Ethan laughs. “Mercy, no, it’s one of my jobs. I also volunteer as a PE teacher at an underfunded school and do the personal trainer thing to raise money for the football team’s new uniforms, and that’s how I met your aunt.”
He’s sweet. “Wow, are you the male version of Mother Teresa?” I tease, pushing the regret to the back of my mind. Why couldn’t I have met him before my life blew up?
“Not quite. I went to Richardson High. It means a lot to me to give back.”
“That’s actually really cool.”
“What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
His brows shoot up. “Huh. When I think accountant, I picture my guy—old, stodgy, covered in age spots. Not gorgeous and witty like you.”Heat creeps up my neck, and I tuck a stray curl behind my ear, hoping he doesn’t notice the color in my cheeks.
“Numbers have always made sense to me.” Why couldn’t I have met him instead of Hayden? Instead of...
“Smart and beautiful. It’s my lucky day.”
“Laying it on thick, Ethan.”
He arches a brow. “Like peanut butter. Is it working?” I think of the gifts, his mind games. The way he invades even silence. I’m tired of being afraid. Tired of waiting for the shoe to drop. Screw Cyan. I deserve to live my life.
“You know what?” I take a breath. “You don’t have to wait until the end of this party. I’ll go out with you.” We exchange phone numbers, and I text him Cathy’s address.
His grin widens. “Great. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.” His light blue eyes are nothing like Cyan’s. There’s no danger in them, no turmoil, and for tonight and tomorrow, I let myself pretend that’s a good thing.
***
It’s date night, and Ethan has chalked up another point by showing up with a dozen pink roses. Aunt Cathy swoops in before I can even thank him, plucking them from my hands. “I’ll put these in water. You two head out and have fun.” She’s practically glowing. I think she’s enjoying this setup more than either of us.
The Italian restaurant he picks is perfect. Warm mood lighting spills from the chandeliers, catching the rustic wooden beams overhead. The air is rich with citrus, fresh herbs, and melted butter.
The food tastes even better than it smells. The pumpkin ravioli is velvety and buttery, melting on my tongue, along with the savory, sage brown butter, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes my lips. Across the table, Ethan watches me with a slow, amused grin.As I wipe a dab of sauce from the corner of my mouth. “Don’t judge me. It’s delicious.”
“No judgment here. I enjoy seeing a woman take pleasure in the little things.”
I laugh, setting down my fork. “How’d you know Italian food is my favourite?”
“I have my ways.” He takes a slow sip of red wine.
“My aunt,”
I caught a spark in his eyes. “If you had a cheat sheet for something you wanted, wouldn’t you use it?”
“Your equation has some validity.” I wink, making him laugh. For the first time in weeks, I feel... normal. Gesturing to his plate. “How’s the duck ragu?”
“Fantastic. Now thanks to you, Aria, I’m a homemade pasta convert. Cathy says you make amazing pasta dishes. Maybe one day, you’ll make me one?” Without knowing it Ethan hits a wound. My grandmother’s voice drifts through my mind.“Piccolo, when we make pasta, it is our love in physical form.”I blink the memory away, but Ethan catches my shift. His hand reaches for mine; his touch is gentle. “Cathy told me about your grandmother. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I just... miss the person she was, that’s all and—” A chill curls down my spine; the sensation is so strong I freeze mid-speech. I scan the restaurant, forcing my pulse to slow. Everything looks normal. Couples leaning in close, whispering over candlelit tables. Servers bustle from table to table, balancing steaming plates. My eyes land on a large table in the corner. The servers move around it, almost forming a barrier, and I can’t see who’s seated there.
“Aria?” Ethan’s voice tugs me back.
I snap my gaze to him, forcing a smile. “Sorry, just lost in thought.” I shake off this sudden unease and put on a smile. “L’amore per la buona cucina,” I say in Italian.
Ethan grins. “So, you’re a math nerd who also speaks Italian? What does that mean?”
“My grandmother taught me. It means the love of good food.”
“What other phases can you teach me?” I point at the table and different things in the restaurant, telling Ethan their names in Italian, and I really enjoy myself. We’re sharing a decadent tiramisu, the rich espresso-soaked layers melting on my tongue. Our waiter comes over to do a water glass check.
