Isn't She Lovely (Redemption 0.5)(8)

For a second my stomach flips at his question. When was the last time somebody asked me if I’m okay?

Then reality sets in, and I realize he’s not asking if I, Stephanie Kendrick the person, am okay. He’s simply making sure I didn’t lose a tooth when he elbowed me in the face. Probably making sure I won’t take revenge with some sort of voodoo trick.

I’m startled by my own disappointment.

“Sure, I’m good,” I say in response. And I really am. Now that my teeth have stopped rattling, it doesn’t even hurt anymore.

Then it happens.

Someone jostles me from behind, pushing me into Ethan so I’m pressed up against this macho jock, my boobs landing softly against his chest and my hands finding his shoulders.

Shit. Awkward.

Move, Stephanie

But I don’t.

He feels safe somehow, which doesn’t make sense.

My nose barely reaches the middle of his chest, and I try to order my hands to push against him so I can regain my balance. I tell myself that I am not registering how firm his broad chest is beneath my palms. But I’m a liar, because I definitely notice.

My shirt’s ridden up a bit, and when he puts his arm around me to help steady me, his hand finds the bare skin of my lower back and we both suck in a breath at the contact.

Suddenly I’m way too hot, and it has nothing to do with the stifling hallway we’re standing in. It’s him.

What the hell is going on here? Just three days ago I was cursing his very existence, wondering if there was a subtle way to poison his coffee. I don’t even like this guy. I didn’t like the snarky smart-ass version, and I certainly don’t like this macho, sulky version.

But I don’t move.

Neither does he.

Ethan gives a quick glance over his shoulder before his free hand moves, and he’s hooking a finger beneath my jaw and tilting my face upward.

His hand is warm, his fingers gentle, and for some stupid reason my breath catches. He scans my face and gives a quick nod—I guess to reassure himself that I’m not oozing blood all over the ground.

Okay, then. Time to back away.

His hand shifts again. Barely. Just enough to run a finger along my jaw, and although I’m pretty sure he’s just making sure he didn’t do any serious harm, the sensation feels oddly like a caress.

“What the hell are you doing here, Goth?” His voice is quiet. Annoyed.

Our eyes meet, and I’m dying to see the same sort of confused attraction on his own face, but he’s totally unreadable. He’s completely unlike the guy who teased me and bought me coffee and crashed my film class. Although I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the real Ethan Price either.

I’m dying to know which version is the real one. I suspect it’s neither.

A huge black-haired guy appears next to us. “Dude. Price. What the f*ck are you doing?”

Ethan jerks his arm back so fast, he almost elbows another girl, and I want to ask if he’ll go caress her face too, except I don’t really want to know the answer.

I tear my eyes away from his and start to move away, even as I hear his friend make some lame joke about how I look like an extra from The Crucible. I’d bet that uncultured jackass has never even seen The Crucible.

I lift a hand to my jaw, not because it hurts … but because it tingles with awareness.

An awareness I haven’t felt in so long.

Unable to help myself, I give a quick glance backward, only to find a pair of sulky dark eyes watching me.

He looks away the second my eyes find his, and I’m oddly gratified that he was watching me against his will. Or at least I would be gratified, if only I knew what the hell just happened.





Chapter Four


Ethan


What the hell is she doing here?

The odd little munchkin from that godforsaken film class is skulking around my house’s end-of-the-year party, and it’s bugging the shit out of me.

She doesn’t belong here.

After the hallway groping, I saw her seek out Jordan Crawford, which is weird. Jordan is one of those cute, smiley blondes whom everybody likes. Pretty much the opposite of the edgy, dark brunette who’s skulking in corners, not drinking so much as a soda.

But her presence isn’t what bothers me. Everyone else is too drunk to care whether or not she’s Greek, and we let friends of friends into parties all the time.

What’s bothering me is that my eyes won’t stop seeking her out. Every time I move to a new room or go for another drink, she’s there. Standing in the corner, mostly. Her posture is nonchalant, as though she doesn’t notice the occasional second glances she’s getting. Like she doesn’t care that she stands out.

But I’ve seen those wide blue eyes up close. Seen them go wary. She cares more than she lets on.

I’ve also seen those blue eyes go hot and smoky.

Fuck.

What the hell was I thinking, touching her like that? I’ve had a few beers, but I’m not damned near drunk enough to be attracted to a tiny, angry brunette.

But for a second there, I felt something. A little zip of awareness when she pushed against me. The same awareness I felt when she rammed into me that day in the hallway.

It doesn’t make sense. Between the piercings and the biker-chick makeup, she’s pretty much Olivia’s exact opposite.