notice Ethan has already done the same. When his fingers aren't gliding across the keys, he has a hand on his chin, his eyes fixed on his screen and his eyebrows furrowed. It's a fascinating sight, one my eyes can't seem to stop straying towards. But after Ethan catches me staring, I put in more effort to concentrate on what I'm doing. I'm here to work, not to stare like a teenager in the front row of a concert of her favorite band.
Work. Work. Work.
Eventually, I find my rhythm. I get so absorbed in my work, in fact, that I forget I'm on a plane. I only remember when Henry taps my arm, telling me that dinner is ready.
Dinner? I glance at my watch. It's a little past eight now, which means we've been in the air for three hours. That much time has passed already? Frankly, I'm not hungry. Or so I think until I catch a whiff of the smells from the kitchen and my mouth waters. Okay. Maybe I am a little hungry.
Ethan gestures to an empty chair. "Please sit."
I obey. Ethan occupies the seat in front of me.
As Henry pours wine into my glass, I realize this is the first time we're eating together. Alone. We've attended luncheons and dinners aplenty, but each time, the room was filled with at least twenty other people. This time, it's just him and me, which means I'll be the center of his attention for about twenty minutes, with no gadget to hide behind and no way to run.
I can feel my stomach coiling into knots.
To make matters worse, there's a porcelain plate and far too many utensils in front of me. What was the rule again? Start from the outside and work your way in?
I have eaten at fine dining restaurants before but again, not alone with Ethan. Somehow, that little fact is clouding my brain and making me feel like a kid on her first day in a new school.
Get it together, Stella. It's just dinner.
With your hot boss.
Shit.
"How are you finding the flight so far?" Ethan asks me.
I swallow the lump in my throat and put on a smile. "Great, actually. It's so smooth."
"I know." Ethan beams with pride. "She's worth every penny."
I'm guessing she's worth a lot of pennies.
"You've been on a plane before, right?"
"Sure," I answer. "But I've never been in a private jet. I've only ever flown economy. And yes, the food's bad."
Ethan grins. "Well, don't worry. I can assure you that the food here isn't bad."
Before I can reply, Henry sets down a bowl of soup with shrimp, mushrooms, an assortment of green garnishes, and a milky orange broth. The smell of the spices from the curry mixed with the coconut and the herbs and the seafood drifts into my nostrils. I pick up my spoon without thinking, then put it down when I realize Ethan hasn't picked up his.
"Please dig in," Ethan urges. "It tastes even better than it smells, I promise."
I scoop out some of the broth and lift my spoon to my lips. The moment I taste the soup, my palate starts to sing. Every component just comes together like an orchestra of flavors inside my mouth. Ethan's right. It does taste even better.
I eat another spoonful before giving him my feedback. "This is very good."
He picks up his own spoon. "I'm glad you like it."
I want to say more, but I just can't help but keep eating. I almost want to take that bowl in my hands and pour that gorgeous broth down my throat. Even without doing so, I finish the dish sooner than I thought, which is a tad disappointing because I feel like I could eat ten more bowls. It's that good.
"I don't think I've ever eaten anything quite like that," I say as I dab my lips with the table napkin. "Is this what you eat all the time?"
"Not all the time," Ethan answers. "But it's one of my favorites. The chef who designed this, he was serving his food in a small hut when I first met him. Now he has an empire not just all over Asia but all over Europe, too."
"And he's here?" I ask with arched eyebrows.
"No. He hates flying. But the chef who cooked for us this evening trained under him, among many others. He's very skillful."
I put my hands up. "No need to convince me. If the next dish is as good as this, I'll be very happy."