“Not big on cooking?”
“Eh, living alone… Too much of a bother. Besides, the last thing I want to do is cook when I finally get some free time.”
He gave her a look. “What’s the first thing you want to do?”
“Relax, enjoy a few drinks, not think about anything. Great for de-stressing.”
Your mind, perhaps, but not your liver, the irritating little voice that sounded remarkably like her doctor’s reminded her.
Fifteen minutes later Ethan parked in the underground garage of a glitzy condominium tower in Arlington. He helped her out, and they rode an elevator with
mirrored walls to his penthouse.
The instant the door to his penthouse opened, the aroma of Italian food wafted out. A fabulous blend of thyme, rosemary and oregano mingled with tomato sauce and cheese made her stomach growl with impatience.
“Hope you like lasagna,” he said with a grin so unexpectedly boyish and charming it pierced her heart.
“Oh, absolutely.”
He went to the kitchen and checked on the oven. “Done in ten more minutes.” He slid an aluminum foil-wrapped, oblong object into a smaller oven below.
Curious to see Ethan’s home turf, Kerri checked the place out while he was busy among his stainless steel kitchen appliances. An impressively long, floor-to-ceiling glass wall started from the kitchen, stretched into the dining room and wrapped around the living room in a fluid curve. This high up, she could see a glimpse of the Potomac and the pale spire of the Washington Monument. Dying sunlight spilled through the glass like liquid gold. Elegant rugs covered the gleaming hardwood floor, all of them looking thick and luxurious. There was a skylight in the cathedral ceiling above.
Built-in shelves crammed with books, movies and a few framed pictures surrounded a giant fireplace. Kerri purposely avoided looking at the photos and instead noted the expensive TV and sound system. Of course, she thought. There was a vase full of crimson roses and baby’s breath on a table by one of the couches. Overall, the place was warm, inviting and not at all like a bachelor pad cliché. Or like her old place in Hong Kong, which had been Spartan and functional.
There was no hint of a housekeeper. She glanced at Ethan, who was still in the kitchen arranging various serving dishes. “Did you cook all that yourself?”
“Yes. And just so you know, you’re about to be treated to the Lloyd family’s super-secret sauce. I don’t make it often.” He pulled a large bowl of salad from the oversized fridge and came out to place it on the pale blue glass-top table. It was already set with elegant white dinnerware and a dark vase full of fresh calla lilies. A bottle of Merlot had been uncorked, the wine left to breathe.
Given how self-assured he was, this dinner was going to be either a complete train wreck or mind-blowingly delicious. She could guess which since this was Ethan in the kitchen. He exuded a confidence that said he knew exactly what he was doing at all times. He’d probably led a charmed life from the moment of conception: a loving home, adoring parents, siblings he was close to, fabulous friends…
As a general rule, Kerri envied people like that. She’d never experienced a loving home or any of the rest of it. No siblings, for one. Her mother had been bipolar, giddily happy one minute, sobbing and tearing her hair out the next. Her father was dead, and her grandparents, ostensibly charged with raising her, had shipped her off to a European boarding school as soon as she’d turned three, and no one seemed to consider that she might have wanted to stay in the same place for a few years at least. Every time there had been a report of an accident or crime, her mother had found out about it and panicked. “That could’ve been Kerri!” she’d say and have an episode. So Barron would put Kerri in a new school. Going through an entire grade in the same place had only happened once. More often than not, she’d been transferred after a quarter or semester—admissions policies never really applied to her since Barron always got what he wanted—and she’d never had an opportunity to get to know anybody. She’d gone through almost every elite boarding school in Europe, and hadn’t returned to the States until she’d been accepted to Yale.
But it was hard to begrudge Ethan, with his quick grin and those sharp eyes that warmed when he smiled. If not for his personal charisma, she might have been able to resist him way back when.
He served dinner. She took a bite of the lasagna and actually moaned. “Oh my god. If the business world ever implodes, you can always make a living as a chef.”
A fiery look crossed his eyes quickly—so fast she almost missed it. “Glad you like it.”
“Where on earth did you learn to cook like this?”
“Like I said, the recipe’s a family secret. My grandmother taught me. She was Italian, living in the Midwest with the farmer of her dreams, and decided I was good enough to learn how to make lasagna right.” He slid her a big glass of the Merlot.
She sighed, wanting a taste, but purposefully dug into her salad and lasagna instead. Her doctor had been very specific. And she knew herself. If she took even a sip, it’d turn into a glass, which would then become two, maybe even three if she felt particularly indulgent.
Ethan didn’t miss anything. “You don’t like Merlot? I have other options.”
“No, I’m sure it’s fine. I’m just trying to not drink. The flight left me a little dehydrated.”
He accepted the explanation and turned the talk to current events. He was a great conversationalist. He read widely, had traveled everywhere—more than she had—and had varied interests.
And it was fun to talk about things other than work. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to do that with someone. But then the banking world was insular, almost incestuous, with everyone knowing everyone and everything.
Ethan gradually began to narrow the topic of conversation. He was good, and made it seem natural, but she had years of experience parrying this sort of thing.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked.
“Here and there. Mostly in the States and Europe.”