

“I said don’t laugh!”

He lifts a hand, shaking his head. “I swear on my mother’s grave I’m not laughing. You have my word. Please continue.”

After a moment of inspecting his face, I see no hint of amusement, so I swallow my fright and begin.

When Life’s midcrisis has begun

And the bloom is off the rose,

We women of a certain age are glum,

Ignored by men for those

Young girls of perky breast and thigh

And coy, long-lashed flirtations.

But such pleasures—such delights!—are nigh

For men desiring new sensations,

For we mature ladies (still full of life)

Are seasoned by our complications.

We bring to love a certain spice

Unknown to less experienced maidens.

So look not, you men, to the young for their easy charms,

But satisfy your deeper yearnings in an older woman’s arms.

In the wake of my recitation of “Ode to Old Chicks,” Michael’s face goes through a series of remarkable transformations. I don’t know how many emotions cross his face, but the final one it settles on is indecipherable and, therefore, terrifying.

“What a fascinating sonnet,” he says, his voice tight, his eyes blazing blue fire. “And how interesting you chose that particular one to share with me.”

My stomach drops. I’ve made a colossal, unintentional, but nonetheless unforgivable error.

My boss thinks I’ve just propositioned him. I’m going to be fired for sexual harassment.

My career is over. I might as well go visit the animal shelter now and adopt the rest of my cats.

My hand over my mouth and my eyes saucer wide, I breathe out in horror. “It—no—that’s the most recent one I wrote. I didn’t mean anything by it . . .”

Michael’s blistering gaze drops to my mouth. He murmurs, “No? Pity.” He reaches out and brushes his knuckle over the slope of my cheek.