Addicted (Ethan Frost #2)(22)

Fake it ’til you make it. My own personal motto.

And it works, too. At least better than wallowing has. Maybe Tori knew what she was talking about, after all.

I feel almost okay as I pull up to the office. Or, at least, more okay than I’ve felt in a while. That isn’t saying much, but I’m going with it. I gain a little more confidence as I walk through the building and rack up a couple of compliments from people that I pass. And by the time we walk into the boardroom at Trifecta, I’ve almost managed to relegate Ethan to a sideshow in my brain instead of the main attraction. It won’t last—it never does—but I’ll take it as long as I can get it. Thinking about him once a minute instead of sixty times a minute is a big improvement. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

And that, of course, is when my whole carefully constructed day comes tumbling down around my ears. Because even though he’s supposed to be in Paris right now in the middle of some global conference, he’s here. Right here. In front of me.

Looking as tired and strung out and miserable as I feel.

I have one second to assimilate his presence before he notices me. In that moment, my heartbeat triples, I start to sweat and adrenaline races through my body. Full-on fight-or-flight response.

I’m just about to flee—the response exists for a reason—when he glances up, his gaze sweeping over the whole group of us until it finds mine and locks on.

For long seconds he doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as breathe. And neither do I. How can I when I’m staring into his eyes—his beautiful, haunted, storm-tossed eyes—and can see everything I feel, everything I fear, reflected back at me.

“Chloe,” he whispers my name and as he does, I feel every ounce of protection I’ve built around myself—and my trembling, traitorous heart—collapse.





Chapter Seven


Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

His name is pounding in my blood, a mantra in my soul.

Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

All that work. All those hours and days of trying to move on. All those assurances to myself that I had this, that I could do it. All of it blown out of the water in one fell swoop.

Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

He’s here, right here in front of me. And despite everything, it’s all I can do not to fall straight into him.

I don’t know what to do, what to say, how to act. There’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to run across the room and throw myself into his lap. To bury my face in his neck and beg him to never let me go. To pretend that the last two weeks never happened and that, somehow, someway, all the pain, all the agony, was nothing but a nightmare gone awry.

But there’s another part—equally as big and equally as important—that wants to run away. Or at least dive behind the nearest chair and not come out until he’s gone. Until he’s no longer looking at me like he saw a ghost.

Or worse.

Of the two choices, the second is definitely the smarter one. Humiliating, yes. Unprofessional, absolutely. But still so much better than standing here remembering what it feels like to be held by him.

To be loved by him.

And yet, even knowing what a terrible idea it is, I can’t stop myself from taking a step toward him, then another and another. In seconds, I’m standing right in front of him, close enough to touch his soft hair and smoothly shaven cheeks. Close enough to register the uneven rise and fall of his chest beneath the navy silk of his shirt. More than close enough to feel his heartbeat if I just reach out and stroke my hands down his chest as I’m longing to do.

“Ethan.” His name is a tortured sound ripped from me, half whisper, half sob, but I can see by the way his eyes narrow and his fists clench that he hears me. Can tell by the way he looks at me that he understands all the things I don’t have the words to say.

He doesn’t react for a long time, doesn’t so much as move a muscle. Then, suddenly, he’s leaning forward in his chair, and I think that he’s going to be the one to do it, to break the oh-so-fragile understanding between us. To touch me the way I’ve been longing to be touched from the moment I left him in that parking lot.

But then his eyes go blank and he’s looking through me like I’m not even here.

Or worse, like I never was.

“Lorraine,” he calls quietly to one of the senior lawyers from Frost Industries who is sitting halfway down the huge table. “Do you have the documentation on the O’Riley case? I think the precedents set there are going to become important as we negotiate …”

He continues on about the case, but I tune him out. He’s not saying anything I don’t already know. Hell, I’m the one who did the investigation on the O’Riley case and found the precedent he’s speaking of. I’ve been neck-deep in research for this merger for weeks. But he’s the boss. If he wants to deal with Lorraine instead of me, then who am I to get offended?

Except I am. I totally am. Because Ethan has never, not once, looked at me like he just did.

Like he’s completely indifferent to me.

Like he doesn’t even know me.

Like I don’t matter at all.

It hurts, much more than I expected it to. Maybe because I know that no matter what happens between us, I’d never be able to look at him that same way. Never would I be able to just … dismiss him, not after everything that he’s meant to me.