This isn’t really happening.
Ethan Blackthorn is half-naked and cooking dinner? Andsingingto himself?
No flipping way.
I have to be asleep.
“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, gesturing to a chair by the island. “Great timing. Just finishing up. Should only be a few more minutes.”
“…you’re cooking dinner?” I say flatly, like I can’t believe my eyes.
He sends me a scolding glance.
“I’m not my parents, Pages. I don’t employ home chefs unless I’m hosting a large dinner party or a cocktail social for work. That rarely happens here. Restaurants are more practical, but when it’s just me, I rarely eat out.”
“Right,” I say, because there are absolutely no words coming right now.
“I figured you might’ve worked up an appetite after—that fuck.” His arrogant smirk cuts me in two.
Yes,thatfuck.
God, this is so surreal.
I sit quietly, watching the muscles in his back ripple as he plates up food, feeling like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality. And I guess it’s a universe where literally everything is turned on its head.
Ethan smiles.
Somehow, we’ve had sex and he’s still here. He’s not fleeing the building like a man on fire with a swarm of killer bees descending.
The only thing that feels like it’s the same is me, because no matter how nice Ethan is, I’m still plagued with insecurities, uncertainties, doubts.
Like wondering how he can throw together dinner like nothing happened.
“Thanks. Smells incredible,” I say when he delivers me my plate. It’s a buttery garlic lobster pasta with a cucumber-tomato salad on the side, doused in some vinaigrette.
“Hope you’re still a lobster fan. I’m guessing that hasn’t changed since you never left the state.” He sits next to me and bites into a succulent piece of claw meat.
“Yeah. No, still a big lobster fan like any Mainer. I guess I’m just…” I sneak a glance through my eyelashes. “I thought we should talk.”
“Okay. Talk.” He keeps chewing.
“About what happened, I mean.”
“I was there, Pages. Go on,” he says, chewing more slowly this time.
“Are you, um… okay with everything? You’re not worried or anything?”
“Worried we fucked?” he asks matter-of-factly. “No. More like fucking ecstatic.”
“Ecstatic?” My brain scrambles to keep up.
“Sure. The closer we get, the easier it’ll be to pull this off seamlessly. There’s no harm in being believable. Also, we need a sexual outlet if we’re going to survive more than six months together. That’s only practical, and if we keep it in-house, that’s a lot less complicated.” He takes a bite and chews happily, totally unbothered.
“An outlet,” I repeat.
He’s obliterated my entire vocabulary.
“We’re engaged, aren’t we? I’m not about to go prowling after other women in town or anywhere else. And I know you wouldn’t bring another man around while the knot’s tied.” His eyes boil with jealousy.
