My definition of a perfect evening has always been watching television in bed while eating chips and/or peanut M&Ms and reading a hot romance at the same time.

Boy, have I been wrong all these years. My new definition of a perfect evening is what's happening right this second. Mack has his head between my legs, and he's doing something with his tongue.

Something wonderful.

I squirm against him. "There! There! Yes!" I call out. He's very good at this. Like he should teach classes.

"Do. Not. Stop," I order. Poor guy. He's been doing this for a while, and I'm slightly concerned his tongue will get injured-repetitive stress injury-but he seems unconcerned. Like he could go all night.

Oh, God. I hope he can go all night.

Despite his cardio fitness, I reach my end a minute later. My body crosses a bridge of heightened arousal until I peak in an uncontrollable seizure. I cry out, "Mack!", levitating off the bed for a second and then floating back down with my heart slowed to an unnatural rhythm.

"The little death," the French call it. Died and gone to heaven is more like it.

Despite dying, Mack doesn't stop. He takes his tongue on the road all over my body, kissing and tasting and biting his way to every nook and cranny. His hands are everywhere, too. I must have been Mother Theresa in my past life to deserve this, I figure. If this isn't Nirvana, I can't imagine what is.

With every inch of me kissed and loved, he cradles my body in his large arms and kisses my face. I'm spent. Totally relaxed. I'm a limp noodle. But his noodle isn't limp at all. Nope. He's got a very stiff noodle, and I get the impression he has all kinds of plans for his stiff noodle.

He holds me as if I'm the most valuable thing on the planet. And he holds me like I'm his. "I should have done this the first time you walked into my diner two years ago," he says.

"That might have been odd, us naked with you on top of me, especially since I walked in that day during the lunch rush."

"No, you didn't. You came in at three. It was dead." He sucks on my earlobe, and I caress his shoulders.

"No, you're wrong. The place was packed. I had to sit at the counter," I say.

Mack stops sucking on my earlobe and moves off of me. He sits on his knees at the edge of the bed. "It was three o'clock. You were the only one in the place. The fry cook was even on his break."

I sit up and cover myself with the comforter. "Your memory's faulty. It was packed. It took you forever to wait on me. I think I ordered the special."

"My memory is perfectly fine," he growls. "You came in at three. You ordered chili cheese fries, paid in quarters and dimes, and you didn't tip me."

"You own the place. Customers aren't supposed to tip the owner."

"I'm just pointing out the facts."

"It sounds like you think I'm cheap," I yell. Duh. Of course he thinks I'm cheap. I'm really cheap. I'm like Scrooge, but cheaper.

"I didn't say that." His face twitches. "I just wanted to prove that I remember that day."

"I knew this wouldn't work," I say. I wrap myself in the comforter and roll off the bed. I walk toward the bathroom and stand in the doorway wearing my best pissed off expression. "You insist on being right all the time. But you're never right. Never. You make me so mad!"

I stomp my foot and then stomp it a second time to really make my point.

Mack is angry, too. He runs his fingers through his hair, and his noodle looks cooked. He stands up in all his nakedness and marches toward the pile of clothes. I figure he's going to get dressed and take me home, that our little romantic experiment is over. But he removes his wallet.

"Are you going to pay me?" I ask, affronted and hopeful at the same time.

"You came into my diner two years ago," he says. "It was August 12. A Sunday. I had finished with the after-church crowd, and I was tired and out of butter. I gave my fry cook a couple of hours off and told him to go to the grocery store."

"Are you one of those photographic memory people?"

"Don't interrupt," he says, wagging his finger at me. "You came into the diner. You were wearing a flowery skirt and a t-shirt with "I hated flies until I opened one" written on it. With the sun shining through the windows behind you, I could see right through your skirt. You were wearing Hello Kitty panties. Pink."

"This is getting specific."

"You made a crack about the diner being empty and how long would you have to wait to get a table. I told you to sit anywhere. You proceeded to sit at every table in the place."

"Proceeded? Big word."

"I yelled at you to stop it, and you said, 'You told me to sit anywhere.' I said, 'I don't serve smart mouths'. You said you were hungry. I pointed at the door, but you wouldn't go. It went on for a while. Finally, you said, 'If I promise never to be a smart mouth again, will you feed me?' You wrote your promise down on a napkin, and I fed you."

Mack opens his wallet and takes out a soggy, folded piece of paper. He carefully unfolds it, I see that it's not paper. It's a napkin. He hands it to me.

In my handwriting is a note. I can barely make it out, but I manage. "I promise not to be a smart mouth to the jerkface diner guy so that he will feed me," I read.

"You kept this?" I ask, astonished.

Mack takes the napkin back and lays it out carefully on the nightstand, I suppose to dry out.. "Of course, I did. I fell in love with you the first moment I met you."

My mouth turns dry, and I have difficulty swallowing. "You fell in love with me because I insulted you on a napkin?" I croak.

"Either that or it was your Hello Kitty panties that got me. It's a toss up."

I let the comforter drop to the ground, and I walk over to him. "You win," I say. "Your memory is better than mine."

"I won the moment you came into my life, Marion." His eyes are huge and dark. The blue has turned almost black.

"I think you deserve a happy ending," I say.

"Being with you is my happy ending."

"Don't be so literal, jerkface diner guy," I say and drop to my knees. Turnaround is fair play, after all.

*

"You have to turn down the grill. You're going to burn the steaks," I tell Mack. We've finally made it upstairs after hours of rolling in the hay. With everything we've done, we could add another volume to the Kama Sutra.

But we're tired-I think we've run out of bodily fluids-and starving. My stomach is rumbling louder than Mack's is growling.

"You're telling me how to cook?" he growls, holding steak prongs in a threatening manner. I'm dressed in a pair of his boxers and an undershirt. He's dressed the same. His hair is a tangle, and his lips are chapped.

The upper deck of his boathouse is dark except for the lights of the barbecue, and we have a breathtaking view of the night sky with all its stars. The kitchen is stocked with food and drinks, and the cushioned seats are more than comfortable. Mack insisted that he cook for me, and I didn't refuse, but he's sure to burn the steaks.

"Yes, I'm telling you how to cook when you're going to burn the steaks. You have to turn down the heat," I say, maneuvering to reach the BBQ controls.

"Woman, don't touch my grill. There's no community property where grills are concerned." He towers over me. He's imposing and drop dead gorgeous.

"You don't scare me," I say. Not really scared. But wary. I step back from his grill. I don't mind burned steaks.

"Steaks have to be cooked on high to seal in the juices," he explains. He's also made a salad and a sauce to go over the steaks.

"Your ability to cook is almost sexier than that thing you do with your tongue," I say, taking a seat.

"Your tongue isn't half bad, either."

He turns on the radio and smooth jazz comes out. Mack gives me his hand, and I take it, standing. He slips one hand around my waist and begins to dance me around the deck. He's an amazing dancer. As smooth as the jazz.

"What's that sound?" he asks.

"I think it's Marvin Gaye."

"No, not the music. Listen."

There's a faint sound. "Heavy breathing? Do you have another woman onboard?"

"No. I don't do that until the second date."

He dances me to the railing. We see and hear a woman running along the shores of the lake. She's dressed in layers of sweats and hoodies, even though it's a hot summer's night. I recognize her, immediately.

"Raine? What the hell are you doing?" I call as she gets closer.

"Must-lose-forty-pounds," she struggles to call back while running. She sounds like a locomotive.

"We might need to call the paramedics," I whisper to Mack. "You're beautiful just as you are! Stop running. It's two in the morning!" I yell at Raine.

"I'm not going to stop running until I'm a size six!" she yells back and runs out of our line of sight.

"Women are nutjobs," Mack says.

The music on the radio changes to Luther Vandross. "Women are not nutjobs," I say. "Women are wonderful. Raine is perfectly sane. Men just make women slightly unbalanced because men are jerks."

"You think running in the middle of the night to lose forty pounds in a week is only slightly unbalanced?"

"Yes," I lie. "It's not her fault. It's the wiener Wade's fault. Why do men want to sleep with a bone?"

"I don't want to sleep with a bone," he says, smiling. He gives my backside a squeeze.

I stop dancing and push away from him. "What does that mean? Are you calling me fat?"

"Uh-"

"I'm not a bone, but I'm not fat!"

Mack's mouth is open, and he looks like I just told him his favorite golden retriever was dead again. "I didn't mean-I wasn't trying-oh, hell," he says.

I hear Raine approaching on her latest lap. "Mack says I'm fat!" I call out as she gets close to the boat.

"Remember I'm catering your wedding!" she calls back.

"Wedding? There's no wedding!" I shout. "Nobody's getting married here!"

"I'll give you a choice of beef or fish!" she huffs and puffs. "Nobody wants chicken at a wedding."

On the radio, Luther Vandross's song ends, and the DJ comes on to announce the time as 2:30 AM. "And for that lucky someone in Esperanza who picked the right lottery numbers, today, congratulations," he says. "Sixty-five million dollars. Spend it, wisely, lucky person. I know a certain DJ you could spend it on! Just kidding. But here's those lottery numbers, in case you missed it: 1-2-13..."

"Christ," Mack says. "Do you know what this means?"

"... 24-36..." the DJ continues.

"Yes," I say, pointing at the grill, which is billowing out smoke. "You burned the steaks."

The End