by Tracy Wolff
When it’s over, when I can breathe and move and maybe even think again, I lift pleasure-drugged eyes to Ethan’s.
“That’s twice you haven’t gotten to come.”
He smiles at me, strokes a tender hand down my cheek. “I can wait.”
Just then the whoosh of the automatic door sounds, signaling the fact that someone else has joined us on the patio. Ethan immediately lifts me off his lap and onto the seat beside him, then makes a totally useless effort at tamping down my riotous mess of curls.
“I’ve got it,” I say, reaching into my purse and pulling out four hair sticks. As Ethan watches, a surprisingly gentle look on his face considering the fact that he’s still very obviously aroused, I twist and gather my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck. Once it’s as controlled as I can make it, I reach for the hair sticks, but he beats me to it. He gathers them up, then pushes them—one after another—into my hair, taking great pains not to scratch or jab me.
When he’s done, I shake my head a little, just to make sure none of the sticks is going to fall out. They stay put, and while it’s not perfect, at least my hair no longer screams that he’s spent the last fifteen minutes running his hands through it. That’s something, I suppose.
“Let me take you out tonight.”
I stiffen at his words, identical to those he said last night. The last vestiges of orgasm-induced pleasure leak away as all the things I’ve spent the last few minutes not thinking about find their way back into my brain. I’m not angry anymore. Nor am I determined to tell him off. I’m just sad. Sad that the only person I’ve been really attracted to in years—maybe forever—has an outlook so different from my own. Sad that no matter how good he makes me feel and how much I want to return the favor, that there can be nothing else between us. Which means, really, that there can be nothing between us at all.
I may want him, he may feel the same way, but there’s no way I can be with a man who would do what Ethan did in that conference room today. Not when I know firsthand the misery such ruthlessness can cause.
“I can’t,” I tell him.
“You mean you won’t. You had no problem making plans with that kid from R&D for this evening.”
For a minute I can’t even remember whom he’s talking about. Then an image of Zayn asking me for drinks flashes through my mind, followed quickly by the knowledge that he’ll be thrilled to find out that Ethan knows who he is. “We’re friends.”
He snorts. “Yeah. He looked very friendly while he was feeding you.”
“You saw that?” I feel myself blushing, embarrassed that he saw me make such a mess of myself.
“Hard to miss it. The guy had his hands all over you.”
“No, he didn’t! That’s rid—” I break off as it occurs to me what’s really going on here. “You’re jealous!”
“Of course I’m jealous. I don’t like any other man putting his hands on you. You’re mine, even if you don’t know it yet.”
“Yours?” The warning bells go crazy, and I scoot farther around the booth, shoving the table back to its normal position as I do. “We haven’t even been on a date yet.”
“A fact I’m trying my best to remedy.” I climb out the other side of the booth, but he’s already up, waiting for me. “You agreed to go out with me last night. You were still planning on it this morning in the lobby of Trifecta—I could tell by the way you smiled at me. So what the hell has happened between now and then to change your mind so completely? I just don’t get it.”
I think about telling him to go to hell, think about just storming away. But now that I’m more sad than pissed off, I can totally see that he deserves an explanation. If a guy treated me the way I’ve treated Ethan—letting him make me come, letting him buy my friend and me drinks and dinner, letting him send me presents—I’d be beyond pissed to be shot down without so much as a word.
“Look, I’m sorry. We just have different philosophies on life and—”
“Are you kidding me? Different philosophies?”
“No, I’m not joking. It’s important—”
“How do you know?”
“That it’s important to share similar values with the person you’re dating?”
“That our values and philosophies are so different to begin with.”
“I saw you today.”
He looks baffled. “I saw you, too.”
“No, I mean with the people from Trifecta. You were brutal with them. They had really valid requests and you just shot them down like they were nothing. Stole those patents from them, even though the owner’s son was totally responsible for one of them.”
“You can’t be serious. You’re walking away without giving me a chance because of something that happened in a business meeting?”
“See? You can’t even understand what you did. They’re people, with dreams and hopes and ideas. Good ideas. It’s bad enough that you bought up their stock and forced them into becoming part of Frost Industries. But to take away their only chance at making a good livelihood again…I just can’t wrap my head around it.”
I expect him to make another argument, to try once again to change my mind. But instead he’s looking at me like he doesn’t know me. Or, worse, like he doesn’t want to.
I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. Silence stretches between us, tight and angry. The weight of it pushes on me, makes me feel angrier, gloomier, lonelier than I already do. Which, believe me, is not something I need.
I’ve just about made up my mind to walk away when he says, “You really believe that? You really think that’s how I operate?”
“It’s not like I read some ridiculous article from the tabloids. I saw you pull the rug out from under them. Saw you destroy them. Worse, my research had a hand in helping you do it. I’m having a hard time living with that, let alone all the rest.”
“Must be nice to sit there in your ivory tower and cast aspersions on things you don’t understand.”
His words, so close to Brandon’s, so close to my father’s, make me see red like nothing else could. “Oh, don’t you pull that self-righteous act on me. I’m about as far from a princess as anyone can get, and I’m not a moron. I understand plenty. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“I find it rich that you’re calling me self-righteous when I’ve never heard a more sanctimonious load of bullshit in my life. And from a future lawyer.”
“Oh, right. A lawyer joke. How original. Especially coming from you. I’m the one standing here talking about doing the right thing, for everyone, and you’re condemning me. So don’t you dare talk to me about how amoral lawyers are.”
“That’s what you think? That backing off and leaving Trifecta to flounder in their own incompetence would be the right thing for everyone?” He laughs, but there’s no amusement in it. In fact, the sound is so painful, so agonized, that it chills my blood. “You know what? You’re right, Chloe. We’re not a good match. You abhor pragmatists, and I—Well, let’s just say I have better things to do than waste my time on supercilious little girls who spend too much time hiding behind their rose-colored glasses.”
Chapter Fourteen
I’m still smarting over Ethan’s comments hours later, when I let myself into the apartment. He’s known me a week—who the hell is he to call me self-righteous and sanctimonious and supercilious? And does the man not know an insult that doesn’t begin with an s? Although I have to admit, the ones he’d chosen certainly packed a wallop.
And maybe it is wrong of me to think I know him based on a couple hours’ observation of his behavior. But I heard him threaten those people like it was nothing. Watched as he threatened to take everything they had just to get some leverage in a negotiation. I might be wearing rose-colored glasses, but anyone could see that what he did was not okay.
Tori’s not in her usual spot on the couch, but I saw her car in the garage, so I know she must be around. After dropping my briefcase by the front door, I go in search of her. I find her sunbathing topl
ess on the patio while the guy from across the courtyard does his best to pretend he isn’t totally skeeving on her.
She makes a grab for her bikini top when she sees me, not out of modesty—the girl has none—but because she’s practically jumping out of her skin with excitement.
“So, I went through your closet when you were at work and I’ve narrowed it down to three outfits I think should work for your date. Four, if you consent to borrowing my purple dress.”
“Why would I borrow your purple dress? You’re a size two, I’m a size six. If I wore that, I’d look like an eggplant about to split its skin.”
“It’s a little big on me—”
“Which means it would be too tight on me.”
“Exactly! But in a good way. It’ll show off all those gorgeous curves of yours. Ethan won’t know what hit him.”
“Yeah, well, the point is moot. We’re not going out.”
“What do you mean?” For a second, she looks like a little girl who’s had her favorite teddy bear yanked from her arms. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day!”
Yeah, well, she isn’t the only one. I’d been excited—nervous and a little overwhelmed, but excited—at least until everything went to hell in that stupid meeting.
Settling down on the chaise longue next to Tori’s, I reach for her wineglass. After draining it, I tell her the whole sordid story.
When I finish, I expect her to offer me some more wine. I figure she’ll at least lead the way on some major guy-bashing before raiding the back of the freezer for some Ben and Jerry’s and watching some ridiculous rom-com. But instead she just stares at me like I’ve grown three heads. Or more. She looks so disgusted that it’s hard to tell exactly what she thinks of me. Except that it’s bad. Really bad.
“Are you kidding me?” she shrieks when she finally finds her voice. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
“What?” I know I sound defensive, but it’s hard not to be when she’s screaming in my face. “We think differently. Which is fine. I mean, he’s entitled to his point of view, his way of doing things. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it or be involved with him when I obviously don’t agree with the way he does things. I figured it was better to stop things before they ever got started than to worry about those differences later.”
I’ve so stupefied Tori that it takes her several long seconds to close her mouth. Then several more seconds before she shakes her head and says, “You are an idiot.”
“Why? Because I don’t jump to do Ethan Frost’s bidding? Because I’m not dying to hop into bed with him?”
“No. Because you are dying to hop into bed with him and you just sabotaged the whole thing!”
“That’s not true!”
“Really?” She sounds more exasperated than anything else. “I saw you with him last night. The way you lit up when he touched your hand or put an arm around you. I’ve never seen you like that with anyone. You want that man, so of course you take the first opportunity to run away from him.”
“I’m not running away. I’m simply choosing not to be with him because—”
“Because of one incident that you don’t even understand.”
“You weren’t there.”
“No, and neither were you. Not really. Not for all the buildup that led them to that point.” She sighs, then reaches over and pats my knee. “Look, I get it. You saw Ethan strong-arm those people and it freaked you out. Made you think of whatever happened with Miles and your dad. Maybe all of it rolled into one. But he’s not any of those people. He’s Ethan fucking Frost, the man I had to hear about for months when you were researching the internship. You worshipped him before you met him, were completely enthralled with all the things he does for charity and the environment. With how he treats his employees.
“And now you’re basically acting like he’s Satan himself, all because of one business meeting. Even though everything else—the charity, the employee benefits, his business model—are all the same as they’ve always been.”
“You think I’m looking for flaws in him?”
“I think you’re only human. And you’re scared. It would be completely natural for you to try to find something wrong with him before you get in too deep. But I also think you jumped at the first thing you could find without giving him a chance to explain himself, simply because it was your way out.”
I don’t say anything else, and Tori doesn’t push. She’s smart enough to know I need some processing time. I don’t think she’s right, but I do know that from the moment I mailed back that blender—with my own personal letter full of stuff—that I’ve been a nervous wreck. Completely freaked out by what my doing so implied. Seeing the way he treated Trifecta stopped my worries pretty much instantly, gave me something much bigger to focus on. Something I don’t want to see happen to anyone ever again.
But was that one meeting enough reason—enough proof—for me to shut him down the way I did? Especially when I know all the great things he’s done through the years? Or is Tori right? Did I just use that as an excuse to extricate myself from a situation I was terrified would turn sticky? I don’t know. I don’t think so, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it subconsciously.
Tori lets me brood for a while as she orders dinner from the Greek place down the block. But when the intercom buzzes with the delivery, she decides brooding time is officially over. She drags me inside to watch Crazy Stupid Love, and sometime between eating Greek salads, hummus, and stuffed grape leaves and discussing how awesome it would be to lick ice cream off Ryan Gosling’s abs, I get roped into helping Tori dye her hair.
Normally she gets her hair dyed at a salon over on Prospect, but I guess what she wants this time is just too wacky, because her stylist, Geoff, refused to do it for her. He’s never said no to her before, no matter how crazy the color is, and I’m a little shocked he managed to stand his ground this time.
At least until I see the myriad boxes of hair dye she lays out on the coffee table in front of me and I realize she’s going for rainbow hair. Suddenly I’m not so sure, either. I don’t know why it seems more normal for her to have green hair or purple hair, but it does. Having multicolored hair just strikes me as an inability to commit.
I tell her so, but she just laughs. “Who said I had to commit? I’m twenty-one. If I can’t be fickle now, when can I be?”
She makes a good argument, but still. “Are you sure they’ll let you in the building at work if you do this?”
She waves her hand, and I know what she’s saying even without the words. If her job doesn’t like it, she’ll just quit and find one that does. It’s not like she’s worried about paying the bills or anything. Not that I’m complaining, considering her money is what has made this last week—and all my future weeks at Frost Industries—possible.
In the end, I agree to turn my best friend’s hair the color of Easter eggs—not as though there was ever any doubt. Still, it’s a long, time-consuming process. First because it takes hours to bleach out the dark yellow that is her current color, and then because it takes hours more to paint individual clumps of hair with every color of the rainbow from fuck-me red to Ethan Frost blue.
When we’re done and she’s washed out all the dye and then styled her hair, I have to admit the look is as beautiful as it is striking. Like she’s been kissed by a thousand rainbows—or fallen headfirst into a bag of Skittles. Either way, she looks amazing.
We finish the night with a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream around 3:00 a.m. As I take the last spoonful, I start to congratulate myself for going hours without thinking about Ethan, but that thought blows the whole deal. Suddenly I can’t help but think of the disgust in his eyes in those last minutes. The disappointment. Like I was the one who had screwed things up, not him.
Maybe in his eyes I am. Which is just more reason why this thing between us wouldn’t work. We see the world in very different ways. Which means Tori’s wrong. I wasn’t being a coward, wasn’t running away because I felt so
mething. I was just doing what I do best. Being pragmatic. Making a plan.
The realization should make me feel better, but instead all it does is depress me. Which only makes me more determined to not think about it. Sinking deeper into the couch, I lay my head on Tori’s shoulder and watch Cary Elwes storm the castle in The Princess Bride. For the first time ever, it fails to make me laugh.
* * *
I wake up early Saturday morning to a loud pounding. I’m still on the couch, half tangled up with Tori from when our sleeping selves were looking for some comfortable position to sleep in.
“What the hell is that?” she groans as she hefts herself into a sitting position.
I shove my heavy curtain of hair out of my eyes, then immediately wish I hadn’t when the sunlight slams into them, makes them burn. “I have no idea,” I answer, burying my face in my hands in a desperate bid to stop the pain.
The pounding gets louder, and Tori’s the one who finally identifies it. “Someone’s at the door.”
“Oh. Right.” That rhythmic pounding was actually someone knocking.
She nudges me with her foot. “Aren’t you going to get it?”
“You’re the extrovert. If someone is knocking this early on a Saturday morning, we both know it’s for you.”
“Good point.” She groans a little as she pulls herself off the couch—how early is it anyway?—and stumbles toward the door. The second she’s gone, I fall facedown onto her side of the couch and pull a pillow over my head. If I’m lucky, whoever it is will keep Tori busy for a few minutes and I can go back to sleep.
I hear voices near the front door, notice that my roommate is talking a lot more animatedly than she usually does. Which is a good sign. I close my eyes, start to drift. Then groan what feels like mere seconds later when she starts shaking my shoulder.
