“I’ve endured worse,” Alice says with a wry smile, and I can’t figure out if she’s referring to Edward or me. Or both of us.
Regardless, the thought of riding in the rear seat of Ollie’s car while Ollie and Alice sit together up front, bonding over American things, makes me rather uncomfortable.
I can already hear the conversation in my head.
Does it feel dodgy driving on the right side of the road, Ethan?
You’ve really never heard this song before?
Why do they call it cookery school in the UK and culinary school in France?
I also find myself feeling protective of Alice. I brought her into this situation. Whatever you want to call it—a career opportunity or a setup—she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. And I wouldn’t know her if it weren’t for my brother.
Though, I still can’t quite figure out what happened between the two of them. I know what Edward told me and what he told the trade papers. But I can’t stop thinking about what Alice said yesterday.
I may not have done my research on you, but clearly you have been woefully misinformed about me.
Was there more to their breakup than I’ve gathered through my limited sources?
The other reason I don’t want Ollie tagging along is not quite as noble. The thought of Alice becoming closer with Ollie than me awakens that primitive possessiveness inside me.
It doesn’t help that Alice reminds me so much of Priya.
I know this has colored my interactions with Alice thus far. I’ve found myself becoming more frustrated with her than the situation warrants. I can’t help it. She reminds me so much of Priya.
And Priya’s betrayal.
As my mind clambers for a reason not to make this trip with Alice alone, Cristian’s words echo in my mind.
You can hire my daughter as a hostess, but don’t forget she’s a chef. And don’t forget to keep your hands where they belong—on the food. If you find yourself forgetting that, I may find myself making some recommendations about your funding. Are we clear?
Crystal clear, Cristian.
Unfortunately, I’m a man with very particular tastes, and Alice happens to be my favorite flavor.
Chapter 7
ALICE
“I didn’t take you for a truck guy,” I say as Ethan opens the passenger door of an enormous Ford F-350 pickup parked in the underground garage across from the restaurant.
“It belongs to the construction foreman,” he says, sounding slightly offended by my stereotyping of his vehicle preferences.
“Tino? Why are we taking his—Oh, we’re taking this because the cabinet won’t fit in your pretty Lexus.”
He rolls his eyes and pushes the door shut. I resist the urge to watch him through the rear window of the truck’s cab, but when he climbs into the driver’s seat I can’t help myself. He brings a waft of that Eau de Ethan scent into the truck with him, and my eyes become fixated on the muscles in his tattooed forearms as he pulls out of the parking garage.
“What do your tattoos mean?” I ask, partly to break the silence and partly because I’m desperate to know what I’m getting into today.
Is Ethan really different than Edward, or should I be on my guard?
His face breaks into a handsome grin as he merges onto I-95. “That’s a wee bit personal, don’t you think?”
“Just trying to get to know you a little,” I reply, unable to hide the defensiveness in my tone.
“So, you want to get to know me?” he asks.
I suppress a smile. “Isn’t that what strangers usually do when enclosed in a confined space for an extended period of time?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call us strangers.”
“Are you purposely avoiding the question?”
“About my tattoos? Nope. I simply don’t think they’re that interesting.”
I turn slightly in my seat to face him. “You’re telling me this tattoo,” I say, pointing to the one on his right forearm, which seems to depict a piece of paper covered in squiggly writing, which has been set on fire by the flames of a red phoenix, “means nothing?”
“I’m a fan of phoenixes,” he replies with a tone of finality.
I shrug. “Okay, you can keep your secrets. But a word of advice: if you want to keep something a secret, you might not want to tattoo it on your forearm.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to remember that next time.”
“You’re an infuriating smart-ass, you know that?”
He lets out a sexy guffaw. “Thank you. I pride myself on infuriating the beautiful women in my life.”
I stare at him in silence for a moment, my heart racing as the word beautiful echoes in my mind. But I decide not to call attention to it. The word probably slipped out unintentionally.
After a few minutes, the silence is broken by a car behind us blasting their horn.
Ethan glances in the rear-view mirror, looking more than a bit confused. “What your problem? I’m driving the speed limit,” he says, looking to me beseechingly. “Aren’t I?”
I try not to laugh as I glance at the digital speedometer and see he’s indeed driving the speed limit at almost exactly fifty-five miles per hour. “It’s not your speed. It’s the fact that you’re doing fifty-five in the fast lane. You’re driving on the wrong side of the road.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh as he signals to change lanes. “How did I know you would say something about my driving on the wrong side of the road? Would you prefer to drive?”
“I promise I’m not teasing you. And, no, I can’t drive.”
He glances at me as he settles into the right lane, an expression of vague curiosity lighting up his dark eyes. “Are you one of those New Yorkers who’s never learned to drive?”
“Yup,” I reply, hoping he can hear the tone of finality in my voice the way I heard it in his earlier.
His smile widens. “So, you’ve lived in New York your entire life?”
“Except for culinary school, yes.”
His smile suddenly dims, and my stomach clenches as I begin to feel judged. “Oh, I didn’t know that,” he says.
Despite the fact that he likely
