Moving Day

Forty-eight hours after signing the contract at The Meridian, a private town car arrived outside Mia's cramped fourth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn Heights.

Two discreet movers in black CrossTech polo shirts carried her three weathered suitcases and her professional chef's knife roll down the narrow staircase, while Mia took one last look at the apartment where she had lived for four years.

"Goodbye, mice," she muttered, turning the key over to the superintendent. "Goodbye, leaking radiator."

The penthouse occupied the top two floors of a gleaming glass skyscraper on 54th Street in Midtown Manhattan. When the elevator opened into the private foyer, Mia felt like she was stepping onto the set of a movie.

Soaring fourteen-foot ceilings, floor-to-ceiling glass wrapping around the southern and eastern horizons, dark smoked oak flooring, and minimalist Italian furniture in charcoal, ivory, and brushed bronze.

Ethan was standing in the open-concept kitchen, leaning against an enormous waterfall island of black Saint Laurent marble. He was dressed in a casual black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, dark trousers, and no shoes, holding a porcelain mug of espresso.

"Your quarters are in the east wing," Ethan said, nodding down a long gallery lined with black-and-white architectural photography. "Primary guest suite. It has its own terrace, walk-in dressing room, and an ensuite bath."

"And your room?" Mia asked, setting her chef's kit onto the island.

"West wing," he replied, taking a slow sip. "Two hundred feet and three soundproof doors away. Exactly as Section Four stipulated."

Mia walked around the marble island, her eyes widening as she took in the kitchen appliances. A custom eight-burner French La Cornue range in matte black and brass, twin Sub-Zero refrigeration columns, two commercial convection ovens, and a walk-in temperature-controlled pantry that could have housed a small restaurant.

"Holy mother of gastronomy..." Mia breathed, running her fingertips reverently along the cool brass knobs of the range. "You don't even cook, do you?"

"I boil water for tea," Ethan admitted without apology. "My previous designer insisted the kitchen match the building's aesthetic. You said you wanted free rein. It's fully stocked with imported olive oils, spices, and whatever your chef instincts require."

"If you ever let someone boil hot dogs on this stove, I will divorce you before the year is up," Mia said deadpan, opening the spice drawer and inhaling the rich aroma of smoked Spanish paprika and tellicherry peppercorns.

Ethan watched her from across the island. For the first time since they had met, the rigid, calculating posture of the billionaire softened into genuine curiosity.

"I have our first public test tomorrow night," Ethan said, leaning his hip against the counter. "Grandma Rose is hosting her seventy-fifth birthday dinner at her country estate in Westchester. The entire Cross extended family will be there. Along with forty of New York's most judgmental society matriarchs."

Mia turned around, leaning her back against the range. "What's the official story on how we met?"

"We met six months ago at Rosario's," Ethan recited smoothly. "I was dining alone after a grueling board meeting. You personally brought out a handmade saffron tagliolini that made me forget about the stock market. I waited for you outside the kitchen door, begged for your phone number, and courted you for five months before proposing on the Brooklyn Bridge."

Mia let out a rich, bubbling laugh that made Ethan's blue eyes darken with sudden intensity.

"You waited outside a restaurant kitchen door for a line cook?" Mia grinned. "Ethan, darling, nobody is going to believe that. You look like you've never waited in line for anything in your entire life."

"I am an exceptionally persuasive man when I want something, Mia," Ethan said, his voice dropping an octave, stepping half a step closer. The scent of clean cedar, crisp bergamot, and warm coffee rolled off him. "And tomorrow, everyone in that room will believe you are the only woman I see."

The air between them grew suddenly heavy, thick with unspoken friction.

Mia swallowed, her pulse skipping a traitorous beat. "Let's hope your acting skills are worth half a million dollars, Mr. Cross."

"Practice starts now," Ethan murmured, his icy eyes holding hers until she had to look away.