Page 31 of Room for Us
I laugh, loud and awkward. “You can drop it in the hall. I’ll get it done tonight.”
He nods, hesitating. “Do you ever take a day off?”
Closing the dishwasher, I dry my hands on a towel. “No. But that’s what happens when you work where you live.”
Another nod. “All right. Well, thanks.”
“Good night, Mr. Hart.”
Something sparks in his eyes, focused intensely on mine. “Ethan. My name is Ethan.”
I swallow hard. “Ethan.”
“Good night, Zoey.”
My whisper finds an empty room. “Good night.”
What does it say about me that I enjoy doing Ethan’s laundry? Probably nothing. Or something I’d rather not examine—like I’m lonely, and caring for someone else makes me feel less so. Or, God forbid, my years of playing housewife to Chris brainwashed me into a Stepford robot. Ugh.
Even dirty, his clothes smell good. If he wears cologne, it’s subtle but weirdly intoxicating. Battling the urge to hold a T-shirt to my face, I wonder if his skin smells the same.
“Bloody pheromones.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Biology. Laws of attraction. Two healthy, attractive young people living in a house together and eventually chemicals take over their brains and they start thinking about doing the no-pants dance.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop it.”
“You’re seconds from sniffing his undershorts.”
My lip curls. “That’s disgusting.” I quickly toss two pairs of boxers into the wash, followed by his bath towels, then close the door and punch buttons. The washer starts with a click and a hum.
“He was nice today.”
“Who cares? He’s nuts.”
Biting my tongue, I grab a stack of folded dishtowels and head for the kitchen. A few feet from the pocket door, I hear noises coming from inside. Cabinets opening and closing. The pantry door protesting softly.
Because I’m a sad, lonely woman, I experience a jolt of anticipation. He hasn’t gone to bed yet. Maybe we can talk some more. Have an actual, meaningful conversation.
I use my shoulder to push the door open, halting at the sight of Ethan standing near the pantry with an ancient, mostly empty bottle of bourbon tilted against his lips.
“What are you doing?” I blurt.
The bottle drops fast. He gulps and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then turns to face me. The bottle lifts in my direction.
“What is this shit?”
He looks so miffed, I bite back a smile. “Bottom shelf alcohol. The good stuff is in the dining room cabinet.” Then the smile drops from my face. “How on earth can you think of drinking after last night?”
He grimaces, replacing the top on the bottle and setting it on the counter behind him. “Couldn’t sleep. It’s a problem.”
My frown deepens. “And the logical solution was drinking yourself into oblivion?” The sharp question causes the blood to drain from my face. “God, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business what you do.”
He shrugs a shoulder, gaze touching mine before flitting away. “It probably is—if I continue to be a liability.”
It’s the closest he’s come to apologizing for last night, and it softens my damnable heart. Sighing, I cross the kitchen and deposit the towels in a drawer. His eyes follow me. I can feel them, electric and penetrating.
