He’d switched his jeans for chinos and covered that afternoon’s T-shirt with a charcoal gray crewneck sweater that looked suspiciously like cashmere. I had an almost overpowering urge to smooth my palms over his chest and snuggle into him. Not the best of sensible, restrained beginnings.

His lips quirked with some secret knowledge and he pointedly checked his watch. I tried not to squirm. “You’re late,” he informed me. “I would never have imagined that possible, Ms. James. But good for you.”

I had absolutely no response to this—an apology seemed out of place, and he didn’t seem to be expecting one. Palming my hand in his and raising an eyebrow that dared me to remove it, Sean led the way back toward the hostess station. We were seated immediately in a red vinyl corner booth.

As the hostess stood waiting with our menus, I lowered myself onto the right edge of the booth, swung my legs under the table, and tentatively started scooting. First test of the evening: Where should I stop in my scoot-around? Before I could decide, Sean dropped down onto the seat opposite and began his own scoot, rapidly closing the space between us.

I forced myself to focus on the hostess as she ran down the day’s specials, but a slight dip in the seat cushion had me glancing to my right, only to discover that Sean had, in one fell scoot, repositioned himself almost flush up against me. Our knees bumped, followed closely by our thighs. It was only when they’d finally settled against each other that the little zips and snaps of electricity settled down to a low-level buzz. Glancing up at Sean, I caught the look in his eye and once again felt as if he was daring me to shift away. I smiled warmly, keeping all sharp edges of my personality in check, and glanced again at the hostess, who finished with, “Your server will be right with you.”

This wasn’t going to work. My body went haywire whenever he so much as brushed against me, and here he was, pressing, lingering, driving me crazy. I casually shifted over a couple of inches, pretending to get comfortable.

Sean looked me in the eye, quirked his lips, and in a low voice murmured, “I’ll follow you all the way around.”

My smile fell away a little, chipped off by the shock of it all, and I didn’t move again.

At that moment, it occurred to me that if I didn’t drag my nerve out of hiding, he was going to play everything to his advantage and probably end up scoring (in one way or another). At this rate it was only a matter of time before my willpower tanked and my plan to stay detached and project incompatibility crashed and burned.

The busboy appeared, bearing tumblers of ice water, little bowls of chunky red salsa, and a heaping basket of golden tortilla chips. Depositing these, he dodged away without a word.

Sean leaned into me as I reached for a chip.

“Did you notice? I’m dressed as ‘Investment Banker on Casual Date.’ ”

“Very nice.” I shot him an amused smile. “But not necessary.”

“If it helps you relax, then I’m all in. And next time, you can return the favor by dressing like a rock star. Wild hair, a little leather, lots of skin ...”

This was a bit of a shocker. “Is that how your band dresses?”

“No, but if we had a female band member, we’d absolutely make her dress like that.” His grin was quick and sure, and I was getting a little addicted to it. I decided not to mention that there wouldn’t be a next time.

He was quiet for a bit, staring at me. Initially I filled the silence crunching chips, but eventually self-consciousness won the day, spurring me to stop eating and ask, “What are you doing?”

“Picturing you in leather.”

My stomach lurched. It appeared the evening would have me floundering in ways I’d never predicted.

Reaching for another chip, I tried to get the conversation back onto manageable ground. “What’d you do today, other than ambush a geek at work?”

He eyed me for a moment before answering, as if gauging whether it was a serious question or merely polite conversation. So I turned to look him square in the eyes, seemingly riveted with curiosity.

“Fiddled about in Whole Foods,” he said, in that patient way of his, with humor creeping in at the edges. “Snitching samples until I was no longer hungry for lunch. Ended up with a bloody puncture wound, courtesy of a prickly little star fruit. The beast.”

I nodded in sympathy. “Produce can get pretty rowdy. Are you talking seriously bloody or just painful enough for cursing?”

“Both,” he admitted. “I worked some too,” he informed me as I reached for another chip. At the rate I was going, I’d be wedged into this booth indefinitely. In an effort to slow the pace, I broke the chip into crispy little shards and ate them slowly one at a time.

“What are you working on now?”

“We’re prepping for the show now, mostly practicing our current stuff. But my mum’s started hinting around for some new songs, so I’m searching for inspiration in hopes of some brilliant new music and lyrics.”

“Is she your biggest fan?” He could no doubt hear the amusement in my voice, but he couldn’t know that I thought the reality was just adorable.

“Are you kidding? She’s a mother. She probably would have preferred male model to pub singer-made-good.”

I bit my lip and tried not to snigger. The real difficulty, however, came in not getting distracted by imagined skin shots. “But you’ve won her over?”

“Not exactly. I bought her an iPod and downloaded all the band’s songs and nothing else. She takes it walking with her.”

“So you’re taking advantage of the fact that she’s not tech savvy?”

“Don’t tell me you’re taking her side?”

He was obviously teasing, but I couldn’t help but tense in reaction. In my defense, I was confident I’d be just as likely to resist the advances of a calendar pin-up as an up-and-coming rock star. Seriously! Is something wrong with me? Taking a deep breath, I tried to steer clear of a doozy of a conversational pothole, hiding behind a little friendly banter.

“Sorry. All I had to hear was ‘male model.’ ”

Suddenly, like flashbulbs going off in my head, images of a scantily clad Sean were making me dizzy.

After an excruciating silence, he finally spoke up. “Sorry—are you flirting with me? I’d got the feeling I was strictly off-limits.”

Now he was definitely mocking me, but the wicked flash of his grin easily defused the awkwardness, and I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. And I had the urge to ask, “Does your nerve ever get you into trouble?”

“I prefer the term ‘Machiavellian charm,’ ” he informed me with a wink.

So the end justified the means. I knew a fairy godmother with the very same perspective. Nerves pounced on my empty stomach as my smile faltered slightly. If I were braver, I’d ask for the evening’s agenda right now, because I was certain there was one. I might have been winging it, but Sean, I could tell, had a plan. A man with a plan ... be still my heart. Too bad it didn’t mesh with mine.

“Is that what’s got you so nervy, then—the what-ifs?” he asked.

“You could say that.” Or you could say I was suffering a tragic crush on the completely wrong man and no one—best friend, mentee, fairy godmother, nary a lesbian neighbor—seemed willing to take my side. I unhooked the wedge of lime from my glass and squeezed it into my water, suddenly desperate for a distraction.

The waiter came to take our orders and left us to our deceptively casual silence. I couldn’t speak for Sean, but I for one was in a bit of a tizzy. I tried to relax and focus on the sombrero-topped mariachi trio as they wound their way through the tables, alternating between rousing instrumentals and sigh-invoking serenades. I barely even noticed my fingers fidgeting with a slit in the vinyl seat cover until I realized I needed to relocate my purse to cover the new tangerine-sized hole beside my hip.

“So what if ... you enjoy yourself tonight?” Sean prompted, sliding his finger slowly along the cold, wet condensation coating his water glass.

“No biggie,” I countered blithely. “Mexican food is a pretty sure thing for me.” I swirled my straw and watched the ice spin in circles.

“Fair enough. What if ... the Mexican food isn’t the best part of the evening?”

I stopped swirling, just for a second, before starting up again. He had me there—it had taken him two measly questions to size me up and get me squeamish.

“Then that means you’re a good date.” That seemed a relatively safe response. I smiled, not quite meeting his eyes.

“What if I turn out to be the best date you’ve ever had?” He smiled back, his gaze clinging to mine. My tortilla chip turned to dust in my mouth, and I reached for my water glass, relieved to have a distraction, no matter how fleeting.

I took a long drink, probably too long, but I was racking my brain for the safest response.

“Then you’ll get a full-page write-up in my journal,” I promised, figuring a version of the truth was probably best.

“Not precisely what I was hoping for,” he admitted, his head tipped to the side.

“And,” I hurried on before he could elaborate, “you will have raised the bar for all my future dates.” I was teasing now but urgently hoping he’d drop this line of questioning—I wasn’t about to agree to anything beyond this one date.

He smiled then, a cagey smile that had my pulse zipping with nerves.

“I’m a sucker for a good cause,” he said, twirling his tortilla chip through the salsa.

Sean and I had been steadily working our way through the chips and salsa during the “what-if?” repartee, and now it barely registered that his chip had been around the bowl before. And then it was like fireworks in my head. I had little doubt that tonight would remain uncontested as Best Date Ever, but it eased my mind just a little to discover that, as amazing—not to mention cocky—as he was, the man wasn’t perfect. I’d found a flaw: Sean was a double-dipper.