“Thank you, Elliott.” I looked at all the offerings. I noticed Jo Malone English Pear & Freesia perfume and lotion. I thought about my first Jo Malone fragrance. Nutmeg & Ginger. From Griffin. There was some Kurkdjian’s Amyris perfume and lotion I had discovered with Elle, and lastly, a bottle of Tom Ford perfume and soap in Portofino. My mind went to Italy, to the painting I had given that Christmas, and to the person who had always wanted to go there. One of these things would have been more than enough—and expensive. The whole sampling was certainly pricey. I was definitely into high-quality smells. Propped up in the very back of the basket was a book, Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

“How do I love thee, let me count the ways … ” he began. I went over and kissed him.

“And here I thought you were going to join me in this big bathtub.”

“No, thanks. I’m a shower and body talc kind of a guy. But there’s some Chanel No. 5 perfume tucked underneath in case you want to go old-school.”

“I think I’m good. You thought of everything.” I was decidedly new-school in my scents.

“That was the general idea. Let me draw your bath.” I was already regretting going out tonight. This easy intimacy with Elliott felt good and right.

I wore an LBD—as Reggie referred to half the dresses in her wardrobe. I smelled and looked feminine. I felt pretty. I allowed Elliott to zip me up. “You smell as good as you taste,” he said as he nibbled on my shoulder.

“I think it just smells like English pear. I don’t think it tastes like one,” I said.

Elliott selected the sport coat I had given him. He looked put together in a very offhand kind of way. He looked handsome, like the English gentleman he was. We stopped for cocktails first. I had a sidecar, and Elliott got his usual glass of Macallan scotch. We paid our bill and ducked out so as not to be late to our seven o’clock reservation. That was one thing Elliott was prompt about. Being on time is a must for a crowded popular restaurant. Elliott believed this strongly and penalized repeat customers who were habitually late.

When we arrived at Conrad’s 20/20, the place was already buzzing. A statuesque hostess showed us to our table. A flower arrangement of poppies, succulents, and orchids in deep jewel tones stood in the center. That’s what made Elliott a perfectionist. He knew the flowers he would normally choose would clash with the deep color palette and décor here. He had come here first, surveyed the landscape, and then chosen the flowers for our table. He was about to explain when I put a finger to his lips. With Elliott, I felt like a proper couple. There was no reason to hide or sneak around.