I took the drink and sniffed it.
“It’s not going to poison you.”
I needed a bit of liquid courage, so I took a sip. My eyebrows shot up. “It’s good,” I said.
Leah nodded. “I told you. Listen: Just have a good time tonight. I don’t know why you are so nervous. He’s hot, but so are you.”
“And that, Leah Thompson, is why I love you.”
She beamed. “Right back at you.”
I didn’t know why I was nervous. It wasn’t because I was about to have dinner with a Roman god. Well, that wasn’t the whole reason. I guess I was just so sick of trying to find the right guy and going through this process of getting dressed up, flirting, touching, kissing. Sharing things and then being hit with the inevitable realization that he wasn’t the right guy. It had just been another waste of time. It was exhausting. I was sick of it.
Ethan definitely wasn’t the right guy. Way too smooth. Way too charming. Way too 3,000 miles away. Way too …
The intercom buzzed and Leah answered.
“You look beautiful,” he said when I opened the door. He kissed me on the cheek. What else could I do but let him? He was way too hot.
I’d dressed conservatively on purpose. I didn’t want him to think I was a sure thing. Even though I was totally a sure thing, I didn’t have to dress like it. I’d worn palazzo pants and a long-sleeved, silk, cream shirt. The concession to sexiness was that shirt buttoned low so I couldn’t wear a bra with it.
“Thanks. Let’s go.”
“Do you want to come in for a cocktail?” Leah shouted from behind me.
I shook my head. “No,” I shouted back.
“I wasn’t asking you,” she replied.
“Let’s go,” I said to Ethan, and he backed out the door as I grabbed my clutch from the console table and I pulled the door behind us.
“Cocktail making isn’t a core skill for Leah,” I explained.
Ethan nodded.
I felt his hand on my back as we waited for the elevator.
“You look beautiful. Did you enjoy your afternoon?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Pretty Woman?”
I nodded again.
“You? Did you have a good afternoon … constructing?”
Ethan laughed throatily. “I was a little distracted after seeing you at lunchtime, but yes, it wasn’t bad.”
Way. Too. Smooth.
“Thanks for lunch,” I said quickly realizing I’d not thanked him sooner.
“It was my pleasure.”
“Thanks for dinner.”
He laughed again. “Don’t thank me yet. You might hate it.”
