Page 49 of The Matchmaker's Cottage

Ethan’s swift denial made her think it probably was.

Noah scoffed, rolling his eyes with a chuckle before lookingat Katy, who gave a secret smile to her plate but didn’t say anything.

“You must think we’re dumb,” Noah replied good-naturedly, putting his fork down. “Because you two have the deep-rooted vibes of aclosefriendship.”

There was no mistaking the connotation of the wordclose, and Julia felt her face flush.

“We know each other,” she said through gritted teeth, though she tried to maintain something resembling a smile. “But we’re not…close. In any capacity.” Picking up her wineglass, she took another huge gulp, barely noting how it was almost empty now. “Strictly professional.”

Noah looked between them skeptically. “That’s it? Just professional?”

“Yup!”

Julia was surprised to hear her firm agreement chorused by Ethan, who was putting down his own half-empty wineglass. She continued solo: “That’s it. No sordid past or present.”

“Hmm.” Noah peered at them closely for a beat, then shrugged. “Could’ve fooled me. I definitely caught some friends-with-benefits-that-ended-messy vibes.”

He couldn’t have hit the nail on the head any closer if he were trying, and instead of answering, Julia gave a half-hearted chuckle and polished off the dregs of her wine while Ethan choked slightly beside her.

The rest of dinner went by uneventfully, with everyone complimenting Maggie repeatedly and finishing the Brunello, plus another bottle of red that Ethan pulled out from Julia’s collection.

By the time dinner was winding down, it was close to eight o’clock.

“Man.” Noah heaved out a sigh, placing his hands on his belly. “That was hands down one of the best meals I’ve had.” His words were slightly slurred, as Julia assumed all their words would be, since she was definitely feeling the effects of her third—or was it fourth?—full glass of wine. A glass that was now suspiciously empty once again.

“Why, thank you,” Maggie said, cheeks pinkening at his compliment for what seemed like the hundredth time this evening. Only to grow even redder as Katy threw her arm over Maggie’s shoulder and pulled her in for a hug.

“I’m going to hire you as my personal chef!” she declared, her voice indicating that she’d enjoyed a few glasses herself. “I’m bringing you back to California with me, that’s it.”

“No,” Julia protested through her giggles. “I need her. I can’t cook!”

Katy waved a hand at her in mock dismissal. “You’ll have to make do, I’m sorry. She’s mine now! Oh, let me help you.” Katy stood as Maggie did, gathering dishes despite Maggie’s mild protests.

“You can cook.” Ethan’s voice came through quietly amid the chaos and laughter of the others.

She’d heard him speak even through the clattering of the plates as Maggie collected the dishes and glasses and Katy continued to insist on helping, dragging Noah along with her. Whether it was intentional or not, Ethan and Julia suddenly found themselves alone. As the voices of Maggie and her guests faded, Julia turned her attention fully toward Ethan.

“Hmm?” She avoided acknowledging his statement, instead tipping the wineglass to her lips, getting the last drops of whatever the second bottle was—another deep, luscious red; that much she knew. It wasn’t the first time he’d expressed thissentiment; she didn’t know if he was more offended by the fact that she said she couldn’t cook or the fact that she was putting herself down. Either way, the thought would have sobered her, if she let it.

“You can cook.” He didn’t seem as inebriated as the rest of them, though his whole demeanor had shifted in a way that indicated to Julia he hadn’t been totally immune to the effects of the alcohol. The only difference was, with the others, the alcohol had made them more extroverted—louder, bolder, less inhibited versions of themselves. Ethan, on the other hand, had become quieter, more introspective. Sometimes Julia contemplated whether or not it was Ethan as his truest self, those times when he’d had a bit to drink.

She knew alcohol was a sore spot for him—the image of his mother at the table flashed in her mind’s eye again—so she never brought it up.

But she had always wondered.

“Thanks?” She tried to laugh it off, a bit uncomfortable at his intensity and the direction of the conversation. “But homemade pizza in the microwave doesn’t count.”

“Why do you do that?” he asked, voice still quiet even though they were totally alone now, with even the voices of the others gone completely.

“Do what?” Her voice sounded a little snippy, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. She always felt this way when he got all psychoanalytic like that, and she knew whatever he was going to say was probably going to hit way too close to home. It was moments like this one that always preceded some of their biggest fights.

He would say something a bit too on the nose, in his quietly prosaic way, about an issue that Julia was not interested inaddressing, and Julia would lash out, disagree, make an excuse—anything to not deal with the fact that what he’d said was actually extremely, uncomfortably true.

“Diminish yourself and your accomplishments.”

Bingo.

Julia groaned. Loudly.