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Ethan slides of the barstool, and leans in, whispering, “That’s fine. You know I feel about hate sex, little Bird.” He grabs our plates, and thankfully his back is to me while he rinses them because I’m starting to feel flustered again. And turned on. Hate sex was always fervent for us, and I don’t need to be recapping it all in my head. I jump off my chair just as Ethan turns around. “I need to get home,” I tell him. “Can I borrow your sweats? I can’t get into a cab in a t-shirt and panties.” Which reminds me, “And you owe me an outfit. You decimated everything I was wearing last night.”

Ethan’s smile goes from — nope, it’s been smug for the last twenty minutes. “Sure. I’ll replace what I ruined and have it delivered later this week.”

If I roll my eyes any harder, I’m going to see my own fucking memories and neural networks. Men. Rather than respond, I don’t want to encourage his flirtation, I spin on my heel, and head to the bedroom. I need to get back to my apartment, where I can be alone. I need to sort my head out before I go to work tomorrow.

“I’ll walk you out,” Ethan says when I’m dressed and ready to leave.

Which he does. Except he makes things worse because before I get into the waiting cab, he kisses me. And not just a peck on the lips like you would a friend. But like a lover. Ugh. This is not good, and I can’t even blame Ethan. In the safety of the taxi, I check my phone and see I have text from Harlan.

Call me when you’re home, Birdie. We need to talk. Please.

Not ready to face him, I leave it unanswered and switch my phone off. I have enough to keep me awake tonight, I don’t need to add Harlan and his engagement to the mix. I’ll deal with him when I’m ready. Which isn’t now. Or when I get back to my apartment and run a bath. Or when I curl up on the couch and find a movie to watch. Or when I crawl into bed. Definitely not then because all I can think about is Ethan and the inevitable what ifs that follow. Sufice it to say, I don’t get much sleep. I leave home earlier than usual, and even tired, I can appreciate the way the city slowly starts breathing, coming to life as people start their days. Taxies filling the streets, people either walking or jogging on the sidewalk. Not even the cold slows the city’s pace, it’s one of many things I love about living here. I round the corner, bundled in my coat and scarf, and my steps falter when I see Ethan standing outside the café, two large Starbucks cups in his hands. And the worst part is, it looks like he actually got sleep. Asshole. And yes, he looks good, too. Dressed in dark fitted jeans, low-top black leather sneakers, a navy button-down shirt, a black leather jacket and a black scarf, he could easily phone Vogue and book a photoshoot. He’s cover material. His hair his neat, a light dusting of hair over his cheeks and his chin. It’s not fair.

He grins when he sees me, and I find myself approaching with caution, despite having seen him yesterday, and you know, sleeping with him. I’d hoped being alone would help me come to some kind of resolution, but it only did the opposite.

“Venti cuppucchino, almond milk, two sugars,” he says, holding one out to me. Only then does he add, “Morning, Bird.”

I take the cup, and move to unlock the café’s front door. “What are you doing here?” I was hoping he’d leave me alone for a few days, allow me the chance to pull myself towards myself. I guess he’s still as impatient, and willful, as he used to be. Not everything about him has changed, it seems. He’s just better looking. Go figure.

He follows me inside, closing the door. Undeterred by my impoliteness, he replies, “I’m here for my interview.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I shake my head. “What interview?”

“I heard you need a patisserie chef.” He shrugs. “I’m here to interview for that position.”

I growl, and stomp to my kitchen, my relatively good mood dissipating with every step. “Are you determined to drive me mad?” I huff. “We can’t even be in the same room right now, and you want to take up residence in my kitchen? Yeah, I don’t think so, buddy.” So freakin’ arrogant. “Besides,” I whirl to face him, ignoring just how good he looks in my kitchen, “I’m the boss here, and you’ve never been able to work for someone else.” I quirk a brow, challenging him to contradict me.

“You’re not just someone else, and I know you need the help.” He starts removing his scarf, his leather jacket, and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. “Give me today, Birdie. By the time you close, if you don’t think it can work, I won’t show up tomorrow.” Not that I’m about to admit it, but I know he’s the kind of help I need. I just don’t like the idea of him being in this space when he’s already infiltrated every other space in my life in a matter of days. Daniel and Megan arrive hand-in-hand but stop short when they see Ethan. Daniel looks stunned, opening and closing his mouth like a fish before he manages to ask, “Why is Ethan Woods in your kitchen?”

Ethan sticks his hand out, and Daniel shakes his hand, a little too starstruck. “I’m helping in the kitchen today,” Ethan explains as if we’re not still debating it.

“I’m a fan,” Daniel says. “Daniel.”

Megan giggles next to him, and Daniel is quick to realize his blooper. “I mean, I’m Daniel, junior patisserie chef. And I’m a fan.”

“And I’m Megan.” She waves. “Waitress, and barista.”

“We make sure Boss Lady doesn’t go crazy,” Daniel adds, smiling in my direction.

“You must love your job.” Ethan glances at me. “Boss Lady here can be a real handful.”

I scowl, pursing my lips. “Am not,” I mutter. To Daniel and Megan, “Would you two mind getting the front ready, we have an hour before we open.”

Megan bounces to where her apron is, deposits her tote in our cubby, and does what I ask. Daniel’s gaze bounces between me and Ethan. “You want me in the kitchen today, or—”

I say yes at the same time Ethan says I’ve got it. Perplexed, Daniel scratches his head, and nods. “Okay then. I’ll be out front with Megan.” Foregoing his chef’s jacket, he grabs an apron instead and tells Ethan, “Chef jackets are in the cubby.”

I lean against one of the workstations, pinching the bridge of my nose. Thank you, Monday. You always were an asshole.

“Glad that’s settled.”

I look up, and something about the upturn of Ethan’s lips tells me he’s enjoying this too much.

“One day,” I tell him, finding my own chef’s jacket and slipping it on.

“I forgot how cute you look in one of those.”

Gah! “Shut up,” I snap. “We have work to do.”

And then it hits me. “Fuck’s sake,” I moan into my hands. “I forgot to plan my menu for today.”

“Like you don’t know how to wing it, Bird,” Ethan teases. Rubbing his hands together, he says, “Right, Boss Lady, where do you want me?”

A deaf person would be able to hear the sexual innuendo, but I’m not touching it with ten foot pole.

I do, however, enjoy telling him what to do. All. Day. Long.