Most everything I apologized for was never my fault. I hate that I’m falling back into old, bad habits.
We stare at each other, the rain falling down upon us, drenching us completely. His expression is uncertain and he looks . . . different. Is it his hair as it becomes plastered to his head, water dripping from the ends? Or is it the way he frowns at me, like I’ve disappointed him for the millionth time?
Slowly I realize what’s different about him—he doesn’t have his glasses on. I see them peeking out of the front pocket of his shirt, the dark fabric molding to his chest the wetter it gets. Despite all the moisture in the air, my mouth goes dry at the sight of it, at the sight of him.
He’s broad. Muscular. Strong. He could snap me like a twig, not that I believe he ever would. All that restrained strength contrasted with the gentle way he just touched me, kissed me . . .
My head grows light and my breathing accelerates. There’s something very awe-inspiring about a large man who restrains himself. Who is kind and caring yet fierce in his defense of someone who needs protecting.
Like me.
“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who should be sorry,” he finally says, his voice so low I have to take a step closer so I can hear him. “I pushed too hard, and . . .”
“It’s okay.” I cut him off. I have a bad habit of doing that with him, yet I never do that with anyone else. It’s like I’m in this rush to say things to him, as if I want to convince him of something else. I don’t like how I do this. “Really. It’s all on me.”
A crack of thunder sounds in the near distance, making me jump, and he steps toward me, his hand going to my elbow and giving it a squeeze, like he can’t not offer me comfort. My skin warms where he touches me and I both want to withdraw and throw myself at him. What I feel for him, how I react when he touches me, looks at me, it’s confusing.
Conflicting.
Exhilarating.
“You should go to your car,” he murmurs, his deep voice plucking at my nerve endings, making me achingly aware of how close he’s standing next to me. “You’re getting wet.”
“So are you.” A shiver moves through me, causing a tremor in my voice, and he slips his fingers around the crook of my elbow, steering me around. “What are you doing?”
“Where’s your car?” He ignores my protests as we start walking, Ethan taking command and leading the way. “I’ll take you to it. Make sure you get in safe.”
Always a gentleman, always polite and protective. I run from him like a fool and he still treats me kindly. I’d think any other guy would have given up on me by now. “I’m okay, really . . .”
“Stop.” He gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Where did you park?”
I point and he steers me toward my car, his long strides eating up the pavement as I try my best to keep up with him. The rain is falling harder now. My clothes are sticking to my skin, my leggings and sweater clinging heavily. I blink hard against the water coating my eyelashes and wipe away the rain that dots my skin, my other hand shooting out with my keys clutched in between my fingers as I hit the remote to unlock my driver’s-side door.
Ethan opens it for me and I dive inside, turning my head so I can look up at him. He looms above me, a dark figure against an even darker night, his scent mixed with the damp, stormy air intoxicating. “You okay?” he asks. “You seem a little shaky.”
I nod, not wanting him to leave yet. Reaching for his hand where it rests on top of my car door, I grab it, clutch his cool fingers in mine. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“You sure about that?” He’s watching me, his long fingers curling around mine and giving them a squeeze. I squeeze back, thankful for the way his touch anchors me, confused by the tight feeling in my chest, my breaths coming in shuddery exhales, the quivering that moves just beneath my skin. It’s not from the cold, though.
It’s from him, from his touch, from the way he studies me, like I’m the only woman in the world, like it doesn’t matter that I ran out on him. He’s okay with it.
He’s okay with me.
“I’m sure.” I nod firmly, turning so I grip the steering wheel, sticking the key into the ignition and starting the car. “Thank you again,” I say when I look back up at him.
Ethan smiles, pushing his damp hair away from his forehead. “Drive carefully.”
“I’ll text you when I get home.” I pause. “Or you text me when you get home, whoever makes it first.”
“I will.” He starts to shut the door. “Good night, Katherine.”
I hate how he’s calling me Katherine. Like we’ve gone back to formalities, now that there’s a boundary between us after my freak-out in the movie theater.
“Wait a minute.” I withdraw from the car, causing him to step back, his hand still gripping the top of my car door, his arms boxing me in.