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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?”
