26. Ethan #3
She presses a hand briefly to her chest as if wounded. “Not entirely.”
“Then I rest my case.”
Her eyes are still bright when she says, “Fine. No culinary vengeance. We’ll do something good and achievable.”
“We.”
She points at me again. “You live here too, billionaire. You don’t get to hand me social logistics and then stand back looking structurally handsome while I do all the work.”
I say nothing, because ‘structurally handsome’ isn't a phrase I'm prepared to process responsibly.
She seems to realize what she’s said a second too late, because her mouth parts slightly, then closes.
Captain chooses that exact moment to thrust the plush plane against my shin.
Useful dog.
I bend, pick it up, and hand it back to him. “I’ll assist where required.”
Addy clears her throat and returns to the list with a concentration that's almost certainly manufactured. “Good. Then you can do the wine.”
“That seems manageable.”
“And possibly flowers.”
I look at her. “Flowers?”
“Yes. People bring girlfriends to dinner, and then women like me have to see whether the host is civilized.”
“I'm civilized.”
She lifts a brow. “You say things like I reward useful.”
“That's civilized in certain industries.”
“It's not civilized in homes.”
I lean back slightly on the stool. “Would flowers improve your assessment of my social viability?”
Her gaze flicks up to mine. “Potentially.”
“Then I’ll buy flowers.”
That seems to give us both somewhere safer to stand.
“Good,” she says, writing it down. “See? Growth.”
“Don’t get sentimental.”
“I would never.”
Oliver appears in the doorway then, holding two magnetic tiles and wearing the expression of a child in possession of urgent policy concerns. “Captain broke the runway.”
Captain, traitor to infrastructure, wags once.
Oliver looks at me. “Are people coming over?”
“Yes. Saturday.”
He nods solemnly. “Can I show them my airport?”
“Yes,” I say.
Addy adds, “Provided it passes safety inspection.”
Oliver narrows his eyes at her with theatrical suspicion. “You always say that.”
“Because I believe in standards.”
He accepts that, mostly, and returns to the living room with Captain following close behind.
The apartment quiets again.
Addy taps the pen once more against the paper. “All right. Menu options.”
I look at the page. “You’ve already made categories.”
“Of course I have. You brought me variables and no operating system.”
I should probably leave her to it.
Instead, I stay where I am while she talks through possible mains, side dishes, dessert options, the relative social meaning of roasted chicken versus pasta, and why men with too much money always underestimate the persuasive power of good bread.
I offer practical input where necessary.
She rejects some of it on principle.
I reject one of her dessert ideas because it sounds awful.
She accuses me of having no whimsy.
I tell her whimsy has never improved a risk profile.
She informs me that's the least sexy sentence ever spoken in a kitchen.
I don’t respond to that at all.
By the time we finish, there's an actual plan. Sensible, good, understated. The sort of dinner that suggests confidence rather than performance. Addy seems satisfied with it. More importantly, she seems entertained.
I find, unexpectedly, that I am too.
When she finally sets the pen down, she looks over the page, then at me. “There. Casual. Competent. Socially acceptable. Minimal chance of collapse.”
“You make that sound ambitious.”
“With your friends?” she says dryly. “It is.”
I stand, take the list, and glance over it once. “This will work.”
“Obviously.”
I hand it back. Our fingers brush for only a second. Her breath catches so faintly I might have imagined it if I didn’t know better. Neither of us comments on it.
Instead, she takes the paper and says, “I’ll handle the shopping tomorrow.”
“I’ll have the wine delivered.”
She nods. “And flowers.”
“I won’t forget the flowers.”
“Look at you,” she says. “Domesticated.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“No, probably not.” Her smile returns, smaller now. “But it’s cute that you tried.”
“Don’t let it damage your professional respect for me.”
“That was never in danger.”
Oliver shouts from the living room that Captain has now violated “international airport law,” which is apparently severe enough to require adult intervention.
Addy closes her eyes briefly. “I should go stop the Federal Aviation Dog before he gets sanctioned.”
“That seems wise.”
She starts toward the living room, then glances back once over her shoulder. “Seven on Saturday, then.”
“Yes.”
“And Ethan?”
I wait.
She smiles, quick and bright and dangerous in ways I’m trying not to classify. “Try not to invite any more emotionally expensive geniuses between now and then.”
Then she disappears down the hall before I can answer.
I remain in the kitchen, looking at the list she left on the counter, listening to her voice blend with Oliver’s and Captain’s madness in the next room.
Dinner on Saturday.
A simple evening. Old friend. New girlfriend. Good food. Manageable conversation.
It should be straightforward.
Given my life, that alone is reason not to trust it.