Page 43 of Fifth Avenue Flirt

“Right,” he says. “So we’ve got the security figured out. Just gotta find the right person.” He turns to look at me and raises his eyebrows. “Want to put a fresh spin on bed-rotting Sunday?”

I push him away with my palm. “‘Wanna make a porn video with me’ isn’t a charming question to ask a woman. You should know that.”

“I’m not sure if it’s porn. More of a documentary if anything. But I’d pay a lot of money to be able to watch what happened between us last Saturday night.”

I turn to face the TV, determined that he shouldn’t see the flush of my cheeks or the way my thighs automatically squeeze together at the memories of Saturday night. “Put the TV on, Ben,” I say, my tone warning.

Ben sighs with mock disappointment and fluffs up his pillows behind him. We sit side by side, facing the TV as he presses the remote. “So what do we watch in the first hour of bed rotting?”

“There’s no set format. We watch what we want to watch.”

“So what do you want to watch? Seeing as we don’t have tapes of last Saturday night, because that would definitely be top of my list.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“But I have a nice arse. And I’m a rescuer of cats.”

“Now put on Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. That will calm your libido a little.”

Eventually, we find the entire series of the New York City outpost of the franchise. “Oh this,” I say. “Definitely this. You’ve probably banged a couple of these women. Let’s see.”

It starts to play and the housewives line up on the screen, holding out their apples for us all to be tempted by.

“Nope, haven’t slept with any of them, but I know a couple, and that one,” he says, pointing at the screen, “has definitely come on to me.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Is it so hard to believe that someone finds me attractive?” he says with a dramatic sigh.

I laugh.

We settle in and start on the first episode of the first season. I’m impressed that he doesn’t pull out his phone and start going through his emails or something else more productive. He commits, and I like him better for it.

“Is it like a mother-daughter show?” he asks, as Ramona and Avery appear in a scene just after Jill and Ally appear.

“No,” I say. “I haven’t watched this in a long time and everything evolves but I think they were trying to show people their real lives.”

“Right,” he says, studying the screen. “And this was how long ago?” he asks, when Countess Luanne appears.

“Twenty oh eight.”

“That tracks,” he says. “It’s been a while since I saw this look. And are these women still on the show?”

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“I’m a pretty smart guy. If I can’t keep up, then I’ll let you know.”

I bite back a smile. Obviously, I didn’t mean it was so complicated that he wouldn’t follow the ins and the outs of the cast and the recasting and Luanne coming back from being demoted to “friend of” for the first and only time in Housewives history. It’s more that I don’t think he’d find it interesting. And honestly, I feel a little embarrassed that I know as much as I do about a stupid TV show. This guy has spent his free time honing his skills as a chef and building a business.

“Seriously, I need to know if I’m going to get invested.”

“I think we need to fast-forward to season three. The cast doesn’t really work until Sonja’s in the mix.”

“Oh, I like to understand the background,” he says. “We can’t just fast-forward.”

“I can catch you up.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I have to start from the beginning.”