Hard Sell| ETHMA

24

EMMA
Wednesday Evening, October 4

"If you tell me this is homemade, we can't be friends anymore," I say, scooping up a glob of delicious white cheese and plopping it onto toasted sourdough.

Olivia snags an olive with one hand, refills our wineglasses with the other. "If by homemade, you mean did I open the container of burrata, put it on the plate, and put olive oil and salt on top? Yep, totally homemade. I also popped that bread right in the toaster, like a Food Network boss."

"I freaking love burrata," Amanda says, happily chewing her own piece of bread. "And wine. And you guys."

I give her a look out of the corner of my eye.

"How much wine has she had?" I ask Olivia good-naturedly.

"Just the one glass. But she's been like this ever since she got here. I think she's in love."

"The only thing I'm in love with is cheese," Amanda retorts.

I lick burrata off my thumb, not entirely sure I believe her, but I suppose it's possible. It's hard not to be in love with cheese.

"So, is this going to be like a thing?" Amanda asks, resting her elbows on Olivia's and Michael's kitchen counter. "You guys hosting spontaneous dinner parties? Because I sort of love it."

Olivia pushes her glasses up on her nose. "You know, I sort of love it, too." She smiles, as though surprised by the realization.

"I'm almost jealous of the fab apartment, but you have to put up with Michael, and I don't know that I could," Amanda says, sipping her wine.

"You do that all day long," I point out.

"Nope. Different," Amanda says. "The guys are totally different in their work habitat."

"How's that?" Kennedy says, ambling into the kitchen.

"Thought you were having man talk on the balcony," I say, tilting my head back toward the glass doors off Michael's living room that lead to a small outdoor space with a hell of a view.

"We are, but . . ." He holds up his empty wineglass as explanation for why he's in the kitchen, then reaches for a bottle of red on the counter. "Besides, this is far more interesting. How are we different in the office?" he asks Amanda again.

Amanda pushes a strand of straight blonde hair behind her ear, but it promptly falls forward again, quietly stubborn, much like the head it belongs to.

"I'll clarify. Michael and Ethan are different inside the office. You're more of the same."

"Yeah?" He takes a sip of wine and watches her. "Explain."

"No thanks."

"Explain," he repeats.

"See, this is exactly what I mean," Amanda says testily. "You're bossy in the office, bossy outside the office . . ."

"And you're not?"

"It's my job to be bossy. Someone has to make sure you guys keep your pants zipped up so you don't go thinking with your . . ." Amanda gestures in the vicinity of Kennedy's crotch, and Olivia chokes into her wine.

Kennedy's eyebrows lift. "Wasn't aware that my"—he, too, gestures to his crotch—"was any of my assistant's business."

Her cheeks color slightly. "It's not. Obviously. Neither is Michael's or Ethan's. But while we're on the subject . . ."

Amanda gives me a sly look, and I give her a mental salute of respect for the skillful change of subject.

Still, I can respect her without playing along. "Not open for discussion."