I take it back. Drew's house is nice. They arrive back, totally bottoming the car out and then stalling in the driveway. They have a boring conversation.
House. Flower guy delivers stuff for a whole table setting. The three girls try to set up a table with a centerpiece and all, using directions and photos. These girls are not brilliant. Then Nick calls, saying he's on his way home. She stalls him. Then James, the server for the night, arrives. Jessica says she also has a violinist coming. The girls finish with the table. That's the most work they've done in years.
Drew's. The boys play basketball. They suck. Nick hurts his ankle.
The girls take stuff out of Jessica's trunk for tonight. She says she loves the scent of a candle. Then she looks at it and says, "Oh. It's unscented." Dipshit. Commercials.
House. Night. It's all done up and there's a cellist playing music. A cellist. Not a "violinist." She's such a brain fart. Jessica looks gorgeous in a small black dress with uber-cleavage as she walks around lighting candles. Then Nick arrives. "We set it up all ourselves. Isn't it pretty?" asks Jessica. Server Boy stands awkwardly by while the violincello plays and Jessica hugs Nick. He goes upstairs to take a shower. "Oh, great. I'm never going to get the fuck out of here," thinks Server Boy. Jessica goes to "cook," but can't figure anything out, fucking up the meal left and right. "I cooked all day long," lies Jessica as Nick comes downstairs, dressed for dinner. "It's nice to have this at our house, huh?" says Jessica, as Nick pulls her seat out for her. They have terrible conversation as Server Boy brings out courses and the trumpettuba plays. Jessica says that the chef from Dolce (ugh, Ashton Kutcher's shitty restaurant) came and showed her how to cook today; she lies again, saying that she made the main course all by herself. Right. She boiled the water for the ravioli that he made. Good job, Wolfgang. Jessica then starts gushing over the chef and how he's "twenty-eight" and from Milan. Nick gets jealous, then punches her the stomach for flirting. Well, not really, but a boy can dream. Nick says, "I don't like 28-year-old Italian men in my kitchen." Oh, put your tail feathers away, Nick. Nick is literally sweating with jealousy.