“Dinner,” he said. “Huh?” was my erudite reply. I knew he wasn’t trying to ask me out. Not after we’d spent an entire morning hating each other. “Seven. At the big house down the road. That’s Liza J’s. She’ll want to meet you.” “If she doesn’t know she’s my landlord, she’s certainly not expecting us for dinner,” I pointed out. “Dinner. Seven. She’ll be expecting you by then.” I was not comfortable with this kind of invitation. “What am I supposed to bring? Where’s the closest store? Does she like wine?” Hostess gifts were not just respectful—in this case, they would set the tone of a good
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