“I could use something else to drink, too. If you want to come in, you can. I suppose.”
He nods and tries to hide his half smile. “Fine, I will, but please, stop begging. It’s embarrassing.”
“What can I say? I don’t like drinking alone.”
He turns to me, eyes almost black in the shadows of the car. “Me neither.”
The air between us becomes stifling. Crazy thick.
He lets out a breath before saying, “One drink, then I’ll be on my way.”
Flutters tickle my stomach and then move lower. “Okay.”
I’m laughing so hard, I can barely breathe. Ethan’s in the same boat. He’s wheezing like a cartoon character. I don’t even know what we’re laughing about. This is surreal. After more than a year of bitterness and snark, how the hell did we get here?
I topple to the side and collide with his shoulder. He leans back against the couch, and I’m so busy marveling over how stunning he is when he’s happy, my head slides down his arm and lands in his lap. We keep laughing. My head bounces off his stomach. It makes me laugh more. I sound deranged.
He spills some of his drink and licks the liquid off his thumb and forearm before it can drip onto the carpet. I’m transfixed by the motion of his tongue. I want to find out if it tastes like tequila.
He drops his head back and says, “I think we’re drunk.”
“I think you’re right.”
Gradually, our laughter dies down, and I flip onto my back and let my head nestle on top of his thigh. It feels strange to be with him like this. Like these are versions of ourselves from an alternate universe in which things are totally different, and we’re both happy. Touching him with such ease after all this time feels more like déjà vu than something I’ve done before.
I close my eyes and let myself enjoy it. I know this a stolen moment, but it’s exactly what I need right now.
I feel fingers on my forehead as he strokes my hair away from my face, and I open my eyes to see him staring down at me. All laughter has left his face. There’s an intensity in his expression that makes goose bumps flare across my skin. He threads his fingers through my hair, and everything seems to slow down. Like the air is charged with extra gravity.
I inhale with effort.
Within three seconds his fingertips have aroused me more than Nick could in three months.
The box in which I’ve locked my passion explodes open.
Ethan licks his lips. “I’m starting to think this was probably a bad idea. Being alone with you.”
I’m mesmerized by the movement of his mouth when he talks. “Yeah. Probably.”
“It’s easier when there are other people around. They distract me, you know? When it’s just us … it’s—”
“Harder.”
His expression softens. Fingers trail down my cheek.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, like he’s afraid I’ll hear. “Every day I think that but can never tell you.”
His touch is feather-light, but each stroke sinks into my bones. Sets them ablaze. “Why tell me now?”
“Because I’m too drunk to stop myself. And because neither of us is likely to remember this tomorrow.”
His chest rises and falls in fast shallow breaths. Eyes are hooded. Deep and needy.
Lonely.
Sad.
“I miss you, Cassie.”
My heart races. I’ve wanted to hear that so many times, but now that he’s said it, I have no idea how to respond.
He’s still stroking my face. Studying me. Trying to keep himself together.
Seeing him like this instantly pulls me apart.
I look away.
He sighs. “On a scale of one to wanting-to-kick-me-in-the-balls, how much do you hate me for dumping you? Be honest.”
I pick at the outer seam of his jeans. “Some days, I hate you lots. Most days, to be honest.”
“And other days?”
I run my fingernail down the stitching while ignoring how his thigh is tensing beneath my head.
“Some days, I…” He grazes his fingernails down the back of my neck and then up across my scalp. It makes a quake of shudders roll through me. “Sometimes I don’t feel like kicking you in the balls at all.”
“What about right now?”
I turn to face him as I fight the burn that’s rising up my chest and neck, and the hungry ache that’s pounding down low. “Right now, I have no idea how I feel.”
He stares at me for a long time, then nods and takes a mouthful of booze. He frowns at his glass.
I sit up and wait for him to say something. He doesn’t.
His knuckles go white as he grips his drink.
“What are you thinking?”
He shakes his head. “I’m thinking I really want to kiss you, but I can’t.” He gives a short laugh. “While I’m admitting stuff, I’ll tell you that’s what I’m thinking pretty much every day. It’s fucking pathetic how often I fantasize about it. I thought I’d be over you by now. But I’m not.”
His words floor me. So honest and unexpected. So similar to things I stop myself from thinking.
I can’t respond. For once, he’s braver than I am.
He drinks again and looks as if he’s waiting for a response. He’s going to be sorely disappointed.