Addicted (Ethan Frost #2)(12)

“I don’t have to do anything,” I tell her as I walk into the kitchen, carefully skirting the crack I caused in one of the floor tiles with the falling blender. “But I’m going to do this.”

She sighs heavily, like my stubbornness is personally offensive to her. Then again, it probably is.

“By the way,” she tells me as I stand in the kitchen, wondering what I’m supposed to do now. “Your brother called again last night. He said it was urgent.”

“He always says it’s urgent.”

“He does. But this is the fifth time he’s called in the last five days. Maybe it really is urgent this time.”

“Maybe.” But just the thought of talking to him, of hearing about my parents and the company they built with his inventions and the money they got for selling me out, makes me crazy. And since this week is already filled with more than enough crazy, I think it might be best to just let this one slide for a little longer.

Not forever, I promise myself. Just long enough for me to get my shit together again. However long that might take.

In a bid to do just that, I start to pour myself a glass of orange juice, but my stomach is churning so badly that I figure adding anything acidic to it probably won’t end well. Instead I settle for a small glass of water and a prayer that I’ll be able to keep it down.

“Are you sure you don’t mind running me in to work today?” I ask as I sip cautiously at the water. “I’m ready early enough that I can still take the bus.”

Tori snorts. “Like I’m going to let that happen. I’ll drive you to work all week if you need me to.”

“I’m hoping that won’t be necessary.” I didn’t deal with my car yesterday because I just couldn’t, not on top of everything else that happened. But it’s not like I can leave it parked in Ethan’s driveway forever. “I’ll call for a tow truck to pick it up at Ethan’s today while he’s at work—his housekeeper is there all day today, so if I call and warn her, I’m sure she’ll open the gate so they can tow it back here.

“I’ll stop by the auto parts store after work today and then I can put in the new starter when I get home. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

Tori rolls her eyes. “You know, there are mechanics who can do that for you.”

“Yes, well, mechanics cost money that I can’t afford to waste—especially not if I keep this internship instead of getting a paying job—”

“Another brilliant idea, if I do say so myself,” Tori interjects.

I ignore her, pretend I don’t hear the doubt in her voice. It’s hard though, considering it’s the same doubt that’s been riding me hard from the second I made up my mind. “Besides,” I continue, like my mental health and my stomach lining aren’t dependent on how well the rest of today goes, “I’ve been working on cars since I was in elementary school. My brother used to take them apart just to see how they worked and then I’d help him put them back together again. I can put in a new starter in my sleep.”

“I should probably be impressed by that.”

“But you aren’t.”

“Not even a little bit.” After downing her coffee, Tori reaches for the oversized Louis Vuitton bag she carries everywhere. “Ready to go?”

“Not even a little bit,” I echo. But the longer I put it off, the harder it will be to do, so I grab my briefcase and head for the door.

“I totally owe you,” I tell her as we take the elevator down to the parking garage beneath our building.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she answers. “A ride to work is no big deal.”

Maybe not, but it’s more than nearly anyone else in my life has ever been willing to do for me. And though Tori is uncomfortable acknowledging it, we both know I owe her for a lot more than a ride to work. Between letting me live in her condo rent free so I could take this internship and the pep talks she delivers at regular intervals—whenever my own confidence flags—I’m not sure what I would do without her.

But when we get off the elevator and head toward the two parking spots designated for our condo, I only make it a few steps before stopping in surprise. Because right there, in my parking spot, is my car. Obviously washed, obviously detailed, and more than likely already repaired.

Ethan.

I haven’t cried since those moments yesterday, clutched in Tori’s arms after that horrendous walk home, but as I stand here I feel tears well up in my eyes all over again. Of course Ethan had my car fixed. Of course he had it brought back to me.

That’s just the kind of guy he is.

“Well, I guess he’s not a total *,” Tori drawls from her spot beside me.

“He’s not an * at all.”

“But I thought—”

“It’s complicated,” I tell her, walking the last few yards to my car.

“Isn’t it always?”

She really has no idea. I reach into my purse, pull out my spare set of keys. And then I’m in the driver’s seat, cranking the ignition. Sure enough, it starts right away. Not to mention the fact that it all but purrs. Something tells me the faulty starter isn’t the only thing Ethan had taken care of on my little Honda.

I want to be angry at his presumption, I really do. But it’s hard to be upset when he’s doing what he always does—and what up until yesterday, I always loved about him. He’s taking care of me in whatever way he can, whatever way I’ll let him. Besides, I took most of my anger out on the hapless Vitamix last night. I don’t have any rage left. At least not toward Ethan. Not right now.