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  “Stay with me…please,” Ethan mumbled between kisses.

  “I’ll stay,” I said. I felt his tongue reach back into my mouth, and his hands clasped the sides of my face. He found my chin with his mouth and then my neck and my shoulder before making the trail back again to my lips.

  I didn’t know if what I was doing was a good idea or how it would look or how my father would react if he found out, but I was going to take Ethan’s advice, at least for now. I wasn’t going to count this night among my regrets. I was going to seize this moment, and I was going to do what I wanted to do and stay with him, consequences be damned.

  Maybe I would learn a little.

  Chapter 7—Evaluate

  “Want a foot massage?”

  I wasn’t sure if I was going to get used to Ethan’s bluntness. Then I freaked myself out a little, realizing I was thinking about how I was going to get used to the behavior patterns of a guy I met twelve hours ago. Of those twelve hours, I think we had been making out for nearly three of them. After we ended the last session, we went searching Ethan’s three bathrooms for ChapStick. I guess his idea of a make-out recess was to rub my feet.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “I’d like to,” Ethan said. “I’m willing to bet your feet still hurt from wearing those fuck-awful shoes.”

  “Those ‘fuck-awful shoes,’” I said, “cost eight hundred dollars. They’re perfect for the suit.”

  “They hurt your feet,” Ethan said. “That means they suck. I don’t care what they look like. Come here.”

  Ethan extracted himself from the bean bag chair and ran out of the room. When he returned, there was a bottle of lotion in his hands. He plopped down on the end of the couch, turned towards the center, and sat cross-legged, holding one hand out.

  “Lay down with your head over there,” he said, indicating the arm of the couch. “Put your feet over here. I swear you won’t regret it. I give an awesome foot massage.”

  “Yeah, you have a thing for feet,” I said with a grin. Ethan blushed. That was something I could easily get used to because it was so freaking adorable.

  “Well remembered,” he said. He reached out his tongue and fiddled with the silver rings in his lip. “Please?”

  I didn’t know if there was a woman in existence who could actually pass up a man pleading with her to let him give her a foot massage. I sat down and placed my feet in his lap. Ethan grinned over at me—I loved the way he smiled so often, almost as much as the blush—and picked up my left foot with both hands.

  He coated his hands with the lotion and then started by rolling my foot in a slow, gentle circle, stretching out the muscles around my ankle. Once he was done with that, he moved to the top of my foot and stroked gently from the top of my toes towards my ankle, and then he added more pressure as he repeated the motion. He tilted my toes back a little, rubbing the balls of my feet in little circles with his thumbs before working all the way back to my heel. He swirled my ankle in a circle again—first one way, then the other.

  Ethan made a fist with one hand and rubbed the tops of his knuckles over the sole of my foot before attacking each of my toes in turn, starting with the big one. At the end, he ran his index finger between each toe, and then slid his hands back over the sole of my foot.

  By the time he was halfway done with my second foot, I closed my eyes and lay my head back on the arm of the couch. His hands felt so good on my skin, and his touch was just perfect—not too gentle or too rough. I was pretty sure I let out a moan more than once, which Ethan welcomed with a soft chuckle.

  He started humming while his thumbs ran up and down my instep, something slow, haunting and unknown to me. I found I couldn’t open my eyes anymore if I wanted to, and his touch and his voice faded from my consciousness.

  What seemed a moment later, I jostled awake, finding myself cradled in his arms as he stood in the middle of the hallway, looking back and forth between two doors.

  “Ethan?” I said sleepily. He looked down at me, his expression confused.

  “I didn’t know where I should take you,” Ethan said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you up; I just…didn’t know where to go. There’s a guest room…”

  “Just take me to your room,” I said.

  “Thank God,” I heard him murmur right before I dropped back off.

  *****

  I woke up disoriented, trying to figure out where I was. There were warm, strong arms wrapped around me, one across my back and the other up near my shoulder. Fingers lay lightly across the back of my neck, threaded through my hair. Ethan’s fingers. I was at Ethan’s apartment, in his room, in his bed, in his arms.

  Was I out of my mind?

  True to his word, he hadn’t tried anything. Against my better judgment, I wouldn’t have minded too much if he had.

  I raised my head a bit off his chest and looked up into his face. It was calm and peaceful in sleep, and the dark stubble covering his face was a little more pronounced than when I first saw him and was beginning to blend in with his sideburns. Most of his hair had escaped the unruly man-bun at the top of his head, and I noticed for the first time that his hair was long enough to reach past his shoulders. His dark lashes touched the top of his cheekbone. I could have just stared at him for some time, but nature called, and I shifted a little to break out of Ethan’s grip. As soon as I moved, his arms tightened and pulled me against his chest again.

  “No.” His raspy voice echoed through the darkened room. I looked back up at him and found his forehead creased and his eyes tightly shut. There was a distinct frown on his face, but he didn’t appear to have awakened.

  I smiled at his twisted up look of disappointment and gently released his arm from around my neck before trying to get up again. His eyes flew open.

  “Don’t go,” he said. His voice held a touch of panic.

  “I’m just going to the bathroom,” I said softly.

  “Oh,” he mumbled and released his grip. He blinked a few times and then glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. It was early still—just a little past six in the morning. He followed me with his gaze me as I rolled over, placed my feet on the soft carpet beside the bed, and made my way to the master bath.

  When I returned, Ethan was still awake and greeted me with that smile. A girl could really get used to seeing that in the morning.

  Okay, obviously I was out of my mind.

  He held his arms out, and I couldn’t help but return the smile as I clambered back into the king-size bed and back into the warmth of his embrace. He slid his hand up my back and threaded his fingers through my hair before resting his hand lightly against my neck once again. I heard and felt Ethan take a deep breath, which he let out slowly. I tilted my head a bit to look up at him and saw he was already asleep with the last remnants of his smile still visible on his face.

  Contrarily, it took me significantly longer to fall asleep again. For a while I lay my head down on his chest and kept my eyes closed, but sleep didn’t come as quickly as I would have liked, so I turned my head up to watch him sleep. I could see just a little bit more of the top of the tattoo near his neck, almost completely hidden by his T-shirt. It was red and black with just a hint of green. I was pretty sure it was a flower of some kind—maybe a rose. With his arm wrapped around me, I couldn’t get a better view of the tattoo there, but it was definitely a tail. I thought it was most likely a dragon or at least something reptilian. There was something written on the bottom, under the triangular pointed end of the tail, but I couldn’t see all the letters from the angle I had. If I shifted my head, I could make out “i-e-m,” but that was all. I was going to have to ask him about the tattoos tomorrow. Maybe he’d take his shirt off so I could see them.

  Now there’s an idea.

  I listened to Ethan sigh in his sleep and thought about everything he told me the night before. I wondered how he had reacted when someone came to him and told him both his parents were dead. I wondered what went through his h
ead when he realized he was alone. He had been so young, too. He still was really—only nineteen. Freaking nineteen. I wasn’t sure if I could cope with that or not. I started weighing all the pros and cons of this whole situation in my head.

  Pros: he was really sweet and kind; he seemed very intelligent; he could have a difference of opinion, state his case, and not be mad or nasty afterwards. One definite pro—he was absolutely gorgeous, and his smile counted as doubly gorgeous, his eyes maybe triple. He also had great taste in books.

  Con: he couldn’t read them.

  Was that really a con? I took a mental step back and reconsidered. When I didn’t make any headway on that at all, I tried thinking about some other disadvantages.

  Cons: he had dropped out of college, and my friends were going to think I’d lost my mind. They were going to roll their eyes, hope I just wanted to fuck his brains out for a while, and wait for me to move on to a “real” relationship. Dad was going to hate him.

  That was a big one. If I told him who Ethan’s parents were first, then prepped Dad on Ethan’s appearance before he actually met him, there was a slim chance he wouldn’t completely freak out about the piercings, tattoos, and total lack of a real job. His friends in the slums could never, ever be mentioned.

  This was not going to be easy. Back to pros.

  Pro: kissing him was absolutely mind-blowing. I almost wanted to get my own lip rings.

  Con: he had baggage, no doubt about that. I really didn’t want to hold that against him. It wasn’t like he could help what happened to his parents. He obviously had felt a lot of guilt over it at one time and maybe still did on occasion. Fault or not, guys with baggage were known to be troublesome.

  Pro: foot masseuse. Definite, mind-blowing pro.

  “What are you thinking so hard about?” Ethan’s unexpected voice shocked me out of my inner ramblings.

  “Oh! You startled me!”

  “I’m sorry,” Ethan said with a sheepish smile.

  “You don’t look sorry,” I commented.

  “You’re cute when you’re jumpy,” he said and then laughed.

  “You’re cute when you’re sleeping,” I said, and I reached up to kiss the end of his nose.

  “I liked waking up and having you here with me,” he said without warning, his tone suddenly serious. “It feels right.”

  His words spooked me, not because he said them, but because I felt them, too.

  “How did you get that scar?” he asked suddenly. He reached up and traced the edge of my lower lip.

  I shivered and pulled back a little.

  “Bumped into something,” I said quickly. “Not a big deal.”

  “What did you bump into?”

  “I don’t remember,” I lied. “It was a long time ago.”

  He scowled for a moment, then smiled as his cheeks flushed pink.

  “I gotta get up,” he said.

  I rolled to my side, and Ethan squirmed out from under me and the blankets before rushing off to the bathroom. I rubbed the tip of my finger over the tiny, practically unnoticeable scar on my lip and swallowed hard.

  Ethan was in the bathroom for a while, and I started to wonder just what the hell he was doing, but he finally came back out.

  “You go ahead and take a shower or whatever, if you want.” Ethan motioned to the master bath. “I put out some stuff for you, including some clothes. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course it is,” I said, wondering where he found clothes while in there. It was a big bathroom, but I didn’t think it was quite that big. “That’s very thoughtful, actually.”

  “I’ll go start on breakfast.” Ethan reached out and ran his hand down my cheek before leaning in and kissing my lips quickly. His mouth was minty, and I watched him run his tongue over the lip rings before he smiled at me and practically skipped out of the room. I shook my head and walked into the bathroom.

  Chapter 8—Fear

  Two pink, fluffy towels were neatly folded on the edge of the tub, and a new toothbrush still in its packaging sat next to the sink in the bathroom. It was also pink, just like the towels and the bean bag chairs. I was starting to wonder about all the pink in Ethan’s apartment. I noticed another door on the other side of the bathroom, and when I opened it, I was floored by the size of the walk-in closet, two thirds of which was filled with women’s clothes. I closed the door softly and thought about how hard it would be to go through one’s parents’ things after they were gone. Obviously, Ethan hadn’t been able to do it. I fought back a tear and turned to face the shower.

  To contradict my thoughts on color schemes, the products in the shower were decidedly masculine in nature. I smiled and lathered myself up with Axe body wash and washed my hair with American Crew shampoo. When I was clean enough, I stepped out onto the—yes, pink—bath mat and wrapped one towel around my body and the other around my hair. Once I was thoroughly dried and sporting a pair of lavender sweatpants and a—yes, pink—T-shirt from Ethan’s mother’s wardrobe, I opened the bathroom door and walked towards the kitchen.

  The smell through the hallway, emanating from the stove, was nothing less than magnificent. Ethan was in the process of flipping a piece of French toast in a large, heavy-looking skillet at the same time he was stirring a saucepan of syrup. He looked over his shoulder and greeted me with his beautiful smile.

  "You remember when we first met, and I said you were pretty?" he asked.

  "Well, yes," I said, feeling my cheeks warm. "That was only yesterday."

  "I was an idiot yesterday," Ethan said. "You're incredibly beautiful."

  My cheeks went from warm to blazing, and I had to look away for a minute. I wasn't used to such comments, even with guys I had dated in the past. I really wasn't sure how to respond.

  "They knew it, too," Ethan said quietly.

  "Who knew what?" I asked, confused.

  "Past boyfriends who never told you how beautiful you are. They saw it; they just didn't say it."

  "How do you know that?" I asked.

  "You're blushing," he said. "That means you aren't used to people telling you that. Also, most guys are pretty inept at relationships and never tell girls what they really want to say because they're afraid they'll sound stupid."

  "Are you just that good at relationships?" I had to ask.

  "No," Ethan responded, “but I don’t do much text communication, which is what fucks up all the relationships I see. You can’t convey tone in a text, and people are constantly getting pissed off just because a message is unclear or taken the wrong way. I also learn from my mistakes. My last girlfriend left because I didn't ever tell her how I felt. Once I realized what she wanted—no, what she needed—it was too late. I'd already fucked it up."

  Ethan went back to flipping French toast, and I stood there with my mouth open for a bit. I couldn't decide if he was for real or not. I mean, even if you ignore all the pink stuff, a guy this insightful, sensitive, and thoughtful—and he's interested in women? It really didn't seem possible. I resisted the urge to start looking for cameras and game show hosts.

  "Can I help?" I asked when I came out of my stupor.

  "Sure!" Ethan nodded towards the refrigerator. "There's orange juice in there and glasses in the cabinet on my left."

  I opened the door to the fridge and gawked a bit. Aside from a jug of orange juice, last night's leftovers, and the ingredients for French toast, the fridge contained a jar of pickles, a squeeze bottle of mustard, four cases of Coke and three cans of Sprite. That was it.

  Okay, despite the pink color scheme, he definitely wasn't gay, not that I really thought he was. I retrieved the orange juice, filled a couple of glasses, and then placed them on the kitchen table. Ethan flipped more French toast and emptied the pot of warmed syrup into a small dish with a pour spout. I took it from him and put it on the table next to the jug of extra juice while Ethan loaded a plate full of French toast and deposited it in the middle of the table.

  We dug in, and I moaned at the taste. It w
as undoubtedly the best French toast I had ever eaten.

  “Ethan, this is fantastic!”

  “Thanks,” he said with a blush. “My dad taught me how to make it when I was younger. I don’t think he knew how to cook anything else. Mom hated to cook, so we ate out a lot, as you can imagine.”

  “My parents weren’t much for cooking, either,” I said. “I had a nanny when I was young, though. She did a lot of cooking for the family. She taught me how to make a bunch of stuff, which has come in handy since I moved out. It’s easy to get lazy and eat out all the time though.”

  “It’s expensive to do it all the time,” Ethan said.

  “You don’t really need to worry about that,” I said.

  “No, I don’t,” Ethan said with a scowl, “but my friends do, so I usually try to bring some groceries over there instead. Since I eat over there more often than not, they’ll take it and not consider it like charity or anything. It’s just my contribution, you know? They don’t want any handouts, but food’s pricey. I usually take Faith with me to shop. She’s one of the few that knows I have money, but she won’t let on about it. She helps me pick out the right stuff to buy.”

  “What’s do you mean, ‘the right stuff’?”

  “The stuff that’s more economical and the stuff that’s healthier. I can’t figure out what’s on sale and what’s made from whole grains or not.”

  I hadn’t even thought about it. It occurred to me that trying to get along in the world without being able to read was probably a lot more difficult than most people realized. I looked over at Ethan and saw a smile that didn’t reach any of the rest of his face. He looked…resigned …or maybe just sad. I wasn’t sure.

  “Why is it hard for you to read now?” I asked. “It has something to do with the accident in high school, right?”

  “You ready for another long story?” Ethan asked.