The elevator doors slide open, revealing Eliot's floor. I step out, my heart beating faster than I want to admit. This isn't just a dinner invitation. Not after six months of careful professional calls about Chamblin House and the Benwick Collection. Something has shifted between us, and I'm equal parts nervous and excited to discover what happens next.

I approach his door and raise my hand to knock, but it swings open before my knuckles make contact. There stands Eliot, his hair in characteristic disarray despite being pulled back in a ponytail, a faint dusting of flour on his shirt. He's smiling—a real smile, not the professional one he usually offers during our calls.

"Hey, Mia," he says, stepping back to let me in. "C'mon in. Cookies are cooling and dinner's almost ready."

I cross the threshold, my eyes automatically scanning his apartment—a comfortable space that somehow manages to feel both lived-in and meticulously organized. The scent of freshly baked gingerbread fills the air, mingling with something savory cooking on the stove. To my right, I notice a rug piled haphazardly against the back of his sofa, and something about the arrangement nags at me.

"Why is there a rug piled at the back of the sofa?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Eliot's smile tightens slightly. "Let's save the heavy talk for after we eat," he suggests, gesturing toward a coat rack by the door. "There's a rack for your coat beside the door."

I hang my coat, taking a moment to compose myself. You're here as a colleague, I remind myself. Nothing more. But as I turn back toward him, I catch him watching me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. Maybe this dinner will be more eventful than I anticipated.