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Sheridan stretched her arms and yawned. “I was just about to go to bed.”
She wasn’t, but I appreciated her giving us space.
I remained on the couch, my face burning.
Wearing a burgundy blazer and black designer jeans that showed off his long, well-toned legs, Ethan looked incongruous on that worn armchair. He glanced over at the TV. “He looks young there.”
“Sheridan’s a Hugh Grant tragic,” I said.
“I don’t mind him either. I find his bumbling uncertainty rather endearing.” He looked down at my feet and pointed. “They’re cute.”
I turned my feet inwards, as though willing my childish footwear to disappear.
I rose. “Tea?”
He nodded. “That would be nice.” He followed me into the kitchen. “Sexy PJs.”
I turned sharply to face him. We were enemies, I had to remind myself. “What the fuck are you doing here, Ethan?”
He leaned against the bench, rubbing his jaw, looking bashful even. “I came because I was worried about you. You weren’t answering my calls or texts.”
As he held my stare, I found myself drowning in his chocolate eyes, searching for that playful glint. Instead, his gaze reflected genuine concern.
I took a second to get my thoughts together before I spoke. “My phone’s on charge.” Regardless of my stubborn determination to fight with my feelings, I couldn’t stop the cascade of warmth rippling through me. He’d come all this way to see me.
I poured water from the tap into a kettle. “Why would you be worried?”
“You must have pressed on your phone and called me without knowing it. I heard you yelling, ‘No, Orson,’ and I got worried that he might be hurting you. So I rushed into town.”
While pouring hot water into a cup, I repeated, “You rushed into town?”
“Hey. Watch it,” he said, pointing at the cup just as water spilt everywhere.
“Shit.” I got a tea towel and wiped up the water. “You heard me and Orson?”
He nodded. “I thought you were calling me. It kind of made my night.”
I looked up at him, still holding the dripping tea bag. The simple act of tea making had suddenly turned complicated as I tried to process Ethan’s extraordinary excuse for his presence in that dingy kitchen, fiddling with his hair.
“And you came all the way from Bridesmere? Tonight?” An intense frown made my head ache.
Wearing a faltering smile, he nodded. “It’s probably an overreaction, but I was worried. You were yelling, for God’s sake.”
He slicked back his hair with his hand, and my focus zeroed in on his high cheekbones and perfectly proportioned face. When his tongue licked those well-defined lips, I wanted to pounce on him, tear open his fitted shirt, and rub myself against him. But also on a deeper level, I just wanted to cuddle him.
Horniness, I could probably handle, but my heart was another story. I had to keep my distance. If I were being entirely honest with myself, I was using the spa development as an excuse to hate him. I hated myself for being so spineless. But men like Ethan Lovechilde didn’t stick around.
“I recorded a few songs, and I was so tired after last night”—I raised a brow in reference to our sexathon—“that I just crashed on his bed.”
Ethan took the cup that I handed him. “Right. Well, I guess that was an invitation of sorts.”
“An invitation?” I frowned again. “We didn’t fuck.”
I envisioned Orson snuggling up to me. The phone was in my jeans pockets, and when he went to hold me, I wriggled out of his arms.
“He tried. He always tries. But he’s also quick to get the message, and he’s never forced himself on me. That’s why I’ve maintained our professional relationship.”
“Then itwasa serious overreaction on my part.” His mouth stretched into a grimace. “Sorry.”
