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THERE WAS NO way around it: Grey was drunk. She leaned her cheek on the cool window of the Bentley, shutting her eyes against the dizzying glare of the passing streetlights. She normally had to cap her wine consumption at two glasses before things started to turn on her. The two of them had polished off the first bottle before their entrées had arrived, and finished the second by the time she’d demolished four-fifths of their “shared” flourless chocolate cake.
Ethan was quiet next to her, his fingers lightly covering hers. They felt like they were the only thing anchoring her, like if he lifted his hand she would float out through the window into the smog. The second half of their dinner had passed in a warm haze. Grey remembered laughing a lot, but she already couldn’t recall what was so funny.
Ethan. Ethan was what was so funny. And charismatic. And endearing. And handsome. So fucking handsome. For the first time since she’d met him, she felt like she’d gotten a glimpse of the real Ethan. The sweet, sensitive man hidden beneath the condescension, the iciness, the self-involvement. Over the course of the evening, he’d almost seemed to glow, especially when he looked at her. Then again, maybe that was just the wine talking.
The car slowed and Grey opened her eyes again. They were in front of her house. Ethan gave her fingers a light squeeze before leaning forward to place a hand on Ozzy’s shoulder.
“Be right back.”
He opened the door and got out. Grey opened hers, too, carefully unfolding her legs onto the ground one at a time. Ethan appeared in front of her and offered his hand.
“You steady, cowgirl?”
She gripped his hand with both of hers and he helped her pull herself to her feet. For a moment, she was tempted to just let the momentum bring her fully against his chest, but the last soggy remnants of her pride forced her to stand up straight. She kept hold of his hand, though.
“I’m good. Great. Never better.” They walked to her front door, hidden from street view by a few well-placed trees. She rummaged around in her clutch for her house keys, stumbling a little as her focus shifted. He reached out an arm to steady her.
“I had a really nice time tonight. You’re…you’re really nice,” she babbled, her vocabulary apparently having taken the rest of the evening off.
Ethan laughed. “Thanks. You’re really nice, too.”
She dug out her key and looked back up at him. He looked down at her, his face streaked with shadows from the porch light. His gaze drifted down to her mouth.
“You have something…” He cupped his knuckles under her chin and tilted her face toward the light, bringing his thumb to trace the edge of her bottom lip. She shivered. “Lipstick,” he murmured. He didn’t move his hand away, resting his thumb at the corner of her mouth.
He was going to kiss her. She was going to kiss him. They were going to kiss, lipstick be damned. Her heart started to race. She leaned into him, pressing against the length of his body and sighing a little. She closed her eyes and waited.
And waited.
He dropped his hand and cleared his throat.
“Grey.”
She opened her eyes. He was looking at her with a troubled expression. She stepped back and covered her face with her hands, too mortified to even look at him.
“Sorry. I just thought—sorry.”
“No, it’s okay, I mean, you’re very—you’re—I wish…” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “You were right. Before. We…we shouldn’t make this complicated.”
Grey had already turned toward her front door, trying to maneuver her trembling hands to insert the key in the lock with the focus of a veteran safecracker. She still couldn’t look at him.
“Of course. You’re right. So right. Forget it. I sure will!” Mercifully, she got the door unlocked. She scampered inside, plastering a bright smile on her face. “Thanks for dinner! Get home safe!”
She slammed the door on him before he had a chance to respond. She pressed her back against the door, sinking down onto her heels, burying her head in her hands and half groaning, half screaming in frustration.
Somehow she knew that no matter what they promised each other, things were only going to get more complicated.
ETHAN KNEW HE’D FUCKED UP. He realized it as soon as he saw the hurt and embarrassment in Grey’s eyes when he’d pulled away from her. Never mind that it had taken every last drop of self-control he had left. When she’d pressed her warm, soft body against his and sighed, smelling faintly of wine and tropical flowers, his brain had come dangerously close to short-circuiting. He didn’t know which was worse: the certainty that he’d hurt her with his rejection, or the uncertainty of what would have happened if he’d given in to temptation, pulled her into his arms, and drunk her down.
It was that uncertainty that haunted him over the next several days. In the moment it had seemed like shutting her down was the only option, but as soon as he did, he regretted it. It wasn’t just her disappointment that left him rattled—it was his surprise at the intensity of his own need.
He’d seen her once since then. The two of them had gone out to get coffee, Audrey calling ahead to make sure the shop wasn’t too busy. They’d spent less than twenty minutes together from start to finish.
She’d been friendly and cordial, acting every inch the devoted girlfriend, but the vulnerability was gone, her eyes frosted and distant. In a way, it was a relief: she’d gotten the message. He was someone who needed to be kept at arm’s length. He would only hurt her and let her down. He was thankful that it had just taken something as minimal as a rebuffed kiss for her to figure it out.
The coffee shop was another baby step in his journey back into public-facing life. When they’d entered, holding hands, every head in the place had whipped toward them. After years of brushing off and demurring every time someone had recognized him, he was a little rusty at actually interacting with fans. Grey had taken the lead with grace, steering them through each encounter, providing the delicate illusion of genuine connection, knowing exactly when to cut things off without seeming rude. He was grateful for her. He didn’t deserve her, even in the limited capacity he had her.
When he’d gotten home, he finally forced himself to pull out the last script he and Sam had been working on: Bitter Pill, a remake of an arthouse Korean film from two decades earlier that the two of them had been fascinated by. They’d acquired the rights shortly before Sam’s death, but their option on it was expiring soon.
Looking at the title page filled him with shame. He’d failed Sam by letting it languish for so long. Though he had acted in plenty of movies without Sam, this would be his first time writing and producing without Sam by his side. The prospect made Sam’s absence feel as acute as if Ethan had lost one of his own limbs, maybe even his head.
For them, the finished product had been secondary to the galvanizing delight of the creative process. The two of them up all night brainstorming in Sam’s office, running on pure adrenaline (and the occasional bump), tossing ideas back and forth until the sun came up.