Page 43 of Room for Us
“Tell Alana she looks beautiful this evening.”
“Why don’t you tell her?” I whisper. “Hitch a ride on her brain for a bit.”
“I would if I could,” she says sadly and fades away.
“Talking to yourself again?” asks Ethan lightly as he puts a few more dishes on the counter.
My laugh is manic. “Yep.”
I should tell him I speak to my dead aunt. That alone might pull this train to a screeching halt. But it could also land me in a world of trouble. A stint in a psychiatric hospital is the last thing I need right now. The Lilac Ladies would have a field day, and I’d lose any hope of revitalizing Rose House—I’d have to sell, relocate somewhere new.
Tahiti, maybe.
“You seem troubled.”
I snort. “Troubled? Nah. Just wondering if you switch personalities for fun or just to mess with me.”
His smile winks out. I wince, ashamed by my behavior, but before I can apologize he says, “I deserved that. I wasn’t kind to you when I arrived, and I’m sorry.”
I’m stunned to silence.
Ethan sighs. “Anyway, I’m ninety percent introverted and therefore exhausted. In a good way,” he adds quickly. “Your family is great. I’m really glad we came.”
“But you’re ready to go,” I surmise.
He nods, and for the first time that night, I really look at him. The fading light in his eyes. The tired tension in his shoulders. And it occurs to me that entertaining my family all night had less to do with what he wanted and more to do with me.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say softly, drying my hands and facing him.
His gaze alights on mine. “I enjoyed it. Truly. But I’m looking forward to getting home and maybe decompressing with some chamomile tea. Alone. With you.”
Heat erupts in my body—only half of it arousal. The rest is centered in my chest, where my heart tries to outrace his words even as my mind tries to minimize them.
In that moment, denial vanishes and I realize how fucked I am.
In almost every way, Ethan is the opposite of Chris. My ex was perfectly groomed and emotionally contained. Content to vacation three times a year, play golf on Sundays, and divorce me because his parents threatened to cut him off when they found out I couldn’t have children.
Ethan Hart isn’t a fairytale prince. He’s the villain with the crooked smile. The dark horse. He drinks too much, thinks too much, isolates himself and alienates others. He has an attitude problem. Demons on his back. Regrets in his eyes and pain in his heart.
Therein lies the threat.
In him, I see me. With him, I’m not merely someone’s wife, a barren bride, or a charity case. I’m not a failed New York socialite, a divorcee, a fraud, or a country bumpkin who mistakenly landed a big fish in the form of Christopher Humphries.
He sees me not as I could or should or might be, but as I am. For some unfathomable reason, he likes me. And I like him. I want to know what he’s writing. I want to be his friend. His confidant and partner.
It feels so right, so utterly mundane to be standing here with him. Like I’ve waited my entire life for this moment. For this man.
Faced with the inevitability of our affair, for the first time I wonder what I have left to lose. Will my heart break when he leaves? Do I even care?
“Zoey.” He touches my face, a whisper of fingertips that leave sparks in their wake. “You’re thinking too hard. It’s just tea.”
He’s lying. We both know it.
And somehow it makes everything okay.
“Let’s go home, Ethan.”
I make us tea and bring it outside, where Ethan waits on one half of the porch swing. He accepts it with a smile and pats the space beside him. It’s a balmy night for the mountains, high sixties, but I’ve changed into jeans and a long-sleeved thermal. When I sit, he tosses half of a blanket over my legs.
