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Ethan. It was a nice name. To her ear, it sounded like the name of an English hero torn from the arms of his best girl to fight in WWII. He would go to hell and back to find his way to her side, and they could live happily ever after.

Yeah, romantic. Ethan. She liked it.

But back in the Alabaster hallway, he’d said, “Mrs. Harcourt?” Something in his voice—concern, affinity. But he hadn’t known Amanda well enough to know that she’d never walk around Alabaster in jeans and a T-shirt.

For whatever reason, Piper didn’t like the idea that Ethan —he and his dog—might have been the ones who saved Amanda, that he and Tango had faced such evil and been in harm’s way.

And she certainly didn’t like that he thought she, Piper, was sixty-year-old Amanda.

People kept making that mistake, and the siren kept blaring—Amanda Harcourt might have used her formula and seemingly grown younger.

Not just her, but Lionel.

And not just Lionel, but maybe people that they’d used as Guinea pigs.

And on top of all that, Piper was now worried about the woman in the bathroom, trying not to vomit from morning sickness.

She’d looked so familiar to Piper.

But it had been a dream that woke Piper in the middle of the night, dumping so much cortisol into her system that she was forced to sit up and scroll her phone, scanning through all the photos that Chanti had sent of Lionel from different angles from the “before times” when he looked his proper age.

There was the pregnant bathroom woman always hovering close with that fawning look of adoration directed at Lionel.

Piper closed her eyes as the blood drained from her face.

She hoped, deeply, profoundly, that the woman, with her heart pinned on her sleeve for all to see, wasn’t carrying Lionel’s baby. The ramifications for that fetus’s development were profound.

“Dr. Phillips?”

A steadying hand rested on her elbow. She blinked her eyes open to find Ethan looking at her with concern.

“Ma’am? Dr. Phillips, are you feeling faint?”

Piper realized she had clasped her hands over her heart.

She blinked up into eyes that were warm and ready.

Ready for what?

Ready to sweep her into his arms to keep her from hitting the ground?

Ready to leap to her aid and vanquish the dragon?

He couldn’t. The dragon was that her formula might expose people—possibly hundreds—to pain, suffering, and ultimately an untimely death.

“I’m fine. I was just … appreciating the warm weather.” She pressed her lips into a smile.

“Did you need a ride to your car, ma’am? I can bring my truck around.”

He wanted her in his truck so he wouldn’t have to worry about her passing out on the public street. She could feel his concern. And it felt not just sincere, but kind.

But she looked ridiculous in the bubble-gum-pink ruffles and longed for the day to be done.

She’d like to see Ethan outside of this situation, sometime when she was herself instead of a marionette with Ria Harcourt-Swain pulling her strings.

Piper briefly considered offering her phone number. But she couldn’t find a sentence that would transition her to the topic, so instead she said, “Thank you. My car’s parked just over the bridge. Have a good day.”

She adjusted her purse strap and started walking with the backs of the damned shoes rubbing her blisters into hot coals of pain.