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The car pulls up outside a charming brownstone in Park Slope. As we get to the door, Harper takes a steadying breath, then laces her fingers with mine.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Absolutely.”
A petite woman with dark hair and sharp eyes opens the door before we can knock. She looks as I’d imagined from Harper’s chats about her—already sizing me up like only the media can.
“So, it’s true,” she says. “Harper Bennett is willingly touching a corporate executive. I thought the photos might be doctored.”
“Hello to you too, Zoe,” Harper replies. “Yes, I’m well, thank you for asking.”
Zoe grins, unrepentant, then extends her hand to me. “Zoe. I’ve written three articles criticizing your company and have another ten lined up, no hard feelings.”
“Ethan Cole,” I reply, accepting her handshake. “I’ve read them all. Your lashing of our Caribbean shipping routes was top-notch journalism.”
She blinks, not expecting this response. “You read my articles?”
“I make a point of staying on top of any media scandal,” I explain. “It’s more useful than flattery sometimes.”
Her eyes narrow, reassessing me. “Interesting tactic.”
“Zoe, maybe let them come inside before beginning the inquisition?” A tall man appears behind her, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. “I’m Lucas. Welcome to our home. Please ignore my girlfriend’s lack of basic hospitality skills.”
“I’m making sure there is no stranger danger,” Zoe protests, but steps aside to let us enter.
Lucas shakes my hand, then kisses Harper’s cheek. “It’s good to meet the man who’s got our Harper breaking her ‘no dating corporate villains’ rule.”
“Lucas!” Harper looks mortified.
“What? It’s literally a framed rule in your apartment. Rule three, right after ‘no supporting fast fashion’ and ‘always know where your food comes from.’”
I laugh, amused by this insight into Harper’s life. “I’m glad to be the exception.”
“You’re not an exception,” Harper corrects. “I’m dating you because I like you, the corporate stuff is still up in the air.”
“That distinction is very important to her,” Zoe stage-whispers to me. “She’s repeated it at least twelve times.”
Their home is cozy and eclectic, filled with books, plants, and what appears to be Zoe’s collection of press credentials from magazines, and newspapers. Delicious aromas drift from the open kitchen, where Lucas returns to his cooking.
“Wine?” I offer, handing the bottle to Zoe.
She examines the label. “Well played, Cole.”
Harper shoots me an “I told you so” look while Zoe uncorks the bottle.
“So,” Zoe begins as she pours four glasses, “how did we get from ‘Harper throws champagne in your face’ to ‘Harper spends multiple nights per week at your apartment’? The journalistic timeline seems... compressed.”
“We bonded over turtle conservation and waste management systems,” Harper replies with a straight face.
“Sexy,” Lucas calls from the kitchen.
“You’d be surprised,” I murmur, earning a sharp elbow from Harper and a raised eyebrow from Zoe.
“The environmental assessment required close collaboration,” Harper explains more seriously. “I also fell on top of him in a race, did tantric yoga and gave him a massage.”
“I saw the sexual tension was off the charts,” Zoe adds helpfully. “It was obvious even from the social media clips.”
“Was not,” Harper protests.