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“I like the look of it all brown; it adds to the fall vibe of the season. But I’ll prune them before it snows.”

As promised, the pathway lights came on, bright white, not at all soothing, meant only to guide. When Wynton arrived at the three brick steps that led up to my front door, the entire area lit up in warm amber, not nearly as stark as the others. There was a large semicircle front door mat, elegant, with cutouts—no sayings, no pictures, as my mother thought bold things that bade you enter or welcome were unnecessary.

There were two fall topiaries on either side of my dark red door, and once I’d unlocked it, I stepped inside and turned off the alarm. I then switched on the lights in the short hall and invited Wynton in. Once I closed the door behind him, I told him to take off his coat and put it on any of the empty wrought-iron hooks that lined the wall. I darted down the hall, told him to have a seat in the living room, and went immediately to my bedroom.

After dumping my jacket and bag on the bed, and pulling off my boots, I was back quickly, and I found him walking around my small living room, looking at the pictures on the mantel. I flipped on lights in the kitchen, and the chandelier in the living room came on, more soft amber light flooding the space.

It was a bit chilly, so I asked him to turn on the fireplace.

“Is it gas?”

“It is.” I bit my bottom lip. “I know it’s cheating, and yes, the smell of burning wood is amazing, but the flip of the switch and whoosh and suddenly you have fire—I mean, that’s awesome. Did you hear the whoosh?”

“I did hear it. And may I say, your home is charming.”

“My home is small is what it is.” I punched buttons on the oven to get it preheating, and then pulled out the lasagna and set it on the stove, followed by cheese, grapes, and apples, which all went to the counter.

“So is there a bathroom there, behind that wall?”

“Yes, which you may use at your leisure.”

“Thank you,” he said, chuckling, heading around the corner to the left where the half bath was.

Down the hall to the right was my bedroom, with an en-suite bathroom, then a guest bedroom with another bathroom inside, and farther down my washer and dryer were in the hallway behind pocket doors. You slid one way to wash, the other to dry. Back in the living room, there was the fireplace on one side of the space and the kitchen on the other. I had a small area for my kitchen table, as well as a counter with stools. There were two windows on the side of the house that looked out on more wrought-iron fencing and the side of my neighbor’s house.

Out the back door was my tiny porch. Five steps down put you next to my garbage cans, and if you walked three steps forward from there, you came out onto a patch of grass lined on three sides with limelight hydrangeas that were currently as brown as the ones in front along the same iron fence. There was no way to get out of the backyard once you were there unless you were gifted at parkour and leaped out. I suspected that my home used to be the carriage house for the mansion next door and had been renovated and sold ages ago. It was the only reasoning that made sense, as on the street it went mansion, mansion, row house, mansion, mansion, mansion, row house. They were sort of shoe-horned in, but I liked that. And there were huge trees on both sides of my postage stamp of a backyard, which made sitting outside in the summer almost bearable. Almost.

I had opened the wine by the time Wynton returned and poured it into a decanter, as well as having made a good start on my charcuterie board. He put his phone in his back pocket, then took a seat at the counter.

“Sorry about that. I had to make a call.”

“No problem. You’re a bit early, so you get to see what’s behind the curtain.”

“Thrilled to do so,” he replied smoothly. “Maybe I can help you chop or something. I promise I didn’t come here just to watch you, though I would never complain about that.”

I smiled at him. “You’re very charming this evening.”

“Which means what, that I’m not charming all the time?”

There was no way for me to respond but to laugh at him.

“Oh, you wound me.” He clutched his heart.

“So how did Bing do with his data entry?” I asked, getting out glasses and passing the first one to him.

“I think it’s safe to say that Bing, perhaps, can’t read.”

I couldn’t help laughing as he poured a large glass of wine for me and a much more modest one for himself.

“Have you thought the same?”

“You’re being mean,” I said, even as I snickered, noting that the man had lovely brown eyes that warmed when he smiled.

“No, no, listen. He had trouble following the words until I found him a ruler so he could move it down line by line, and he has to look at his fingers when he types.”

“I think it’s possible that he might have oversold his proficiency with a computer.”

“No. Really?”