Andrew’s fingers tightened around his wineglass. Yeah, he definitely didn’t like where this was going.

“Your point?”

“My point is, I got his phone number,” she said. “He told me to call him, that he wanted to see me again, that he’d fly me to Los Angeles.”

Andrew took a big swallow of his wine, wishing it were something stronger. Ash Morrigan had starred in every action blockbuster in the past year, about half the romantic comedies, and even some period piece where there were whispers of an Oscar nomination going around. And this was who he was competing with? Ash fucking Morrigan?

“Okay, see, you’re getting this wrong,” Georgiana said urgently. “What I’m trying to tell you is that . . . I never called him. I could never figure out why. I thought maybe it was because I was nervous, but I don’t really get nervous. And lately I’ve been realizing—wondering—if, well, maybe I didn’t call him because of you.”

Andrew’s heart stopped beating, then started again.

“I liked Ash,” she said quietly. “He was fun and charming, and famous, of course . . . but every time I thought about calling him, trying to get excited about the prospect, I realized that what I was most excited about was those early morning run-ins in our building.”

Andrew didn’t know what to say.

“Wow, this is harder than I thought,” she muttered, taking a sip of her wine. “Okay, well, anyway. I gave Hailey Ash’s number. Thought it might help take the sting out of you breaking off your date last night, although honestly, I think she would have been super cool about it anyway. The end.”

Hardly. Hardly, Georgiana. They weren’t even close to the end of . . . whatever they were doing.

“You traded in one of the biggest names in Hollywood for me?” he asked, just to be sure. He had to be sure.

“Don’t make it weird—it was just his phone number. It’s not like Hailey and I put bags over your heads and then made the swap,” she muttered, her fingers fluttering a little nervously on the table.

He reached across and took her hand, waiting until she met his eyes. “What are you doing next Thursday?”

She stared at him. “Do I look like the sort of girl who plans four days in advance?”

“Make an exception. One of the senior partners at my firm is retiring. There’s a big, fancy party. It’s on a yacht or something, I can’t remember.”

“And?”

Of course she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Of course.

“Come with me,” he said simply.

Her smile was slow and happy, and damned if that didn’t make him happy. “Andrew.”

“Yes?”

“Are we . . . dating?”

He gave her hand a brief squeeze before leaning back in his chair. He picked up the menu but didn’t look at it. “When you gave Hailey Ash’s number, did you simultaneously delete it from your phone?”

She snorted. “Um, no. It’s Ash Morrigan, Andy.”

“Georgiana.”

“Hmm?”

He smiled and held her gaze. “Lose that phone number.”

Her answering smile told him she knew what he was trying to say. You’re mine.

Georgie

WEDNESDAY, A LITTLE BEFORE 7:00 P.M.

Okay, this stuffed chicken saltimbocca looked a lot easier—and a lot prettier—on the Food Network.

I blow a bit of hair out of my face as I take a sip of wine and stare down at the mangled mass of chicken breast, prosciutto, sage, and cheese.

“Giada, you traitor,” I mutter, glancing at the recipe on Andrew’s iPad.

Yeah, you heard that right. Andrew’s iPad. As in, I’m in his kitchen. Drinking his wine. Cooking him dinner. Well, cooking us dinner.

I know. Domestic, right? I feel a little bit like I’m playing house, but also a little bit . . . happy.

No, a lot happy.

And lest you think I’ve given up my former life to play Suzy Homemaker for a workaholic, I’ll have you know that while I have spent the past few nights in with my new . . . boyfriend? . . . tonight I’m going out.

I miss the girls. I miss dancing.

I like both sides of myself: the party-girl Georgie and the cooks-dinner-and-watches-movies Georgie.

I’ve always thought that there’d be a switch—that I’d go from clubbing and champagne to wedding and babies overnight. Maybe for some women it happens that way, but for me it feels more like I’m just discovering a new part of myself.

The one that can’t figure out how to get cheese inside of chicken, apparently.

I take another sip of wine and prepare to start again, but a knock at the door distracts me.

I wrinkle my nose and look at the clock as I hurriedly wash my hands. Seven is right about the time Andrew usually gets home, and he wouldn’t knock at his own apartment door. Unless he forgot his keys . . .

I check the peephole, my heart stopping its overexcited thudding when I realize it’s not Andrew. And yet my curiosity is piqued, because there’s a woman on the other side of the door.

I tell myself not to open the door. That sleeping with him for all of four days doesn’t entitle me to open his front door.

I open it anyway.

“Hi!” I say with a wide smile.

The woman’s head snaps back a little in surprise, and her gaze flicks to the apartment number; apparently she’s thinking she knocked on the wrong door.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought this was the apartment of—”

“Andrew Mulroney?” I ask, quite pleased with myself for not adding the Esquire.

She smiles tentatively. “Is he here?”

“No, sorry.” Instinct tells me to let her in, but I can’t let a complete stranger into someone else’s apartment with no explanation.

“Ah. I told him I’d come by around seven. Perhaps he forgot?”

“You’re a friend?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers that it’s not an ex-girlfriend. Although the woman’s got a wedding ring, and she doesn’t look to be Andrew’s type. She’s got a soft friendliness about her, and I can’t help but think Andrew would just cut her to shreds with his glare. Plus she looks to be older than him by several years.

“I’m Pam Mulroney,” she says. “Andrew’s sister-in-law. The guys down at the front desk have my name on the approval list, so they sent me up. . . .”