As he pulls open the door, the noise of the restaurant overtakes the quiet sounds from the street. Ethan stops to talk to the hostess, and she leads us to the back, where the holiday party is being held.
The second the French doors open, the entire crowd erupts in excitement with a collective round of “Ay!” for Ethan's arrival. It’s infectious, and my smile widens as I watch him shake hands with his coworkers and say hello to their spouses.
Pushing a lock of hair behind my ear, I stand behind him, not really sure how to act. It only takes a second before Ethan begins introducing me as his girlfriend.
“Oh, girly pop, you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into with this one here,” a petite blonde woman drawls, her southern accent thick as she backward jabs her thumb in Ethan’s direction. “Stubborn as a mule, this one.”
“All work and no play makes Ethan a dull boy, isn’t that right, Bossman?”
Bossman?
“I’m not your boss, Randal,” Ethan volleys back at him in a bored tone. He rolls his eyes dramatically at me, making me laugh.
“You sure think you are! Bossy as hell when we’re on a deadline.”
“It’s called leadership and accountability. Maybe you should try it sometime.” Ethan’s tone is playful, and his eyes shine brightly with enjoyment as he looks at me. “Can I get you a drink?”
The eye contact this man holds is mesmerizing.
“What are my options?”
“Let’s go find out.” Lightly gripping my elbow, he steers me to the private bar set up in the corner. The bartender smiles brightly as we approach.
“Hiya,” she singsongs. “House drink is a cranberry spritzer. We’re also serving red and white wine, craft beers, and soda.”
“What will it be, sweetheart?” Ethan asks with a smirk on his face.
“I’ll try the cranberry spritzer, thank you.”
“And I’ll take a double IPA.”
Lifting his hand, it hovers just above my shoulder, but he hesitates, like he’s not sure if he should touch me. There’s a silent question in his eye as he tentatively rubs his hand down my arm, burning a trail that leaves goosebumps in its wake. When his hand reaches mine, he tangles our fingers together.
Leaning closer to my ear, he whispers, “Is this okay?”
There’s a lump in my throat that I swallow before I speak. “That depends. Is it for show?”
He nods, his gaze penetrating through me.
“Then yes, it’s okay.”
No strings, no sex,I repeat my mantra in my head.
Why no sex?I groan inwardly.
Behind us, a loud squeal pulls us from the bubble we’ve inadvertently created for ourselves. Across the room, there’s a man who looks like he’s had one too many drinks, holding a microphone attached to a large speaker.
“Oh no,” Ethan groans as the chords to “Sweet Caroline” begin, and the man twists the microphone around in his fingers for show.
“I want everybody to sing along with me!” the man yells into the mic. The melody floats through the speaker.
“I’m so sorry,” Ethan shouts over the off-key singing.
The crowd starts to join in, and it’s absolutely hilarious. My face hurts from smiling, and as the man hits the chorus, he turns the mic toward the crowd, and they join in screamingbum bum bum, and the energy is addictive.
Ethan sips his beer, and while he doesn’t join in, I can tell by the way the corners of his mouth upturn that he’s having a good time.
“No! You can’t go. The night’s still young!” Ethan’s work best friend, Desmond, protests.
