WEDNESDAY, A LITTLE BEFORE 7:00 P.M.

Okay, this stuffed chicken saltimbocca looked a lot easier—and a lot prettier—on the Food Network.

I blow a bit of hair out of my face as I take a sip of wine and stare down at the mangled mass of chicken breast, prosciutto, sage, and cheese.

“Giada, you traitor,” I mutter, glancing at the recipe on Andrew’s iPad.

Yeah, you heard that right. Andrew’s iPad. As in, I’m in his kitchen. Drinking his wine. Cooking him dinner. Well, cooking us dinner.

I know. Domestic, right? I feel a little bit like I’m playing house, but also a little bit . . . happy.

No, a lot happy.

And lest you think I’ve given up my former life to play Suzy Homemaker for a workaholic, I’ll have you know that while I have spent the past few nights in with my new . . . boyfriend? . . . tonight I’m going out.

I miss the girls. I miss dancing.

I like both sides of myself: the party-girl Georgie and the cooks-dinner-and-watches-movies Georgie.

I’ve always thought that there’d be a switch—that I’d go from clubbing and champagne to wedding and babies overnight. Maybe for some women it happens that way, but for me it feels more like I’m just discovering a new part of myself.

The one that can’t figure out how to get cheese inside of chicken, apparently.

I take another sip of wine and prepare to start again, but a knock at the door distracts me.

I wrinkle my nose and look at the clock as I hurriedly wash my hands. Seven is right about the time Andrew usually gets home, and he wouldn’t knock at his own apartment door. Unless he forgot his keys . . .

I check the peephole, my heart stopping its overexcited thudding when I realize it’s not Andrew. And yet my curiosity is piqued, because there’s a woman on the other side of the door.

I tell myself not to open the door. That sleeping with him for all of four days doesn’t entitle me to open his front door.

I open it anyway.

“Hi!” I say with a wide smile.

The woman’s head snaps back a little in surprise, and her gaze flicks to the apartment number; apparently she’s thinking she knocked on the wrong door.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought this was the apartment of—”

“Andrew Mulroney?” I ask, quite pleased with myself for not adding the Esquire.

She smiles tentatively. “Is he here?”

“No, sorry.” Instinct tells me to let her in, but I can’t let a complete stranger into someone else’s apartment with no explanation.

“Ah. I told him I’d come by around seven. Perhaps he forgot?”

“You’re a friend?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers that it’s not an ex-girlfriend. Although the woman’s got a wedding ring, and she doesn’t look to be Andrew’s type. She’s got a soft friendliness about her, and I can’t help but think Andrew would just cut her to shreds with his glare. Plus she looks to be older than him by several years.

“I’m Pam Mulroney,” she says. “Andrew’s sister-in-law. The guys down at the front desk have my name on the approval list, so they sent me up. . . .”

“Oh!” I say. Okay, well, I can’t leave family standing out in the hall. “Come on in. He should be back any minute.”

Pam smiles as she steps inside.

“Can I take your coat?” I ask, just as a cellphone begins to ring.

“Oh, I wonder if that’s him,” she says, digging through her purse and coming up with an iPhone that’s a couple of generations old.

“Hi, Andrew,” she says, her widening smile telling me that they must have at least a somewhat decent relationship. “No, it’s no problem! I don’t mind waiting—and actually, a very nice girl let me into your apartment.”

I beam. I am very nice. I can practically hear Andrew’s eye roll through the phone.

I move into the kitchen to give Pam a bit more privacy, but she hangs up a second later.

“He said he’ll be here in ten minutes or so—he got held up with a client phone call,” Pam says, her eyes scanning the kitchen.

I suddenly realize my error. I meant to surprise him with a home-cooked meal when he got home, but it didn’t even occur to me that just as I also want to maintain my former life, he still has other commitments in his. Things I know nothing about.

“I’m so sorry to intrude,” I say, starting to clean up. “I meant to surprise him. I didn’t know he had plans—”

Pam interrupts. “Saltimbocca?”

I glance down at the mess on the cutting board. “Trying to be.”

She points at my glass. “Pour me one of those.”

I do as she asks, and when I turn around, she’s taken my place behind the cutting board. It’s obvious from the confidence of her movements that she’s better in the kitchen than I am.

“You really don’t have to save me,” I say. “I can clean it up—he’ll never know about the massacre.”

Her hands never stop moving as she pulls out a piece of plastic wrap, placing it over the chicken so she can pound it out a bit more, but she watches me the entire time. “Never known him to have a woman cook for him.”

I give a tiny shrug, feeling self-conscious and out of place knowing that this is a member of his family and I’m his . . . I don’t know what. Girlfriend, I guess. That thought makes me happy.

“Sit,” she says, nodding at the bar stool.

I do as instructed, while she beats the crap out of the chicken.

“It needs to be thinner so you have more surface area to work with,” she says, holding up the now very flat piece of chicken. “Easier to roll, see?”

She does indeed make it look easy, and I watch and learn, even as my mind races, considering what question to ask first.

I really should leave and let Andrew tell me about himself in his own time, but that will probably take centuries, so . . .

“You’re married to Andrew’s brother?” I ask.

She nods. “Peter. We live in New Jersey.”

“Do you two make it into the city often?” I ask, sort of asking why his brother didn’t tag along without actually asking it.

“Not so much. Peter hates Manhattan. The honking, the sirens, the people . . .”

“But you don’t mind it?”

“No, I do,” she says with a friendly smile. “But I have something to discuss with Andrew in person. A favor.”

I nod and say nothing, since there’s really nothing to follow up with that wouldn’t seem prying.

“He said your name is Georgiana?” Pam asks, putting a nicely rolled piece of chicken onto the baking sheet I already lined with foil.

“Georgie,” I say. “I live in the building, and we . . .” She lifts her eyebrows, and I feel myself blush. “We’re friends.”

“Awfully nice of you to attempt chicken saltimbocca for a friend,” she says, winking as she uses the back of her hand to push blond hair off her forehead.

Pam’s easy to like. Her brown eyes are friendly, and her appearance is friendly without being flashy. But she seems a little bit sad too.

“How long have you and Peter been married?”

“Oh, forever,” she says with a laugh. “We were high school sweethearts, got married when we were nineteen. We’re six years older than Andrew, so I’ve known him since he was a kid.”

“What was he like?” I can’t help asking, leaning forward.

She’s quiet for a moment. “About like you’d think. Quiet. Serious. Deadly smart.”

“Deadly smart,” I say, surprised by the strange word combination. “Like . . . a savant?” Good Lord, am I falling for some sort of genius?

Pam gives a little shake of her head as she sets the fourth piece of chicken on the baking sheet and goes to the sink to wash her hands. “He hates all those labels, but yeah, I suspect his IQ’s off the charts. Parents didn’t know what to do with him. He was lucky to have a couple of good teachers who recognized that his brain moved faster than was the case with the rest of the kids, but sometimes I think . . .”

I wait for her to dry her hands and gather her thoughts.

“Sometimes I wonder if it was the best thing,” she says, turning back. “He’s kind and considerate as they come, but being put in with older kids didn’t do him any favors. They didn’t know how to relate to someone two years younger, and he didn’t know how to relate to them.”

My heart hurts at the thought of little Andrew feeling ostracized by his bigger classmates.

“Were he and Peter close?”

“Not particularly. The six-year age gap was a lot to overcome, even with Andrew’s advanced intellect. They cared for each other, got along well enough when they weren’t fighting, but were never friends in the way of siblings that are closer in age.”

I sip my wine, and she does the same. “Did he have any friends?” I ask quietly. “Andrew, I mean.”

“Sure. Some. He tried hard, but . . .”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but that tells me all I need to know. No wonder he seems so heartbreakingly alone. The poor guy never learned how to make a friend.

“Please tell me he has some friends now,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You’re killing me here.”

She tilts her head. “You don’t know?”

“He and I are sort of . . . new to each other’s lives.”

“Ah. Well. Yes, he’s got a couple of close friends. Things were rough in high school, but they got better in college. His best friend is from law school. Paul. He lives in Boston. And I get the impression he gets along quite well with some of his colleagues.”

I relax slightly. Andrew doesn’t know it, but he just got saved from a very aggressive Georgie Watkins friend-matchmaking campaign.

Oh, who are we kidding? I’m going to launch one of those anyway. Everyone needs new friends.

Pam starts to clean up the cutting board, and I jump out of my chair. “Don’t you dare,” I say. “You sit.”

“I’m saying yes, mainly because you’re young and springy and have more energy than me,” she says with a wink.

“Okay, one more question,” I say, keeping my voice casual as I squirt some dish soap onto the kitchen knife.

She sighs. “Andrew’s going to kill me, huh?”

“He’ll never know. Girlfriends? Anyone serious?”

“Wow, you really don’t know each other, huh?”

I give her a look over my shoulder. “You’ve known him a couple of decades. How easy do you think he is to get to know?”

“Good point,” she says, pursing her lips. “So, girlfriends . . . oh yes.”

I spin around, sudsy water dripping all over the floor. “You don’t have to say it like that!”

She laughs. “You asked!”

“Because I thought you were going to tell me he was a nerd! Practically celibate!”

She laughs harder. “Your face right now, sweetie . . . Okay, it was like this. High school, not so much with the ladies. As I said, he was two years younger, and sixteen-year-old girls aren’t so much into the fourteen-year-old boy who aces every single test.”

“But?” I ask, my teeth clenched.

“In college, though,” she continues, “things changed. Suddenly that two-year difference didn’t bug the girls quite so much. Suddenly smart was sexy. Didn’t hurt that he had a late growth spurt and discovered the gym.”

I dry my hands on the towel. “I can’t believe this. I’m dating a playboy.”

“Yes and no. In college he was definitely . . . well, he didn’t tell me. I was an old married lady to him back then. But, putting the pieces together, I’d say there were a lot more nightly companions than there were serious girlfriends.”

“What about after college?” I ask, both dying to know and not wanting to know.

“He settled a bit in law school. Had one pretty serious girlfriend, although they split after graduation when she went back home to Texas, if I’m remembering correctly.”

“Pam. Do me a solid and tell me he’s been a monk since then?”

She merely smiles. “Like I said, he doesn’t tell me much.”

I sigh and turn back to the sink.

The sound of the front door opening prevents any more snooping into Andrew’s history. Just as well. I’m not sure I want to hear much more about his love life.

I tense a little as I glance toward him, worried how he’ll feel about seeing me, a homemade dinner, and his sister-in-law all in the same room.

Not to worry. He doesn’t even look at me. Andrew sets down his briefcase and duffel bag, then goes straight for Pam, pulling her close and kissing the side of her head. “Good to see you, Pammy.”

Pammy. I can’t get a Georgie, but she can get a Pammy? Oh well. At least I know there’s hope for him yet.

“Thanks for making the time to see me,” she says, giving his chest a sisterly little pat.

“Always. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you.”

“Wasn’t a problem. I made friends with your girl Georgie here.”

I bite my lip a little, wondering how he feels about his family calling me his Georgie, and I brace for the chilly, back off eye contact.

His face is unsmiling when he looks at me—shocker—but his gaze is warm, and maybe a little . . . happy?

“Georgiana,” he says.

“Andy.”

He glances at the mess on the counter. “What did you do to my kitchen?”

“I was cooking, but it went badly. Should have stuck with soup. Pam had to rescue me. I didn’t realize you had plans, and now I’m intruding and leaving a mess.”

“Sounds like fairly typical Georgiana Watkins,” he says. But he’s smiling. Oh, how far we’ve come.

“I can clean up,” Pam tells me. “It’s the least I can do for spoiling your surprise. What I need to talk about won’t take long, and then you guys can get right back to your dinner.”

A clear dismissal, but an understandable one. If she came all the way into a city she doesn’t even like in order to talk with her brother-in-law, it’s got to be about something important. And perhaps not something she wants to talk about in front of a stranger.

“I’ll take you up on that,” I say, smiling to reassure her I’m not offended at being kicked out. “I’d tell you to leave the mess so I can get to it later, but I think our tidy Andrew might have a little heart attack.”

“How does this even happen?” Andrew says, gesturing toward a rogue piece of cheese that is nowhere near the cutting board or the package, and then running a finger through a coating of flour on the counter.

I reach up and pat his cheek. “You should probably accept now that being in my orbit can get messy.”

“News flash: I learned that months ago,” he mutters, swiping the flour-tipped finger down my nose. But his fingers close around my wrist before I can flit away, and he pulls me close and brushes a soft kiss over my lips. “Text you later?”

I nod, pressing my lips together and wishing I could kiss him again. All night, really.

He winks, as though reading my thoughts, and I have to step back, because I’m about two seconds away from jumping him.

“Nice to meet you, Pam,” I say, wiping off the flour on my nose. “Thanks again for your rescue mission with the chicken.”

“My pleasure, Georgie.”

“See?” I say, looking at Andrew and pointing at Pam as I walk backward to the front door. “Georgie. Your sister-in-law got it right on the first try. By the way, Pam, did you know Andrew and I both like the color red? Don’t you think that means we’re soul mates?”

“Goodbye, Georgiana,” Andrew says, his voice exasperated, as he pulls a wineglass for himself down from the cabinet.

I open the door to his apartment and blow him a kiss. Which he neither catches nor returns, but he’s smiling.

And I’m starting to freak out—just a little—that I like being a part of his life. I like it way too much.