26. Ethan #2
He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “A very scrappy, deeply underfunded beginning, yes.”
“Underfunded,” I say, “is one way to describe it.”
“Character building,” Bee counters.
“Financially negligent,” I correct.
He grins. “And yet. Glass tower.”
The afternoon at the office goes better than expected.
Bee falls into technical conversation with the same dangerous ease he always had, walking through the revised sequence with my engineers as though he never left, spotting two interface inefficiencies and one redundancy in under twenty minutes.
Sara regards him the way she regards unexpected weather: with immediate suspicion and reluctant acknowledgment when it proves useful.
Celeste lasts an hour before the combination of screens, code, and three men arguing about stabilization thresholds drives her toward the executive lounge with the expression of someone making a long-term decision about whether this relationship is worth developing.
By five thirty, Bee has confirmed what I already suspected. The threshold adjustment should resolve the hesitation. The demo sequence can be simplified without losing authority. And the old instincts he brought into the room, however insane in delivery, remain intact in substance.
As I walk him and Celeste back toward the elevators, he says, “You should feed me for this.”
“I fed you at lunch.”
“That was transactional. I mean socially.”
“That sounds worse.”
He smirks. “Then say no.”
I consider it for less than a second. “Come to dinner this weekend.”
Bee looks pleased with himself immediately. “There it is.”
“Don’t make me retract it.”
“I won’t. What night?”
“Saturday.”
He glances at Celeste. “We’re free.”
She smiles politely. “I assume this will be less code-heavy than today.”
“No,” Bee says.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
She laughs. “One of you is lying.”
“Statistically,” I tell her, “it’s him.”
The elevator arrives. Bee steps inside, then turns back before the doors close. “Looking forward to seeing the domestic side of the empire, Strong.”
The phrasing is careless enough that I almost miss the faint irritation it causes.
Domestic side.
An odd thing to notice.
An even odder thing to hate.
I say only, “Seven.”
Then the doors close.
By the time I get home, evening has already settled over the city.
The penthouse is warm when I step inside, the kind of lived-in warmth that changes the scale of the space without altering anything visible.
Light from the kitchen spills into the hall.
Somewhere deeper in the apartment, Captain’s nails click against the floor with the unmistakable speed of approaching enthusiasm.
Then he appears at a run and collides into my legs.
“Good evening to you too,” I say.
He circles once, tail moving as a structural hazard, then charges off again toward the kitchen as if to announce my arrival to the rest of the household.
I take off my coat and follow.
Addy is at the island with a pen in one hand and a grocery list in front of her, reading the back of a pasta box with the concentration of someone evaluating legal language. She glances up when I enter.
“Hi,” she says.
“Good evening.”
She sets the box down. “You’re later than usual.”
“I had company.”
Her brows lift slightly. “At work?”
“Yes.” I loosen my tie and set my phone on the counter. “An old friend was in town.”
“Oh,” she says. “Nice friend? Or one of those old friends men keep around for mysterious reasons and mutual blackmail.”
“Somewhere in the middle.” I glance toward the living room. “Where’s Oliver?”
“Building an airport out of magnetic tiles and issuing regulations to Captain, who isn't complying.”
“That tracks.”
I move closer to the island and nod toward the list. “What’s this?”
“I was trying to work out dinner for tomorrow and accidentally found myself in a spiral about whether children need variety or whether all nutritional stability is basically just yogurt in different forms.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
I rest one hand against the counter. “We’re hosting dinner on Saturday.”
That gets her full attention. “We are?”
“Yes.”
Then, with entirely unnecessary satisfaction: “Interesting use of the word we.”
I ignore that. “Bee and his girlfriend.”
She stills for a fraction of a second, then says, “Bee?”
“Yes. We built the original stabilization framework together before he left the company, and he’s come to visit. He came by the office. He was useful.”
“Wow.” She looks up again. “You saying someone was useful feels like a major professional love language.”
“It isn’t.”
“Sure.”
I decide not to argue that point. “They’ll be here at seven.”
Addy taps the pen against the paper. “Okay.”
“You sound concerned.”
“I’m assessing.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It might be.” Her eyes narrow with mock seriousness. “What level of dinner are we talking about?”
I look at her. “Level?”
“Yes. Casual but expensive? Effortless billionaire chic? Formal enough that I need to pretend I know which fork means diplomacy? There are categories.”
I take in the current state of the kitchen, the list, the pen, the cardigan sliding slightly down one shoulder.
“Casual.” I add, “But competent.”
“That's such an Ethan answer.” She makes a face at me, then flips the paper over and writes SATURDAY DINNER across the top in large letters. “Fine. Casual but competent. Is your friend high maintenance?”
“Yes.”
“Emotionally or gastronomically?”
“Yes.”
She laughs, quiet but genuine, and my chest eases before I can stop it.
“Okay,” she says, leaning over the page. “Then we need information. What does he eat?”
“Everything.”
“That’s not helpful. What about the girlfriend?”
“Less clear.”
“Great.” She points the pen at me. “This is exactly how dinner parties become crimes.”
I pull out the stool opposite her and sit. “It’s four people. Hardly a party.”
She gives me a look. “In rich people homes, four guests and good lighting absolutely counts.”
“I’ll note your expertise.”
“You should.” She scans the page. “Do they drink wine?”
“Yes.”
“Red, white, specific labels, weird opinions?”
“Probably all of the above.”
“Excellent. Nightmare category.”
Captain reappears then and deposits a slobbery plush plane at Addy’s feet.
She glances down. “Thank you. Your contribution is noted.”
He wags with the satisfaction of a man who believes he has solved dinner.
I look toward the living room as Oliver’s voice carries faintly down the hall explaining, to no one in particular, that there are “strict air traffic rules” in place.
Addy hears it too and smiles without looking up.
Then she turns back to the list and says, “Do you want me to cook or should we order in and plate it like suspiciously elegant frauds?”
I consider both options. “You can cook for a dinner party?”
Her head comes up so fast I almost regret the question. “Yes, I am, in fact, a fully functional adult.”
“I didn’t say otherwise.”
“You implied it with your face.”
“I don’t know what expression you mean.”
“The one that suggests you thought I might accidentally poison your guests with enthusiasm.”
“That wasn't my concern.”
“What was?”
I hold her gaze. “That you’d attempt something unnecessarily ambitious out of spite.”
She stares at me for one beat.
Then she laughs so hard she has to set the pen down.
“That,” she says, “is offensively specific.”
“Was I wrong?”