But on the surface? I was cool, calm, and collected. Like the cucumber I was currently peeling to make crudités. Just a simple platter with radishes, heirloom pear tomatoes, red carrots I’d found at the farmer’s market, and some orange peppers I’d cut into matchsticks. And homemade buttermilk ranch dip. Made from buttermilk I’d gone to a local dairy to get.

What? Just because it was a last-minute invitation doesn’t mean a guest should feel any less welcome . . .

I could hear my mother’s voice in the back of my head, imprinting her rules of entertaining and forever being a good hostess. Always smiling, always easy, incapable of letting anyone know that the turkey came out of the oven and fell on the floor. If no one saw it, serve it. If the soufflé falls apart? Pretend it’s exactly the way it was supposed to happen. And if a hot ginger vet puts his face between your thighs and licks you until you come? Well, dear, just scream into a dish towel, because you’ve got guests in the other room.

Oh my. Where was this all coming from? Delayed reaction to seeing him in his bathing suit? Because, wow.

I arranged the cukes on the platter, clustering them next to the tomatoes. Due to my mother’s training, I knew how to cook, and I knew how to put together a beautifully thought-out table. And as it got closer to six thirty and the impending ginger kryptonite, this vegetable platter was the only thing keeping me from running to the bedroom and grinding on my hand for a few minutes.

What? Beauty queens get themselves off all the time. Believe me.

But the only thing I set myself to grinding was the pepper mill. Which I did, to the tune of “Come Fly with Me.” The house was equipped with stereophonic sound, hi-fi to the max, and the complete vinyl works of the Rat Pack. So while I handled my cucumber, I let Ol’ Blue Eyes romance me a little. To be clear, the Blue Eyes I was referring to was Frank . . . Oh, you know who I meant.

I swayed a little as I finished the platter, feeling my skirt swoosh around my knees. Maybe it was the influence of the house, but I’d been compelled to buy a very 1960s-looking dress in town the other day. Kelly green, it had little straps and a fitted bodice, empire waist with a full flaring skirt. Too much for a dinner that was only happening because I was messing with Marge? Maybe, but it made me feel pretty. I’d piled my blond hair into a bun on top of my head, but a few pieces had escaped as I twirled with my cucumber. I hadn’t quite decided on shoes, and was still pondering this when the doorbell rang. Barefoot, I danced to the door.

I peeked out at him through the colored glass, and I could just make out his features. Again I was reminded how very tall he was. Better go with the heels. Heels? This is Lucas—what was I making a big deal about? Taking a deep breath, I opened the door.

I took another deep breath almost immediately, because the only thing better on him than scrubs was a pair of comfortable-looking jeans and a navy blue sweater. Casual but probably cashmere, with the tiniest hint of white at the top where his undershirt showed through. I followed the column of his throat to his Adam’s apple: perfection; to his jaw: perfection; and then his lips—holy fudge: perfection. Just a few inches above were those eyes, set off by the navy in his sweater. Messy red hair, ruffled by the ever-present coastal breeze, completed the ad for Banana Republic that was currently being shot on my front porch.

In his hands? Not roses. No, he brought something unique, something unexpected. Dahlias. Deep red, almost burgundy, dinner-plate sized with velvety soft petals.

“Hey there, Rebound, you look pretty,” he said, his eyes taking me in. “These are for you.”

I was in so much trouble.

Following me inside, he stopped just before stepping down into the sunken living room. Marveling at the decor once more, he turned in a circle to take it all in. The leather couches, the scoop-back chairs, the built-in entertainment center complete with record player. Where Frank was now crooning “Summer Wind.”

“I still can’t get over this place; what a great vibe!” He turned in another circle, shaking his head. “Vibe. See? I’m already channeling the lingo, chickie baby.” He chuckled, snapping his fingers. “I feel like Bob Hope might stop by at any second.”

“He’s down on the golf course with Bing, but he’ll be along for cocktails,” I said with a laugh, and started for the kitchen. “Speaking of, can this chickie baby get you something to drink?”

He followed, and I could feel his eyes all over me. Did I swish my skirt a little more than was necessary? Oh my, yes.

“What do you think Frank and company would have to drink?” he asked, and I looked over my shoulder at him. His eyes were on my behind. And when caught? Didn’t even have the decency to blush. Naughty boy.

“Probably martinis, although I heard a rumor that Dean Martin rarely drank. It was part of his image, though, so whenever you’d see him on stage with a scotch? It was usually—”

“Tea. I heard that too. Iced tea, to keep up appearances,” he finished for me, and I nodded.

“Appearances are important,” I said, picking up the platter and then spinning to head back into the living room, where the tiki bar was. When I turned, he was right behind me.

“Well, hello,” I said, my carrots now pressing into his tummy.

“Hello,” he answered, reaching out to take the platter from my hands. “I’ll get that.” He looked down at the vegetables, then back up at me. “This looks impressive.”

“Just a little something before dinner,” I said, scooting him into the living room. Where the bar was—I needed a drink. He set down the tray and selected a pepper while I started to mix up two martinis. “Vodka or gin?”