Right away, he decided he detested her bloke of an ex. Anthony Eaton had already dated two new starlets since Emmaline moved to Denver. Everything about him screamed extravagance. No wonder she was searching for more normal in her life after being married to that wanker.
Do it, Ethan. Do it.“Em, there’s something—”
A woman at the table next to them gasped and said louder than bloody necessary, “That’stheEthan Greene.”
He glanced up at the mention of his name, gave a head nod in acknowledgement to her, and then immediately regretted it because she seemed to take that nod as an invitation to come over for a yarn.
Ah well, maybe he could get her to post a selfie with them on her socials. Jack called that social media proof. He liked it when Ethan did stuff like that.
“Hello,” the woman said, moving between tables to get to them.
“Hello,” he replied, hoping though he was annoyed, his tone held enough warmth to relay his gratitude for visiting his establishment.
“You’re Ethan Greene,” she said, as though he didn’t know who he was. He got a right kick when people told him who he was.
“I am.” There wasn’t a lot he was always certain of, but this was one thing he held confidence about. “And this is my girlfriend, Em.”
“We had the bisque,” the guest gushed, not even giving Em the slightest bit of attention. “Absolutely delicious. Though, the breadsticks were a little too crunchy for my liking. The crunch”—she pulled an ick face—“is a bold choice if you ask me. It didn’t quite work out as you’d hoped.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed the bisque,” he said. Words he’d said billions of times over his career. “I think Em would enjoy the bisque as well.”
Em nodded with a wry smile. “I’m certain I would.”
“I’ll relay your message about the bread.” He’d relay that message to Pepper the cat, because those breadsticks were meant to be crunchy, and the kitchen staff didn’t need to worry about it.
This was not a chain restaurant where one could get fluffy breadsticks and a bowl of reheated soup for five dollars. Not that he was judgy, just his breadsticks were perfect as is.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Mary,” she responded. “This is my husband, Walter.” She waved to Walter to come say hi, but Walter was hiding behind his hand.
With that, Mary was off to the races once more with her in-depth critiques. Critique of the candlestick holders, the linen used for the tablecloths, and her hope that the herb-crusted lamb would knock her socks off more than the breadsticks, which barely blew at her feet.
Emmaline used her chameleon powers so no one noticed her.
But he noticed.
Which was why he pulled his attention from Mary’s gushing about the viscosity of the bisque and laid his gaze on Emmaline.
At that, she startled a bit. Only a small jerk of her head in surprise.
Was this surprise that he’d noticed her attempt to slide away into nothingness?
He gave her a soft wink he hoped would bring her back, even as the other woman continued to chatter on about the décor.
Thank hell Mary stopped long enough to breathe because he was a bit tired of all the comments.
“Would you believe that Em here is an artist?” Ethan asked. “A damn fine one, too.” He gave Em a subtle nod.
“Thank you,” Em said. “That’s very kind.”
Righto, she was going to get the hang of accepting praise yet.
Mary went into a slew of questions about Em’s art. Ethan sat back, happy to let Em have the spotlight.
“Mary, would you help me with a problem I have?” he asked conspiratorially when she finally wound down. He tossed on a dash of the charisma he sometimes—rarely—used when he needed something to go his way.
Eager as all get out to help, she nodded emphatically. “Anything.”
