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“Then I think it’s time for your last lesson,” Ethan says with a dramatic flair. “See that statue up ahead?” He points to the bronze figure of William Shakespeare, and I nod.
“Make that your target. Don’t think about how much farther you have to run, just make it to the statue.”
“Okay. I’ll try anything.” I follow his lead, although I’m not sure I understand the method to his madness, and I reach the marker sooner than I thought. “That wasn’t so bad,” I admit, feeling slightly energized.
“Great. Now that’s your new target.” He gestures to the burnished form of another famous writer, which is only a short distance away.
I lock my gaze on the landmark and reach it with surprising ease. We repeat the exercise until we surpass the stretch of statues dubbed the Literary Walk, when Ethan switches to more unusual targets like a woman seated on a bench feeding the birds and a saxophone player filling the park with his mellifluous melodies.
“I can’t believe your technique is working,” I say when the beauty of Bethesda Terrace comes into view with all its stunning stonework and impressive fountain focal point.
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Ethan chuckles. “It’s simple psychology. Breaking a goal into smaller, more manageable steps makes it less daunting. So, next time you feel like giving up, tell yourself to take one more step. Then take one more.”
We cross the imaginary finish line, and a rush of adrenaline surges through me as Ethan’s words ignite an idea so inspired, I can’t help cheering out loud.
“See. Feels great to finish, doesn’t it?” he asks, mistaking the reason for my excitement. “You did great. And if you can handle today’s run, you’ll complete the marathon, no problem.”
I grin back at him, so giddy over finally having a winning slogan, I can barely contain myself. “Thank you, thank you!” Without thinking, I plant a kiss on his cheek.
His eyes widen in surprise. “Uh, you’re welcome.”
Eager to get back and buckle down—and distract myself from how warm and enticing his skin felt against my lips—I turn on my heel and sprint in the direction we came. “Race you home!”
By the time I’ve showered and changed, the entire marketing campaign has materialized in my mind. And I have to say, it’s pretty brilliant. The kind of brilliant that might actually garner me the promotion.
And I owe it all to Ethan.
With only a few finishing touches left, I close my laptop and slip into the kitchen, inspired to cook Ethan dinner as a thank-you. After all, the man’s love language is clearly food.
The apartment is still and quiet, the glow from the city shimmering through the tall picture windows. I flick on the kitchen light, adjusting to the brightness.
With Ethan out on a walk with Wilson and Whiskers, who perches inside his coat pocket, I only have twenty minutes or so to accomplish my task.
Brynn is working late again, and I’m not entirely sure if it’s because she’s actually busy or if she’s avoiding me. Ever since her sort-of date with Oliver at the skate-a-thon on Friday, she’s been distant, almost melancholy. But whenever I ask her about it, she evades the topic like a money launderer avoiding the IRS, a comparison I know she’d appreciate. My only hope is that with enough time and persistence, I’ll find out what happened.
I pull up “New York State of Mind” on my phone, then grab an onion and bulb of garlic, trying to recall all the necessary ingredients. With any luck, by the time Ethan gets back, the apartment will be flooded with the mouthwatering aroma of a perfectly baked frittata and the smooth vocal styling of Billy Joel.
Except, when Ethan walks in with Wilson and Whiskers, he’s met with the piercing screech of an alarm and the acrid scent of smoke.
“What happened?” He quickly unleashes Wilson and sets Whiskers on the floor before rushing over. “You okay?”
A thick black cloud billows from the skillet on the stove, and no matter how frantically I flap the oven mitt, it only seems to grow stronger. “Just dandy,” I say with sarcasm, still flailing my arms like I’m waving in a Boeing 737 for a safe landing.
Ethan deftly grabs a kitchen towel, using it as a makeshift oven mitt as he moves the skillet off the burner. Then, he flicks on the hood vent above the stove, and the smoke immediately starts to dissipate.
He surveys the chaos littering the countertops—shards of eggshell, loose onion skins, and a spilled jar of pepper kernels, among other things—waiting for the alarm to subside, signally the crisis is over.
When it emits its last shrill beep, he asks, “Is that a frittata?” as he eyes the smoldering skillet.
“In its former life.” Except for one inexplicable spot in the center that’s still raw and gooey, the rest is charred black. “It was supposed to be a gesture of appreciation, but it looks more like a death threat than a thank-you.”
His features soften, and to my horror, he grabs a fork.
“What are you doing?” I shriek, hoping he’s not about to do what I think he’s about to do.
“Eating my thank-you frittata.” The scorched exterior crunches as he digs in the tines, and I cringe.
“You’re not really going to eat that, are you?”
