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“I have game!” I protest, though my wardrobe leans toward practical rather than sexy.
“You have academic game. Different sport.” She stands, already going into my bedroom. “Show me your options.”
Thirty minutes later, after rejecting everything in my closet (“How do you own six identical black blazers but no decent date dresses?”), Zoe approves a simple green wrap dress I’d forgotten I owned.
“This works,” she declares. “Casual enough for dinner at his place but still shows off your figure. And green brings out your eyes.”
“He mentioned liking me in green,” I admit, remembering his text on the plane.
“See? The man has taste.” She eyes me. “Now, underwear.”
“Absolutely not. I draw the line at my best friend selecting my knickers.”
“Fine, but please tell me you have something sexier than cotton for this date.”
The flush rising to my cheeks answers before I can.
“Harper Bennett!” Zoe looks delighted. “You’ve been planning this all along!”
“Not all along,” I correct her. “But I may have purchased something... appropriate... at the ship’s boutique. For research.”
“Research,” she repeats with a knowing grin. “Of course.”
By six-thirty, I’m dressed, my hair falling in loose waves around my shoulders, minimal makeup applied with more care than usual. The butterflies in my stomach feel like bats—I’ve already been intimately involved with this man multiple times. There’s no logical reason for first-date nerves.
Yet here they are.
Zoe gives me a last inspection before leaving. “You look fantastic. Smart and sexy, which is your whole brand, anyway.”
“I have a brand?”
“Absolutely. Brilliant but hot scientist who doesn’t take corporate bullshit.” She grins. “Apparently it works on billionaire CEOs.”
“Just one specific billionaire CEO,” I correct her, checking the address Ethan texted one more time before ordering an Uber.
“For now. You might start a trend.” She hugs me at the door. “Call me tomorrow with full details. And Harper?”
“Yes?”
“If it feels right, go for it. Complications and all. I haven’t seen you this excited about a man... well, ever.”
Her observation follows me into the Uber and throughout the ride to Ethan’s address in Tribeca. Am I so different? So affected by what’s happened between us?
The butterflies intensify as the car pulls up to his building—sleek, modern, and expensive without being cocky. The doorman greets me by name, expecting me, he directs me to the private elevator that serves only the penthouse.
“Mr. Cole is expecting you,” he says.
The elevator requires a keycard, which the doorman provides. As it ascends to the top floor, I take deep breaths, reminding myself that this is just dinner with a man I’ve already slept with multiple times. No reason for this fluttering sensation in my chest or the slight sweatiness of my palms.
When the doors open into Ethan’s apartment, all coherent thoughts are gone.
The space is stunning—floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city, the decor modern but warm, with attention to sustainability in the reclaimed wood furniture and living green wall. But it’s the man standing in the open kitchen area, sleeves rolled up as he stirs something that smells incredible, that captures my attention.
Ethan looks up at the sound of the elevator, his face breaking into a genuine smile that makes my heart perform a gymnastic worthy flip.
“You’re right on time,” he says, setting down his wooden spoon and crossing to greet me. “Punctuality—yet another thing we have in common.”
“Professional habit,” I reply, unsure of the appropriate greeting. Do I shake his hand? Kiss his cheek? Jump into his arms?