Amber: And text us if he's a serial killer.
Maya: He's not a serial killer. Serial killers don't hire personal shoppers.
Chloe: That we know of.
I roll my eyes but can't stop smiling.
By the time six o'clock rolls around, I've showered, changed into a simple black dress that's professional but not boring, and given myself a pep talk in the mirror.
"It's just dinner. A working dinner. You're professionals."
My reflection doesn't look convinced. My brain isn’t either.
I grab my bag, double-check that I have my notebook and laptop, and head out.
The gate opens before I even press the button this time, and I wonder if Ethan was watching for me.
When I pull up to the house, he's standing on the porch again. This time in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that makes his eyes look even more intense.
"Hi," I say, suddenly nervous.
"Hi." He smiles. "Come in."
I follow him inside, and the smell of garlic and herbs hits me immediately.
"Are you cooking?" I ask, surprised.
"I am."
"You cook?" I wish I could take it back the second it’s out of my mouth.
"Why do you sound so shocked?" He glances over his shoulder, amused.
"I just... I don't know. I assumed you had a chef or something."
"I like cooking. It helps me unwind after long days in the OR."
Of course he does. Because he's not just devastatingly attractive and wealthy. He's also domestic.
I'm doomed.
He leads me into the kitchen, where a pot is simmering on the stove and a cutting board is covered with fresh vegetables.
"I hope you like pasta," he says.
"I love pasta."
"Good." He hands me a glass of wine. "Red okay?"
"Perfect."
I take a sip, and it's delicious. Smooth and rich with just a hint of spice.
"This is really good," I say.
"It should be. It cost more than your car."
I nearly choke. "Excuse me?"
