He’s being sweet and that’s not supposed to happen.
Rushing to my defense with Mom’s nagging about calories.
Open with the reminiscing about better days.
Intense when he told me I had to be crazy to think there’s anything wrong with me.
This isn’t the Ethan I know.
It’s not even the Ethan from roughly a week ago when I signed on to be his prop.
And then that kiss.
Holy. Hell.
I havenoidea how to interpret anything that’s unfolding now.
Practice, fine, but was that really what was on his mind when he kissed my face off?
I don’t knowwhyhe kissed me.
But he definitely felt like he liked it, if the battering ram in his pants is anything to go by.
I shake my head a little to clear my thoughts.
Ares shakes off sand and yawns, watching us through his big, handsome, slightly gloomy brown eyes.
You’re right, boy, I tell him silently.This is bad. Catastrophic.
This mess is already complicated enough.
How bad will it be if I start catching real feelings?
Two days later,it still feels like a dream.
We’re home now, back in Portland, and I’m trying not to think about the fact that Ethan hasn’t called.
Not once to decompress from the strangest evening of my life.
Which is fine. Obviously.
It’s not like I’m expecting him to be clingy, and he has no obligation to check in for a daily update or whatever.
We’refakeengaged.
Everything we do together is for show.
That’s the only logical conclusion, and if certain knees start going weak and wibbly again at the mere thought of kissing him a second time—well, that’s just what good practice kissesdo.
A lot of rom-coms with this silly plot say so.
So does my recent experience with one bad-tempered man.
At the time, I thought he liked it—or at least, he didn’t hate it—but the more time that passes with crickets from him, I’m starting to question everything.
Maybe he walked away in horror, thinking it was gross.
Maybe I’m such a bad kisser he never wants to look at me again.
