Hard Sell| ETHMA

6

EMMA
Saturday Morning, September 23

When I step out of my apartment building onto Park Avenue, I have two thoughts.

First observation: fall is truly here, and like any proper New Yorker, I smile at the realization, because it means the debut of my new black V-neck sweater, skinny jeans, and suede ankle boots is warranted.

Second observation: Ethan Dolan is standing outside my apartment building, leaning back against the window as he waits for me, two Starbucks cups in hand.

His sunglasses block his eyes, but I feel his gaze drift over me as he walks my way. "Morning."

"Really," I say, accepting the cup he hands out. "This is how it's going to be? You just show up whenever you want, no warning?"

He grins. "You're on my payroll now, right?"

"If you're asking if I got the signed contract you sent over yesterday, yes. But if you refer to our arrangement as me being on your payroll again, I'll show you exactly where you can shove the contract."

"You're snippy in the morning. I'd forgotten that," he says, falling into step beside me. "So. Where're we going?"

I take a sip of the drink, unsurprised to find that it's a iced coffee, exactly as I like it.

Wordlessly I reach out, take his cup from his hand, and sip that.

Pumpkin spice. Huh. Didn't see that coming.

"We're sharing drinks now?" he asks as I hand it back.

"We're a couple, right? What's yours is mine."
Actually, it has nothing to do with that. You know how I said I know everything about everybody? Every now and then, there's a stumper. Ethan Dolan's coffee choice is one of them. I've never found the guy to get the same coffee beverage twice.
I know what Michael drinks—Americano with a splash of two-percent in the morning, sometimes opting for something cold and sweet on a summer afternoon. I know what Kennedy Dawson drinks—black coffee, always.

But Ethan? He changes.

Sometimes it's a caramel Frappuccino.

Sometimes it's a tall drip. Sometimes it's a white mocha with extra chocolate. Sometimes it's a double-shot espresso with no sweetener whatsoever.
Today, apparently, it's a pumpkin spice latte.

Tomorrow, who knows? I don't even know why I care. I guess I've always hated things I can't predict, especially as they relate to Ethan Dolan.
"You didn't answer. Where're we heading?"
I cut a glance at him as I head in the direction of Madison Avenue. "You did see section 7B, right? The one that says all public appearances together necessitate twenty-four-hours' notice?"

"No problem," he says. "Here's your twenty-four-hours' notice that we have brunch reservations tomorrow."
"Let me guess. Are they at some see-and-be-seen restaurant in the West Village that charges twelve dollars for an egg?"

"Twenty dollars if you want to add freshly shaved truffles."

"I'll do that, since you're buying. But that's tomorrow. I didn't have you on my schedule for today."

"You won't even know I'm here," he says.
I snort as we turn onto Madison Avenue, one of my favorite shopping meccas, alongside Fifth Avenue and SoHo.

"Just go about your business. I'll follow at a respectful distance."

"And make sure people see us together?"

"Exactly," he says with a quick grin.

"All right," I murmur, taking another sip of my cappuccino. "But remember, Dolan, you asked for this."