“Stop telling me what to do!”It’s stupid, and neither of us should be out here, but we are, and I’ll go inside when I’m good and freaking ready.
Ethan’s brow lines as he leans closer than before, smelling like rain and men’s soap.His voice turns soft.“Chloe, what’s wrong?”
I clutch my mat a little tighter.“I don’t want to be in that house with him.”For as long as I can remember, that cottage has been my sanctuary.The last time Rick came to town, he only stayed for a night, and he’d been sober.
I just need time to calm down and get control of myself.
Ethan reaches into the car and tugs my mat from my iron grip, tossing it on the passenger seat.Then he gently takes my hand and urges me to my feet.I let him because I don’t have it in me to fight anymore.
He doesn’t bring me home, though.Instead, he leads me through the driving rain to his stairs that are no longer bowed or broken, up to a deck that’s freshly stained, and into his parents’ house that smells like sawdust and paint.Hard work and progress.Relief and safety.
Ethan kicks off his shoes and sets them beside a massive pair of work boots.I slip out of my shoes as well, doing my level best not to stare at the white T-shirt clinging to his muscular back.He’s not wearing his usual work pants or jeans.His thick thighs are encased in gray sweatpants.
Very damp, very fitted sweatpants.
Ladies and gentlemen, what they say about gray sweatpants is one hundred percent true.
I think I might faint.
By sheer force of will, I drag my gaze off him to the rest of the house.The last time I’d been here was the day the Simpsons moved out.Back then, the place had been well-loved and, admittedly, a little worse for wear.
Now, it looks brand-spanking new.It’s like someone googled “modern beach house” and then magically brought every single photo to life.
“You’ve been busy,” I say.There aren’t dirty handprints all over the wall from the Simpson twins.The stained carpet is gone.The only thing missing is furniture.
Where has Ethan been eating?There isn’t even a table in here.
Without a word of warning, he reaches over his head with both hands and pulls off his damp T-shirt.
He usually works outside without a shirt, so the whole muscular chest and ab situation he’s got going on shouldn’t get to me, but right now, it’s dark.We’re alone in his house.
And the way he’s looking at me, all scowly and concerned, makes my stomach flutter.“You’re soaking wet, Chloe.”
Man, those words sound dirty coming out of his mouth.
“You should probably take off those clothes,” he goes on, which doesn’t help my spiraling thoughts from splashing right into the gutter.
He’s just being practical and probably doesn’t want me dripping water everywhere, but I let myself imagine for a second that he meant it exactly the way I want him to.That he might be looking at the cold, wet clothes glued to my skin and join me in the gutter as well.
When he says nothing else, I remove my sopping sweatshirt and let it fall to my feet.Ethan looks away, his jaw flexing.
What’s up with him?
I glance down.Looks like I’m not the only one getting a show.
There are my nipples, standing at attention against the translucent pale-yellow fabric of my T-shirt.
“I’ll get you something to wear,” he rasps, collecting my sweatshirt from the floor and bringing it down the hallway.A few moments later, the rumble of a clothes dryer reaches my ears.Ethan reappears in a dark T-shirt and a pair of black athletic shorts, and I silently mourn the loss of his abs.In his arms are a spare shirt and dry sweatpants.
I head into the powder room to change, and when I come back out, Ethan offers to throw the rest of my stuff into the dryer as well.When I hand over the ball of fabric, my white lace panties slip to the ground between us.
Ethan’s green eyes snap to mine, clinging there.
So much for him not realizing I’m not wearing any underwear.
I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat, hiding my nervousness behind a smile.“Don’t worry.I’ll wash your clothes before I give them back.”But I couldn’t sit around in wet underwear.That’s a yeast infection waiting to happen.
This time, when he disappears into the laundry room, he’s gone for even longer.I take the time to check out a bit more of the house.Looks like he dragged the graying wooden chairs from the porch into the living room because of the storm.On one of the crooked arms sits Nelson Mandela’s,Long Walk to Freedom.
