Welcome to the Big House.

Allie sat in the driveway. She rechecked the address, looked up at the house, and then back at the address. She did this several times.

"Malibu, I have got to be in the wrong place. There was no way he could afford to live here on a Feds salary. He couldn't even afford the rent on a place like this."

She picked up her cell phone and texted him.

"Hey, I think I'm at the wrong house. But I am not 100% sure."

She gave him the address she had to double-check. He returned her message instantly.

"Hey there! That is the correct address. I am looking out my front window and can see you in the driveway. I'll meet you at the garage door. Come on in," he said.

She crept up the driveway, still wondering if she was at the correct house.

Caretaker, I think your boyfriend is a drug dealer. No wonder it took so long for him to invite you over.

"I'm beginning to think you're onto something. Look, I need you to vacate the premises." She tapped her head. "So, I will be getting a wee bit inebriated this evening. Plus, the ground rule of not watching anything sex-related."

Really? Tonight is the night? I still don't understand why you waited so long. You already had sex months ago.

"Yeah, but this is an actual relationship. I just wanted it to be unique, I guess. But I can't take much more heavy petting. So, I love you, but it's time to return to storage."

Alright. Have fun if you need me.

I know where to find you." She tapped the side of her head

Just like that, he went "return to storage".

She saw him standing there as she pulled up the driveway to the garage. He was in a pair of well-fitting blue jeans and a white polo shirt with an embroidered emblem on the breast pocket that said Stapleton Stables. He waved at her. His smile was beautiful, making parts of her tingle.

She got out of her car and headed towards the garage. Allie saw two vehicles in the garage and one in the driveway: his black truck and a royal blue Dodge Challenger.

"Hey! You made it," he said. He gave her a firm hug.

She could feel the definition of his muscles as he was pressed up against her. He was warm and smelled of soap and cologne. She didn't want him to let go, but unfortunately, they did have to break their embrace.

"I hope you like to cook," he said.

He put his arm around her and walked her through the garage.

"I cook," she said.

They entered his house and went into the kitchen.

"This is an amazing kitchen. It's so clean. Have you ever used it, or is it for the show?"

"I use it, but I don't do much cooking. I'm more of a smoothie, chicken breast, and salad guy. Not too much beyond that."

"Please tell me that's not what we are making today."

"No, I got one of the home chef kits for us to do," he said.

He put a pot of water on the stove. He took a leather roll of knives off the counter and put them on the center island. She looked at them, taking each knife out of the roll. They were elegant, balanced, comfortable, and lightweight. These were not a set of knives you picked up at Kohls. These were high-grade professional knives. She tried pronouncing the name on the blade.

"KULTRO... Am I saying that right?" she asked.

He put a large butcher's block on the counter. He started taking the ingredients out of the box.

"Yeah. That's right."

"These look like really pricey knives."

"They're a good set. I use these a lot. It's always good to have an impressive set of knives. If you like them, I can get you a set," he said.

Dean went to wash his hands. The water sprayed a little more than he had expected. He jumped back. His shirt was soaked, sticking to his body like a girl at spring break.

"Well, now that I have showered again, I am going to put on dry clothes. Feel free to start cutting and chopping. Give me a few minutes, and I'll be right back," he said.

He left the kitchen, and she heard him run up the stairs, taking two at a time.

Curious, she took her phone out of her pocket and googled KULTRO. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. This particular set of knives cost 3,450.00, which would pay her rent for about four months. She heard the floor creak upstairs and shoved her cell phone back into her pocket. She picked up one of the knives and started chopping an onion. She had to admit it was an exceptional knife. She heard his heavy footsteps come running down the stairs.

"That's better," he said.

He was in a USMC T-shirt. Like all his other shirts, it fits snugly across the chest and hangs looser towards his V-taper.

She looked up and smiled. "Nice shirt. Is it new?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"I really love these knives," she said.

"Do you want a set?" he asked. "You might get more use out of a set than I do."

"Well, as long as they don't cost a fortune, I might take you up on that."

"I'll have a set delivered to your house. I can order them later. Or now." He picked up his phone.

"Dean, it's a $3500 set of knives. Thirty-five hundred American dollars."

"And how would you know what they cost?" he asked. "You didn't even know if you pronounced the name correctly."

"It's called Google," she said.

She went back to the onion.

"SOOO... You don't want a set, then?" he said, smiling.

"We need music. I like to have music on when I cook."

"I have a great Spotify playlist," he said.

He turned on the music and put his phone on the counter.

"Come dance with me."

"No. I smell like an onion."

"That's okay. I like onions," he said. "I love this song, please."

"Alright," she said.

She wiped her hands on a towel.

He opened his arms, and she tucked herself close to him. His arms encased her.

James Arthur filled the kitchen.

'I met you in the dark.

You lit me up.

You made me feel as though I was enough.

We danced the night away.

We drank too much.

I held your hair back. You were throwing up.

Then you smiled over your shoulder.

For a minute, I was stone-cold sober.

I pulled you closely to my chest.

And you ask me to stay over.

I said I already told you,

I think you should get some rest.

Just say you won't let go.

Just say you won't let go.

I want to live with you even when we're ghost

I'm gonna love you till my lungs give out.'

They danced slowly. He put his hand under her chin and tipped her head up. They looked into each other's eyes. He brought his head down till his lips met hers.

It was a perfect moment, like in a storybook. She was the peasant girl, and he was the handsome prince. He pulled her close like he was trying to meld their bodies together. She put her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat. It was pounding out a quick rhythmic beat. She could feel the gentle bump against her cheek with each squeeze and release of the muscle.

She was never going to forget this song. For the rest of her life, she heard this song, and she will remember this moment. The feeling of their bodies together, his breath on the top of her head, the way they swayed together, the feeling of his lips on hers.

Music is a beautiful thing. It helps us make new memories and recall past ones, no matter how far back in our minds they may be stored. It evokes emotion, good and bad. The slow song faded out, and an upbeat song began to play. They didn't move—they just swayed back and forth.

"I think that should be our song," he said.

"I don't think I ever had an "our song" with someone. Then again, I have never cut onions with an $800 knife either."

Their embrace was broken by the sound of water hitting fire. The sizzle and the pop. He ran over and shut the burner off.

"I kind of forgot we were cooking dinner," he said.

She went up behind him and put her arms around his waist.

"I thought you said you were a good cook."

He turned to face her. Her arms stayed in place like a hula hoop.

"I never said I was a good cook. I said I can cook," he said.

He tapped her gently on her nose with his finger playfully.

She took another hefty swallow of her drink. "Maybe I should stop after this one. I already won't be able to drive myself home."

"Don't look at me," he said, holding his hands in the air. "You're welcome to stay here. You can have the bed, I'll sleep in the basement, or I can get Arthur to take you home."

"Or you can just stay in the big puffy cloud with me. What side is yours," she asked.

She drained her drink. "Whatever side you don't want," he said.

She didn't know if it was the sexual tension in the room or the alcohol, but her stomach was a flutter.

"Do we have dessert?" she asked. "I could use something sweet."

She turned and headed out of the room.

"I guess we're all done in here," he said to an empty room.

He caught up with her at the top of the stairs. He held her back and went in front of her.

"Maybe you should hold my shoulders, just in case."

"THAT is an excellent idea," she said. "Even if I fall, it will feel like hitting a brick wall."

"Come on, I have cannoli's from Corbos' in the fridge."

"Let's get moving. I love those. It's been so long since I've had those. Parking in Little Italy is always a fucking nightmare," she said.

"Let's take them downstairs and watch a movie."

She held his shoulders when they walked down to the basement. Somehow, she tripped down the stairs. She fell forward into his back. He wrapped her legs around his waistband and hitched her up on his back, and she propped her arms on his shoulders.

He carried her on his back till they reached the couch. He playfully dumped her off his back.

"Do I need to tip the driver?" she asked.

"A kiss would be nice for my services."

She pulled on his shirt, and he slowly went down over her, his arms braced on each side of her shoulders. *** Their lips met. Her tongue met his. He tasted like bourbon and rum. She wanted to kiss him till she was drunk. He pulled back a little and gave her one last kiss on the lips.

"I completely forgot the cannolis," he said.

"Seriously, Cowboy?"

"We still need to watch the greatest bar movie ever made, no offense to Coyote Ugly," he said with a smile.