notices on the table. He set the bags down. “Where’s her bottle?”
“The sink,” Clara choked out, momentarily paralyzed.
Ethan didn’t wait. He shed his tailored cashmere coat, tossing it onto a mismatched chair, rolled up his sleeves, and went straight to the small sink. He washed his hands, found the clean plastic bottle, and opened the first can of sensitive-stomach formula. He moved with a quiet, decisive efficiency.
Clara watched him, completely bewildered. This man looked like he belonged on a billboard, not under her broken lightbulb mixing baby
