Callista was lounging on her couch the next day, idly surfing the Internet when her cell rang. She sat straight up when McGarrett's name appeared.

"Hello?" she said.

"Callista, this is Steve. Up for dinner?"

She looked down at her grungy T-shirt and shorts and mentally groaned. She hadn't showered and she knew she looked terrible.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked, trying to stall as she leapt off the couch and skidded down the hall toward her bedroom.

"I make a mean lasagna." She halted, surprised. Was he saying he was cooking?

"Dinner at your place?" she asked.

"Or yours. Either works for me," he answered. She swallowed. Oh boy.


They stood in her kitchen, McGarrett washing dishes, Callista drying them. She had whipped up a salad to accompany his lasagna and loaf of sourdough bread.

They had covered every hilarious story from her squadron and his team, laughing until they cried. Now they quietly wrapped up dinner, only sharing a glance now and then.

McGarrett took the towel from her hands and pulled her close. Callista rested her hands on his broad shoulders, his T-shirt exemplifying the muscles beneath. He laid his hands on either side of her on the counter and lowered his head to gently kiss her.

Flames of desire started licking at her heels and she clung to him. He eventually broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers.

"I should go," he said so softly she almost didn't hear him.

Callista protested when he started to pull away.

"Callista. I must go," he said, as she resisted releasing her arms from his neck. She shook her head.

A shade rough, McGarrett grabbed her hips and pressed his against hers. Callista felt his arousal.

"Callista, if I don't leave right now, we are going to end up in bed and you aren't ready for us to go that far," he said hoarsely.