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Should I invite Ethan in? Do I even want to invite him in? I’m tired and I’d really like to go to bed, but maybe he expects it. We are supposed to be going out tomorrow night. And he did spend a portion of yesterday evening giving me my first orgasm with another human being. That should count for something. A cup of coffee, maybe. Or some strawberry tea.
It probably even counts for a kiss. Which is fine with me. Really. I liked kissing him in his office. More than liked it, if I’m being honest. It’s just the expectation I don’t like. Again, that sense of bartering. Of having to do something for him because he’s done something for me. And if that’s the case, I’d at least like a vote in what happens. In what I’m expected to do. Chad never gave me that voice. Will Ethan? Already he’s talked me into doing things I don’t want to—simply because he asked me to. The smoothie. The ice. The walk home. It’s nothing like what Chad demanded of me, but could it be? If I let it?
By the time we walk into our apartment complex, I’m a nervous wreck. All mixed up and freaked out and unsure of what to say or how to say it. And when we get to our apartment and Tori disappears through the door with a thank-you and a wave, my confusion gets even worse. I’m left staring at Ethan with no idea of what I’m supposed to do. Damn it. Maybe I should have dated more these last couple of years. Then at least I wouldn’t feel so out of my depth.
“Do you—” My voice breaks, so I start again. “Do you want to come in?”
He leans a shoulder against the wall and just studies me for a moment, those crazy eyes of his the same shade as the sky outside as he tries to figure me out. Knowing what he’s doing only freaks me out more, makes me more wary and confused and defensive.
Eventually Ethan shakes his head, and I feel an overwhelming sense of relief mixed with a just as overwhelming sense of disappointment. Which makes no sense but is true nonetheless.
“Oh, um, okay. Then I guess—”
I break off as he rests a light hand on my shoulder. His fingers are warm and firm, but gentle, too. Tentative. Not nervous, like I am, but worried. Like he’s afraid that one wrong move will spook me. Guess I’m more transparent than I thought.
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there, watching me, for several long, tense seconds. I think he’s waiting for something, but I don’t have a clue what it is. If I did, I’d give it to him and damn the consequences.
I wait him out as long as I can, but eventually the silence gets to be too much for me and I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Thanks for building my sand castle for me. ” I sound awkward, and a little breathless from where my voice catches in my throat, but at least there’s something out there. Something between us besides tension so thick I could scoop it onto an ice- cream cone.
“Thanks for having dinner with me,” he answers.
“I should be thanking you. You bought most of it. ”
“It’s not about the money, Chloe. ”
Spoken like someone who has always had money. Or at least someone who’s had it so long that he doesn’t remember what it is not to have it. Because when you don’t have much more than a couple of nickels to rub together, it’s always about the money. My father taught me that a long time ago.
I don’t say that, though. Instead I ask, “What’s it about, then?” because I really want to know. I’m determined to find out the rules of this game we’re playing. Once I know them, everything will make sense again. And I’ll have more than a one-in-a-billion shot of actually winning.
His fingers are still stroking my neck, tender, feathery motions that somehow manage to turn me on and relax me all at the same time.
“You. It’s all about you. ”
He leans down toward me, and I brace myself for one of his mind-numbing, breath-stealing, resolve-shattering kisses. But it never comes. Instead, he cups my face between his palms and skims his lips across my forehead. Soft, sweet, and oh-so-seductive in its own way.
Then he’s pulling back, smiling at me. Tucking one of my crazy curls behind my ear. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow. ”
He turns to walk away, and though he didn’t actually kiss me, it still takes me a few seconds to gather my wits enough to call after him. “Wait! What should I wear?”
He turns back around, spreads his arms wide. And with a grin that somehow manages to be both warm and wicked, he answers, “Whatever feels good. ”
And then he’s gone and I’m left staring after him, wondering what the hell I’ve managed to get myself into.
Chapter Twelve
After a night of tossing and turning, I get to work to find out that I’ve been called into a meeting about the Trifecta merger. It’s me, two interns from legal, and a bunch of lawyers, all of whom are hyped up on coffee and the thrill of blood in the water.
I’m confused at first, but it doesn’t take long for me to figure it out. This merger isn’t really a merger. It’s a hostile takeover, one Trifecta is fighting with everything they’ve got. But the lawyers have found the final nail for the coffin, the one that will allow Frost Industries to absorb their current work on an invention whose purpose I don’t even understand.
I guess the takeover’s been in the works for quite a while and that Ethan has moved more slowly on it than the lawyers would have liked. That extra time allowed Trifecta to mess with their patents, to have the invention—whatever it is—patented under the names of the individual scientists instead of the company. Which their legal department seems to believe means we don’t have access to it.
But I found a case earlier this week that proves this assumption false—though at the time I didn’t know how Frost Industries would be using it, or the death blow it would deal Trifecta. If I had known, I’m not sure I would have turned the case over to the supervising attorneys.
I know that sounds bad. I am, after all, an employee of Frost Industries. It’s my job to do work that benefits them. But does that really include yanking the rug out from underneath a smaller company like Trifecta? Taking away people’s only means to keep not just their jobs but their life’s work? I want to be an intellectual property attorney to help the little guys, not harm them. I want to see them hold on to their inventions, not watch them be gobbled up by giant corporations with no souls or understanding of what went into the creation of said intellectual property.
My stomach is churning before we’re halfway through the meeting, and every time one of the lawyers congratulates me on my good work, it’s like a knife driven straight through me. Partly because I’m the one responsible for finding the work and partly because I thought Frost Industries was better than this. I thought Ethan was better than this.
Oh, maybe I was living in a dream world, but all the research I did, every article I read, talked about the ethical Ethan Frost. The son of a war hero, soon-to-be-billionaire who man
